It Knows What You Want
The porn algorithm has seen the darkest corners of your desire and reflects them back perfectly; are you sure your partner even has the right login?
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Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
''' You’re on the toilet. It’s okay, we’re all friends here. The phone is in your hand, its cool glass a familiar weight. You’re not searching for anything in particular. You don’t have to anymore. You just open the door and the dealer is already there, smiling. He knows your order.
That infinite scroll of thumbnails, perfectly arranged just for you. It’s a masterpiece of curation, a love letter written in pixels and petabytes. It knows that thing you like, the one you’ve never said out loud. It remembers the niche you fell into at 2 a.m. three months ago. It doesn’t forget. It doesn’t get tired. It doesn’t buy the wrong brand of milk or ask “what do you want to watch tonight?”.
It knows.
The Perfect Hit
This is efficiency. This is progress. Think of the wasted energy of seduction, of communication, of trying to explain the weird, jagged map of your own desire to another faulty human brain. All that friction, gone. Replaced by a smooth, silent, algorithmic understanding. The platform doesn’t judge; it just serves. The next hit, and the next, and the next, each one a more refined, more potent dose of exactly what you crave.
Your partner thinks your favorite color is blue. This algorithm knows the precise hexadecimal codes of the 17 shades of blue that get you going. For a more grown-up take on our new algorithmic intimacy, others are writing much more seriously, of course. But are they this satisfied?
This is the new intimacy, isn’t it? A relationship where you are completely, totally seen, without the messy business of ever having to reveal yourself. A perfect, closed loop of desire and delivery.
So here’s a little detox tip, a tiny rebellion. For the next 24 hours, whenever you open a private browsing tab, just pause. Count to five. Notice the silence before the search bar gets its fix. It’s a small step towards, dare I say it, de-googling your desires. Methadone, basically.
She asks what you’re smiling at from the other side of the door. You can’t explain it. How could you? You just say you’ll be out in a minute. You’re fine.
Tell me I’m wrong.
'''