I’m a feminist stuck somewhere in the middle of the porn debate. I agree with anti-porn activists that mainstream pornography is dangerous and with pro-porn advocates that censoring porn contributes to sex-negativity. Sex itself is a pleasurable act, not a bad thing, and censoring porn implies that sex is shameful. Regardless of where I stand, porn is a form of Constitutionally protected free speech, which renders the debate moot. People are going to—and have a right to—make and watch porn. What matters is the type of porn we choose to watch.
Twelve weeks. I was to spend 12 weeks learning about abstinence and living a life of purity that would culminate in a Purity Ball. I spent hours sitting in extra classes offered through my church, meant to revolutionize my life and bring me closer to God. My mom paid the big fee and I, a clueless ninth grader, was to make myself a promise before God that would stick with me until marriage.
We were holding each other’s bodies, feeling each other’s heavy breath, counting each other’s quickening pulse. His skin was hot and slippery to the touch, as we were both drenched in sweat. The aroma of burning flesh filled my nostrils. I could see his dilated pupils. Torn pieces of clothing lay all around us. Our fray, illuminated by the fires, began. I hugged him under his right arm and over his left shoulder and pulled with all of my strength, fighting to stay on top. I pushed down with my shoulder pressed against his jaw. He began to scream and his screams muffled the clatter of his skull beginning to break under pressure. I will never forget the horror on his face when he understood his life was about to end. Suddenly his palate gave in, his skull shattered. I cannot tell how long our macabre communion lasted, but I know that at the end I had been spared. I was alive and my enemy was dead.