Each night, when he returned home from work, Albert took a ten milligram edible, removed his jeans, sat on his gaming chair, and opened up PornHub. This small ritual was the only meditative moment of his day.
He always began his masturbation sessions by scouting. During the scout, Albert opened sixty to seventy videos, all in separate tabs, and did a brief evaluation of each, considering scene composition, body composition, voice, mixing, emotional authenticity, lighting, set design, pacing, and plot. While his evaluation was comprehensive, it was fast, because, at this point in his sex spectating career, he had acquired the intuitive ability of instant judgement that is the mark of mastery.
In the browsing phase, Albert was only mildly aroused. He was more a sommelier than a lecher. Yes, his pants were off, but his expression stayed gentle-- quizzical, even-- as if browsing an online store to choose the right gift for a friend.
Not only did Albert have impeccable taste in pornography, but he also had an almost mystical intuition for how to find the perfect video. Albert could glance at twenty thumbnails and know instantly which videos were "stepping stones". Stepping stones were videos that were unenjoyable on their own, but that he knew would lead him in new and unexpected directions, would expand his horizons, and teach him more about himself.
After two, three, or sometimes even four hours of browsing, Albert would eventually find the perfect video. The perfect video was always new. Always different. Videos that he liked one day bored him the next.
Memorial day weekend, Albert went upstate to see his parents. And so the night of May 27th, rather than masturbate in his studio apartment in Midtown, Manhattan, Albert, surrounded by Lego castles and stuffed animals, masturbated in his childhood bedroom in Monroe, New York.
The next morning, Albert showered, and sat down with his parents for breakfast. Albert's dad asked him, "So, how are the girls out there in the city?"
"I don't know." Albert said.
"What do you mean you don't know? You can see, can't you?"
"I can see."
"So I'm asking you what they look like."
"They're fine."
Albert's dad put his fork down forcefully. "Everything's just fine with you. Everything's 'I don't know', 'I guess'. Learn to take a stance, Albert! Say 'they're great, Dad!'? Or 'the girls in New York are wily whores, Dad! I hate them!' I don't care what it is! Just give me something!"
"Jim, please." Albert's mom intervened.
Albert ate his potatoes, head down, stoically.
Jim turned to his wife. "He's paying $2000 a month in rent for what? To play video games, alone? Albert, you need to get out there. I've been telling you, you need to get out there. You'll regret it when you're 36 and still single. You'll going to feel like a loser. Save yourself that pain."
Albert knew, intellectually, that he was a "loser", but did not feel actively bad about it. It had become a part of his identity, like his love for masturbation. And so his dad's words did not affect him. He had no fear of being 36 year old and alone. It would be simply be more of the same. It was true that Albert was lonely. It was true he wanted a real relationship. It was true he wanted to be looked at with real eyes, and to be intimately known, and to make a woman laugh and touch his arm spontaneously. And when he was younger, he did try to "get out there". He spent many months on online forums studying the social dynamics of flirting. He stepped outside his comfort zone. He spent $200 on selvedge denim and $60 on artisanal pomade. He attended swing dancing classes, but there he shook and sweat so profusely, that his instructor took him aside and said, Midtown Swing loved him, but he might want to join later, after he had worked on his overall confidence a bit. And this was ok with Albert, because the dread on girls' faces as they touched his moist hands and bore his spastic movements was simply too much for him anyway. And so, as his desire for a relationship became more and more untenable, it burrowed itself deeper and deeper into his subconscious, where it wouldn't bother him as much.
As Jim said all this, he too felt hopeless about his son's prospects. He felt Albert was deeply "off" in some way. Weird. Strange. Repulsive, even. Albert did not have any single hideous feature. No enormous leaking boil on the face. No, rather it was an aggregation of ugly little things. Little things, like the pallid deadness of the face and eyes, lacking in all saturation, the overly cavernous eye sockets, and the way his hunched and sharp shoulder bones protruded sharply through his t shirts, and the way he walked with his head down, and a slight, wobbling, limp, and his voice, which alternated between a meek, monotone, rasp, and, if unable to be heard, a strained and irritated tone, like he was fighting against himself to say something. Features like this made Albert into the human equivalent of low quality insect repellent. People could maybe come near him-- even talk to him if necessary-- but they'd be very uncomfortable, and feel a pre-verbal impulse to minimize contact.
Jim often felt the urge to bully Albert, but he resisted. This was the spiritual arc of his adult life. Though he yelled, and yelled often, he never once laid a hand on Albert. He was proud of this restraint, which felt to him completely gratuitous. In another age, he would perhaps be quite justified in his part-corrective, part-punitive, and part-cathartic violence.
Jim asked Albert to pass the green beans.
Albert picked up the plate with a flat expression. His dad watched the mangled angles of his limp wrist and fingers, as the plate balanced on his bones.
"Why aren't you eating the eggs?"
Albert was silent. He knew Jim knew why he wasn't eating the eggs.
"He can't eat dairy." Albert's mom said, pretending to not know that they all already knew this fact. "It causes inflammation."
"Ah, yes! Inflammation! My apologies."
"Anyway enough about diet. It's so drab. Albert, how's work going?" his mom asked.
"It's fine. Boring, I guess."
Jim restrained himself. Albert's mom continued, as if they'd been having a normal conversation and would continue to have a normal conversation. "How about friends? Any new friends?"
"I don't have any friends." When he was younger, Albert would say this with bitterness, wanting to shock his parents. He felt vaguely that he wanted them to intervene, and shocking them was the means to achieve this. But now, realizing his parents could do nothing, he stated it very plainly, as an indifferent fact of his life.
