One of the most difficult, nagging thoughts that keeps recurring to me is that of “all I’m giving up.” A part of me hasn’t quite grasped that what I’m proposing here is the end, a permanent cessation of my activities. I continue to have thoughts of “when I come back” to it — and rising panic when I remind myself that if I am able to follow through, there won’t be a coming back.
Because that means giving up all I’ve worked for, all the hours I’ve invested, all the effort I’m expended, in building what was on the verge of becoming a really splendid fortress. Over so many months — but most of all in the past month — I’ve built a really excellent computer application, to harvest and manage my menagerie of “friends.” My very best programming work — the fruits of my most brilliant bursts of inspiration and energy — are all products that I cannot share, because they are all directed toward my obsession.
Everything I am as a programmer, I owe to this. I taught myself HTTP server–client communication, the ins and outs of Internet encryption, the utility of SQL databases and elegance in using them — all for this; all for porn. I can, and have, taken these skills and applied them to other work — but I am still very proud of my baser creations. The past month, I’ve been consumed by an almost manic rage, pouring myself into this day and night tirelessly, impelled by such an intoxicating feeling of godlike power and mastery, as I watched my monstrous creation come to life, bending the computer and the Internet to my perverse will. This week, I’ve steeled my heart not to look back — but it is wearing on me.
And my “friends” — I’ve spent so much time with them; I feel I know them so well, have such intimate conversations with them. That is all a lie, of course; I know that. But these women who show themselves to me — at last I feel I “have” them as my own. They are not “porn stars,” but “models” — not “whores,” but “artists” — not “professionals,” but “friends,” and “real” — as real as I can make them in my mind. That must be okay, right? my mind continues to implore. It’s not really porn; it’s art. But I cannot kid myself. The definition of “pornography” is not always so much in the intent of the creator, but in that of the end-user: if I use it for my own sexual arousal and self-gratification, then it’s pornography.
And all of this I’m giving up. The feeling of “power” and “control” — that is what’s so enticing about the devil’s yoke. But over whom do I really have power, if I give up my self-control? What sort of kingdom am I leading, when my subjects are leading me? I give it all up — I give myself up — to a power greater than myself; to a good Lord who alone can guide me out of this enveloping darkness.