"I HATE porn. I’m sick and tired of it. I want to throw the computer in a dumpster, pour gasoline on it, and light it on fire. I want to strap his phone to a rocket ship and send it into orbit. I want to go back in time. I want to live in a tiny little farmhouse with white shutters and a man who comes home from a long day’s work hungry for home cooked food and a woman’s touch—a man whose eyes linger over my breasts as I pull off my dress and slip into a loose cotton nightshirt. I want to climb into bed with him, turn off the light, and feel his rough, square hands sneak under the sheets and seize me around the waist. I want to make love in the cool dark, with my arms and legs wrapped around him and my face buried in his neck. I want it to be pure and simple and sweet. I want it to feel natural. Instead, I beg for weeks on end, until, with an attitude of resignation, my husband and his phone join me in bed. I stare out the window, listening to the exaggerated moaning of some porn star, because he can’t get an erection without some kind of screen in front of him, despite my best efforts. And when he’s finally ready, I assume a position that’s comfortable for him, and he fucks me with his eyes closed, cums, and leaves. And for the next month, whenever I ask him for sex, he reminds me that we just had sex, and that I should be grateful, and that my asking for it only drives him further away. And he doesn’t bother to hide the porn from me, even though he knows how much it hurts me. I see it when I close my eyes at night. I hear the sound of him fapping in my sleep. I don’t blame porn for the situation that I’m in. I know that if my husband truly cared for me, he’d give it up. But I hate it all the same. I hate it with every fiber of my being."