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November 22, 2006
The sofa is blue, polyester-shiny, and ragged. A flimsy brass-poled torchiere stands in the corner. The girl's fingernails are way too long (fake) and French manicured and parts of the white tips are wearing away. Her underarms are fleshy and speckled with ingrown hairs and irritated stubble. The guy, scrawny, is wearing hemmed denim shorts and an oversized team jersey and sporting a reddish-blond mustache and goatee.

My running commentary brings all of these nauseating details to D's attention as he scrolls across and down the screen. "Jesus Christ," he says. "I'm never looking at online porn with you again!"