I grew up where all the porn is made. Not all of it, but most. I knew that growing up, then I left and found out other people knew it, too.
“The Valley. That’s where all the porn is.”
“Yeah,” I’d say, taking an apologetic sip of beer, shame, whatever.
Not that I was ashamed of the place, or that one should be ashamed of
such an association. On the contrary—I was ashamed because I had
absolutely nothing to show for my pornographic origins. I had no stories
to corroborate the Boogie Nights fantasy of the Valley as the
campus town for the co-ed fraternity Sigma Phi Big Porn. Growing up
here, porn was just as distant to me as it was to anyone else—through a
laptop with my mouse hovering over the X. And I was fine with that. You want to be fine with things like that. Read more: