I’ve been sober 4 years but still jack off to meth porn. I think I’m addicted to it. 

The videos I like best feature young, smooth, angelic-looking guys, high to the point where they are probably in danger, unaware of their surroundings, eyes rolling to the backs of their heads, moaning in a surreal, otherworldly fashion that suggests complete loss of control, surrender, abandonment of pretense, abnegation of personhood, not performing for the camera or even aware of it really, merely lost, giving in to the baser impulse, the reptile brain, the animal part of our nature. 

I like when their eyes express fathomless reservoirs of hurt, the black depths of their pupils revealing pain which, while already present in untold measure, is nothing compared to the suffering they will endure later on, when the drugs have worn off and they’re glued to the couch in a puddle of chemical sweat jacking off ‘till the skin on their shriveled soft cocks is ragged and peeling, or still later, when they’re addicts, when the pleasure they’re seeking has long since morphed into pure robotic appetite, and the need to stave off the dopamine crash turns them from humans to reptiles, creasing their skin, loosening the teeth in their gums and stealing the light from their eyes.

I like when it’s filmed in a motel room. Not hotel, motel. Like the kind of motel that’s across from the Wal Mart, the one where a guy got stabbed or shot or beat to death the other week. The kind that’s so run-down that when you drive past it on the highway you pretend you don’t see it, the paint is peeling and there’s vines creeping through cracks in the gray brick facade and half-dead fentanyl zombies perpetually shuffling through the parking lot. I want the light in the video to be sickly yellow brown, fluorescent and flickering. I want the picture to be grainy and the camera to wobble. I want the sheets to be stained and the blinds the color of cigarette ash. I want to see half drunk Gatorade bottles on the nightstand by the torch and the pipe and the dirty needle the guys in the video probably shared. 

I want the kid in the video to be eighteen years old. I want him to have never done drugs before, not even once. I want to see his life destroyed in realtime. I want the guy who’s filming to be a dealer, some cheap scuzzball con, who will monetize the video without asking or paying his model, the kind of guy who will ruin someone’s life for pennies in tips on his xtube. I want the kid to think he’s falling in love. I want the G and the T and the canned air duster they use instead of poppers to flood his dopamine receptors and make him think he’s falling in love. I want his heart to be broken and never repaired. I want him to lose his innocence forever. I want the darkness to win. 

I want to see him brush his lips against the tweaker’s face to try and kiss him while they’re fucking, and when his unrequited lover pulls away, I want to see him brush it off, though it hurts him to do so, and I want him to fall even more in love because of it. 

I want to see videos of weird bisexual meth orgies in Russia with titles written in broken english, like ‘Students fuck in the pose of a train - intensively inserting a dick into the ass of buddies.’ I want there to be one older hairy Russian guy with a harem of twinks in his penthouse, party lights flashing and assfuck techno blaring 24/7. I want them to shoot up grimy Russian meth cut with chemicals so toxic that new species of demons are born in the cells of the twinks who ingest it. I want to see the twinks fuck chicks, too. I want to see them get so high they forget they’re gay. I want to see the looks of disgust on the women’s faces, the debased scowl of the Russian whore who’s sunk so low that she's getting her ass fucked by faggots. 

I like the kinds of videos where the comments on pornhub are just the barf emoji.

“They’re too high”

“They’re on drugs”

“Disgusting”

“They’re doing Beavis and Butthead grunts while bottoming………..a lil whack tbh”

I tell myself it’s better to watch these videos than it is to participate in the acts depicted in them, which is true. But the truth is, I don’t even want to. I’m not living vicariously through anyone. The idea of doing any drug disgusts me — almost as much as the idea of having sex. I look down on these men, these pathetic faggot junkies. They’re beneath me. I picture myself spitting on them, choking them, infecting them with AIDS. Raping them, like I raped myself for years with drugs and booze and other people’s bodies.

I stroke my dick while I picture all this 

And when I cum it feels like spitting up blood

It’s barely sexual 

It’s not pleasant at all 

In fact, the only thing I feel while doing this is rage 

Rage against the people who did these same things to me, in the same motels and greasy SROs 

Rage against God for letting it happen 

Against my parents who created me

But most of all rage against myself

Against my weakness 

The self loathing I still haven’t conquered 

My inability to maintain self discipline, to love myself, to exercise control 

Rage against the pansy faggot 4 year old

Sobbing in the yard at his sister’s birthday party 

When the water balloons his cousins threw 

Burst against the pink softness of his skin 

Sobbing for his mommy 

Though there was nothing she could do 

Nothing anyone can do really

Except jack off 

And write poems

And pray