By Sophia Rosenthal '17
Sex Columnist

While I was studying abroad, I took a human sexuality class that was all about porn. As one might expect, we read a lot of Foucault and watched a lot of porn. A lot. Of. Porn. At least more than I, personally, would typically choose to watch in the middle of a Tuesday. But that’s just me.

Our purposes in watching porn as a class certainly deviated from the stereotypical circumstances of pornographic viewing. That is to say, we were analyzing the various narratives and discourses (thanks, Michel) that appear throughout mainstream (and occasionally queer) pornography — we weren’t in our bedrooms with a lock on the door and a bottle of lotion on the dresser (seriously people, buy some real lube).

So, twenty American students and one Danish professor sat in a semi-circle and watched hardcore porn scenes, on a large projector screen no less. It was surreal. On the one hand, I was examining critically, analyzing as a detached viewer, taking notes and sharing snarky comments and academic chuckles withmy classmates. Then there were these moments like waking up from a dream where I would look up at the screen and my brain would register: “Oh my gosh… this is sex. We’re watching sex!! Why are they having sex?! Why are we watching them have sex?!” (Despite what one might now believe, my brain is not that of an eleven year-old, she just gets excited very easily).

By the end of the semester, I still had those realizations, but they occurred less frequently. Nothing shocked me anymore; I was desensitized. It really hit me just how desensitized I had become while I was surfing through porn clips on my computer to select a scene to include in my final project (yes, I watched porn for homework. This is not a joke).

I clicked through various scenes absentmindedly with a bored, glazed expression. “These are all the same,” I thought over and over.

There are two problems here: one, sex and boring should never go together in my humble opinion. And two, that detached, desensitized response I had built up to sexual material is not conducive to healthy and fun sexuality. Granted, I was doing research, not watching for, um, personal use. But still — sex.

Porn is obviously a loaded subject, so to speak, and it’s been both criticized and endorsed for many reasons and from many different perspectives, some of which naturally contradict each other. Therefore it’s nearly impossible to be comprehensive when talking about porn, and I’m not about to try. At least for now, this isn’t about the porn industry, the politics of objectification, the role of the internet, or sex worker’s rights — all of which are too important to try to address in one short piece. This is about figuring out and celebrating your own sexuality and finding enjoyment and balance in an over-stimulating, over-sexed world. I realize that sounds very “new age old lady worried about the cyber-addicted millennials,” but it’s true that sex is everywhere (literally available at the click of a button), and it can be difficult to navigate your own desires, limits, and relationships when you’re influenced by so many outside sources. Thus, this isn’t about porn, it’s about how we watch porn.

It seems naive to say “don’t watch porn” and it’s certainly ignorant to suggest that all porn is the same or that all porn is inherently harmful (check out “The Feminist Porn Book,” edited by Tristan Taormino). However, it is reasonable to suggest that we all be critical consumers. If you watch porn, what role does it play in your life? No really, besides the obvious, what are you looking to get from it and what are you getting from it? Why do you like what you like? These are questions that you can ask yourself, not in a self-interrogative way, but in a self-explorative way. Because then you’re processing and learning something about yourself and your sexuality, and not just being a passive receptacle for Chuck McPornProducer’s version of sex. No more finishing and quickly shutting the computer; no more shame, but no more pretending that the things we see in porn have no effect on us.

I’m convinced that someday in the future they’ll laugh at the fact that some of us are paying upwards of $60 a month to get our asses waxed. Was that too much information? Good. We need too much information.