The Jerk-Off Playlist Problem

Computer on, pants down, browser at full throttle. "Russian Teenagers Gangbang In Summer Camp." Or maybe "Asian Barely Legal Street Porn Traveling." Whatever, click it, buffer, here we go. I haven’t got all day—doctor’s appointment at three.

It would be fine, completely fine, if not for the music. That corroded 90s porn synth crawling out of the speakers like it’s 1997 and someone just discovered a Casio keyboard. I’m not at a children’s birthday party. And the moaning—so fake it’s almost impressive. My grandmother coughs more convincingly. Then the cameraman mumbling into the mic the whole time, laughing at his own nothing. Mute. Moving image only. My dirty thoughts can handle the ambient sound.

That’s better. That’s almost—then the neighbor starts hammering. A baby screams somewhere. Did someone just run over a cat? Right. Music. Music now.

The question is what. Regina Spektor is out—she plays for at least two. Something harder. Rammstein? Christ, no. Uffie, Snoop Dogg, Kleerup? Yeah. Somewhere in that territory.

Gangsta love and ass-sex, fine, that tracks. I reach for the iPod. Dead. Of course it’s dead. I plug it in. The little Thai girl on screen is working herself half to death while I’m fumbling with a USB cable. The Mayer Hawthorne remix loads—better than the original, honestly—and then the video ends. Everyone in it is finished. I am not.

Head on the desk. Dick between my legs like a punctured tire. Black screen. Ejaculation aborted. Bat for Lashes wasn’t going to cut it going in and I knew that. I just never found what would. Still haven’t.