The downside of web porn

I fear this internet, proffering the most spectacular pussy and delivering it—I never have to leave my god damned house, I don't even have to get out of my fucking seat; this is pussy delivered right to my laptop, for god's sake, right to the hard drive of my lap top—this creature of so much promise, of heaven on earth—it's all there, a million virgins, a million more whores, and all consummation is immaculate—oy vey, it is heaven on earth, this wondrous cornucopia of breasts and bellies and blowjobs—this is what's killing me.

Constantly wooed by the promise of the next unbelievable thing—a promise that is kept, mind you, and repeatedly, for I have seen unbelievable things, young women I should never have seen naked performing the most delectable acts of licentiousness—, I keep my eyes glued to the screen, one hand to my beaten cock, the other to the Eucerin-coated mouse. My head begins to ache. I am leaking cum and piss indiscriminately. My penis hurts, for god's sake, it hurts which should be enough to stop me from what I'm doing. But on I go, yanking, surfing, clicking, scrutinizing. My back is hunched. When I finally cum, four hours later, I'm nauseous and the orgasm is an odd, vaguely unpleasant sensation. I moan nonetheless.