The Solo Problem

I boot up the computer, pull down my pants, and fire up the internet at full speed. Russian Teenagers Gangbang In Summer Camp or Black Girl Choky Loses Virginity To Four Strangers. Pick one, download it, settle in. I don’t have forever—I’ve got a doctor’s appointment later.

The real problem isn’t the girls or the setup. It’s the fucking music. That corny 90s porn track, all breathy and obviously fake, layered under every scene. The moaning sounds like someone auditioning for a school play. My grandmother coughs hotter than this. And the cameraman won’t stop talking, won’t stop laughing that stupid laugh. Okay. Mute.

Now it’s just me and the moving image and whatever’s going through my head. That’s better. It’s working. And then the neighbors start hammering on something and a baby cries somewhere else and I’m sitting here thinking about everything except what’s on the screen. Fuck. All right, music back on.

What do you even listen to when you’re doing this? Not Regina Spektor. Not Bat For Lashes—that’s for when someone else is actually in the room. Rammstein is too theatrical. But something harder. Uffie. Snoop Dogg. Kleerup. Something with a beat, something that doesn’t require thinking too hard.

I’m focused now. Did I charge my iPod? Doesn’t matter. The girl on screen is working hard so I need to pay attention. The Mayer Hawthorne remix works better than the original anyway. I’m close. I’m right there. I’m about to finish and then the video cuts to black. Everyone’s done. Everyone except me.

Head on the desk now. Screen’s black. Staring at nothing. Who’s to blame? The music. Because you can’t exactly load up your actual playlist while you’re in the middle of this. Your real music doesn’t fit. It requires too much of you. All it does is get in the way.

I still don’t know what actually works.