I complained that I was uninspired. My boss explained that I wasn't horny enough. "You're too artistic." He said, in an email. "You need to get horny."

But much as I tried, I simply could not get hot and bothered about a picture of a girl spread open in a way that the female body is not supposed to spread. I didn't find her mouth, puckered and pleading a centimeter from an erect penis, to be at all erotic. Humping, especially when rendered in jerking animated GIFs, seemed nothing more than spasmodic. I empathized with these women, with their slack jaws, pulling their breasts away from their bodies to make them appear rounder, fuller, more attractive, more intriguing.

These women had lives, I was sure, as crazy and muddled as mine. They had sex, and probably enjoyed it. Loving, exploratory, fun sex. Did they lick their own nipples for his enjoyment? Did they spread their own lips and hook their ankles behind their necks, hiding the discomfort behind thick lipstick and a skeletal grin? Why couldn't we show things that felt good for both partners? Why did everything have to be such a performance?

"If guys wanted that," my boss observed, "they'd be with their wives, not at a porn site."

I sighed. I didn't want to be interesting anymore.