But it wasn’t until I interviewed dozens of men with varying porn-watching habits (and a few very open-minded women) that some unexpected themes began to emerge.
Then I read about a University of Kansas study that found that 25 percent of college-age men said they’d faked orgasms, which, I’ll admit, was oddly comforting to hear. Kerner went on to attribute much of the problem to a “rapid proliferation of Internet porn” which leads to “over-masturbation,” something I’m very familiar with. First I came across a post on Sanjay Gupta’s blog by Ian Kerner, a sexuality counselor, who wrote that he noticed a distinct rise in the number of men approaching him with concerns about delayed ejaculation. The question that still remains, however, is how this tsunami of porn is affecting the libido of the American male or, more selfishly, mine. Porn’s allure and ubiquity isn’t exactly titillating news. “There have probably been days when I saw 300 vaginas before I got out of bed.” “You wake up in the morning, open a thumbnail page, and it leads to a Pandora’s box of visuals,” he continued. “Pornography? It’s a new synaptic pathway.” This is what John Mayer said in a candid interview with Playboy. Over the course of months, I picked a dozen suspects out of the lineup and gradually cleared each one.
#DOES VIDA DICE NEED INTERNET ACCESS TO WORK TRIAL#
It didn’t seem to matter which woman I was with, or what kind of condom we used, or whether I’d downed one glass of whiskey or ten, or if we listened to Neil Young or Al Green, as I learned through trial and error (mostly error). I wasn’t on antidepressants, which I’d heard could decrease sensation. Why would I, a healthy guy in his thirties, need to fake an orgasm? It was mystifying. But that night, ingenuity struck-unable to actually get off, I found myself flying a fresh route: I faked it.
Had I just given up, things might have played out the way they often did, with shades of confused disappointment and inadequacy on the part of the woman and mumbled apologies and awkward shame from me. The dried-out condom had a full-bodied choke hold on me, but I’d already stopped twice to put on a fresh one, and I knew, as I kept earnestly pumping away, that one more condom wouldn’t make the necessary difference. I met the woman at a Broadway show, but the night’s best piece of acting, I’d say, came from me, back at her East Village apartment, after we’d been having sex for about 25 minutes, with Neil Young wailing the song “Comes a Time” from the laptop on her bedside table. Photographs of men watching online pornography, taken on January 25.
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