They Don’t Know You Exist

Here’s a thought experiment that makes some people uncomfortable, which is why it’s useful.

Pick one performer you watched more than a few times. Hold their face in your mind. Think about what you know about them — if anything. A stage name, maybe. The way they move. Their typical scenes. What they do that particularly works for you.

Now ask: what do they know about you?

Nothing. They filmed that scene six months ago, or two years ago, or a decade ago. They went to work, did the job, got paid, went home. They have a life that has nothing to do with you. Most of them probably aren’t in the industry anymore. Some regret the work, some don’t. None of them have any idea that somewhere, in your bedroom, tonight or last week or a thousand times across the years, you were watching them.

This isn’t a judgment of them OR of you. It’s a fact. The person you had a feeling about, repeatedly, intensely, intimately — that person was not in the relationship. You made it up on your end, alone, in the dark.

And here’s the quiet part most men don’t let themselves think about: you were lonely. Maybe not all the time. Maybe not in a way you’d admit. But alone in your room, with a phone, having an experience that’s supposed to be between two people — you were alone. Every time. Every session. The thing you were doing to not feel alone was, mechanically, a solitary act.

This is why the ache doesn’t go away no matter how much porn someone watches. The ache was for presence. Porn gave you the sensations of presence without the presence. You kept going back because your body registered the experience as “contact with another person” while your life continued to be — measurably, factually — short on actual contact with other people.

Recovery isn’t about stopping porn and then feeling fine. It’s about seeing the ache clearly and then addressing what the ache was actually for. That’s the work of the next few days.

Tomorrow: what you’ve been training your body to respond to, versus what real bodies are.