I don’t own any porn.
Take a moment to wipe your Bloody Mary off of your monitor.
I don’t make this confession to try to impress women and to have them reply with things like:
“My word, Peter is such a gentleman!”
Mostly because I rarely ever date snooty rich British ladies.
It’s just a fact. And one I touched on over at The ‘Stache ages ago.
I have owned one Playboy magazine. It was the one with Drew Barrymore. I still remember buying it.
I slapped that magazine down on the counter and said, “Ring that up for me, shopkeep!”
Which, to the untrained ear, might have sounded remarkably like, “Can..uhm… I also have.. a, you know, pack… of Triiii*voice cracks*iiident gum?”
I’ve had friends say, “But porn… blah blah blah… fuels the imagination.”
Clearly they’ve never met my imagination. It needs no help. It’s the best porn ever.
Also, in my imagination there are no ginormous fake breasts, cheesy dialog, or vagina-adjacent tattoos of Screaming Eagles.
Maybe a black panther though.