I Am Irrevocably Damaged

This is the way my mind works: I have the tendency to associate two entirely different things with each other. Depending on your worldview, I'm either a multitasker or scatterbrained. Either way, I usually have a lot of things going on at once.

Allow me an example. Many years ago when I was a wee lad of say 12 or 13, I spent a few days reading Richard Bachman's Long Walk. Richard Bachman—pseudonym of pre-Carrie Stephen King—wrote this perfectly harrowing tale of a walking race from the top of Maine to Boston. Sure, it sounds lame, but the story gave me chills straight through.

The whole time, several hours of reading at a pop for the whole weekend, I had the radio on, and in those days of not knowing any better, it was tuned to the top 40 station. And the song that was in ludicrous rotation, no less than twice an hour and usually more, was REM's “What's the frequency Kenneth.”

To this day I can't listen to that song without chills running down my spine and a vague sense of fear and apprehension washing over me .

With that in mind it seems inevitable for a similar situation to arise with porn. Hell, if I sit and think about it I probably could come up with quite a few instances. But the one that sticks out in my mind involves Maria Moore the BBW actress, Allen Ginsberg the Beat poet, and Bono greatest-man-in-the-world/douchebag.

Did I get your attention? Good, that means you find this potentially disturbing. That means you are more of an upstanding representative of the human race than you give yourself credit for. What I'm saying essentially is that you are not me.

It's probably not as sick as you think, albeit still a little weird.

I was listening to a collaborative effort between Ginsberg and U2 entitled “Miami.” It's basically Ginsberg reciting a poem about vacationing in Miami, music in the background and Bono singing the just recited lines. Sure, that sounds lame, but it's way cooler than you think. I would just have it on repeat. It served as soundtrack to whatever I was doing for those couple days.

Incidentally one of the things I was doing was falling in love with Maria Moore. I had her first hardcore scene with Bang Bros on ludicrous rotation. There were a few stroke sessions but mostly I would just play it as background. Call me crazy obsessed but I love hearing Maria Moore's voice. I love hearing her laugh, something she does a lot of.

So the year's 2004. I have this schizophrenic amalgam of poetry/music about Miami playing simultaneously with porn set in Miami, while I write a paper, or talk on the phone, or practice scales, or lie in bed motionless staring at the ceiling. Of course associations were going to form. Pavlov would've had a field day with me! To this day, I can't hear that poem without having to conceal chub. Thankfully it's obscure enough so that it rarely happens. Still happens though. And when ever I see a Maria Moore flick (I thanked every god I could think of when she started doing hardcore again) I have to take a moment to suppress thoughts of Allen Ginsberg's massive beard and finger cymbals. Thankfully, I don't think of Bono in any sort of way else I'd have ended it with a bullet long ago.