Digital cameras our shitty hand me down guitars. Copying the conventions of amateur sites like three chord garage rock. We knew there was nothing original in the structure but our impulse was pure. We scraped the surface, made porn blurry and accountable and difficult. It was what we taught ourselves late at night in each other’s rooms, in bathroom stalls in clubs, hallways and by-ways that took us from our parent’s houses to our own, eventually. Porn was $100 a gig. Nothing special. A few beers, a bit of the rent in the share house, a train ticket to a boyfriend stuck in a worse town. He would know how you got there. You’d grab his face when he’d come to greet you because your nakedness made this possible. Your body. All of it. He looks at the pictures and he admires your resourcefulness and he wants to meet your friends.
I write books, albeit slowly. I'm a freelance editor for hire. I blog even more slowly and sporadically (mostly due to work, in fairness). Eventually I expect to only surface on the internet when the stars align, and then only to jabber incomprehensibly.