I used to have I don't know how many pornographic videos. Everywhere I looked, there was porno. People would come to visit, so I would hide it under the bed, in the closet, in boxes, but the UPS man delivered more every month. There were weird ones with Ron Jeremey in a diaper and one starring girls who drank ipecac and puked and one featuring an octogenarian porn star that left me scarred forever. There were the free subscriptions to Playboy and the porn industry's trade rag, AVN. When I moved, I stuffed all my pornography into big black garbage bags and gave it to the movers who took it home without comment. Now all I need is a copy of "Atomic Vixens," and it never comes. What does it mean? I don't know. Sometimes I think all this never would have happened if I had shut my mouth and stayed in the Valley of the Sluts.