Albert's mom returned to her eggs. She had just listened to a podcast on the Buddhist practice of "loving-kindness meditation". She tried it the previous night, after a fight with her husband (he had given her an expensive kitchen knife for her birthday, and she never used it, because she found that it did not cut as good as her existing knife).
The first step of the meditation is to send loving-kindness to someone you find easy to love. Albert's mom thought of her childhood Golden Retriever, now deceased. "Will the meditation work with animals?" she thought. She tried to Google it but found no definitive answer, and so continued cautiously. The meditation then says to send love to someone you find it "a little harder to love, maybe a stranger". This step made her immediately think of Albert. And this caused her so much guilt and shame that she turned off the meditation.
Albert's mom loved her son deeply from ages zero to nine, but from ages ten to thirty-five she found it difficult.
Albert’s mom recognized, vaguely, that her son was in pain. But her life was too full of work, events, errands, and friends to dwell on this fact. Life pulled her forward at a rapid pace, and while this gave her an energetic joy, it afforded her no time to dwell. In fact, each time she became aware of Albert's obscure suffering, either through his repressed movements or his pained expressions, she felt irritated. Irritated that, despite all she did for him, despite his stable, comfortable, childhood, despite his well paying job, he was unhappy. Irritated that, she herself had suffered real, serious, hardship-- her own mom had died when she was seven-- and yet she had gotten over it, willed herself into a full and happy life, and was not always speaking in that meek and depressed tone of his, with her eyes cast downwards like his were.
She often tried to share with Albert insights from her decades long spiritual journey. She told him about the power of positive thinking. She sent him podcasts from Oprah, and videos on the Law of Attraction. But Albert could not take her seriously, because despite all of her positive thinking, she was still married to Jim, a man who often smelled bad, and scratched his balls in the presence of guests. And he could not take her seriously, also because she gave birth to him, Albert. And so her life was living proof that it does not matter how badly you want something. Life is not a genie in a bottle. If it was, there would be more mansions in the world. And more happy marriages. Albert did not want to tell his mom this directly, but would send her links on cognitive fallacies, like "survivorship bias" and "confirmation bias", which she dismissed.
After breakfast, Albert's dad put on Terminator-like, Oakley sunglasses, gym shorts, and calf high socks, and went to play tennis at a Tennis Club. Albert went to his room and looked at his laptop. Albert's mom, feeling depressed from breakfast, asked Alexa to play Oprah's Super Soul Sunday, and began to vacuum restlessly. She vacuumed the kitchen tiles, under the tables, then pushed on to the living room. But the cord of the vacuum was not long enough and was yanked from the outlet. Albert's mom, irritated, started towards the outlet, then smashed her pinky toe on the dining table. She whispered "Fuck. Shit," then bent her neck down, which caused her left AirPod to fall out of her ear and roll underneath the fridge.
Exasperated to the verge of tears, she felt an urge to lash out. She moved to the vacuum and wanted to throw it at something, maybe the wall, or the window. She, conditioned by various movies and TV Shows, felt that it would make her feel better. But when she put her hands on the vacuum, it felt much heavier than expected, and she suddenly lost her drive to lash, feeling silly, then pathetic, wishing she had more "spunk".
So, Albert's mom stood alone in the kitchen, wondering what to do with herself. She began to have doubts. Was she really the creator of her own reality? Why did she create this life for herself? Why did she create Albert? Why did Jim's parents create him? It made no sense. She began to tear up. What was the lesson? What was the blessing? She cried. What if the world was only atoms and indifference?
But then, by divine providence, she heard a voice from her right AirPod, "...deep breaths, deep breaths". It was Oprah. Albert's mom listened. "It's going to be okay girl. Deep breaths, deep breaths." Albert's mom began to take deep breaths. 1... 2... 3... 4. She inhaled, held, exhaled. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Longer. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. She counted, then to 12, then to 16, surprised by the size of her lungs.
Then, feeling aligned to her higher self, Albert's mom assessed the situation. Would she pretend nothing was wrong, as she usually did? Or would she take the high road? And "meet the moment"?
She would meet the moment.
Feeling vigorous, she strode to Albert's room. She felt like a strong gust of wind. She did not know what she would do, or say, but knew that whatever came out of her mouth would come from a place of love and clarity, and therefore it would be good. She thrust open the door to Albert's room. "Albert," she said, resolutely-- as if about to win back a lover.
Albert was in his room, which was dark with the blinds drawn. He was sitting in an office chair, illuminated only by the glow of his monitor, wearing over-sized gaming headphones. He was without pants, or underwear, and masturbating to a pornographic video entitled "Big ass Latina Teen gets surprise Morning DICK". Headphones still on, he looked at his mom. The video continued in his ears.
After a long silence, Albert's mom spoke: "I'm so sorry." She then closed the door and began to vacuum.
Albert looked back at the screen. He fondled his exposed penis pensively. He considered continuing. But then he heard a jarring, unnatural, moan from the Big ass Latina Teen, and his heart was filled with an anxious doom. "Oh my god," he whispered, quietly. He put his face in his hands for forty seconds or so, then tilted his head, so one cheek rested on his palm, and looked back to the video. Avoiding himself, he began to scroll through the comments.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Albert's mom got sick of vacuuming and decided to ask an AI chatbot for help. "My son is depressed and watches porn after breakfast. Reply as if you are Oprah."
That chatbot replied:
"Ok, honey, let's sit down and have ourselves a heart-to-heart. Your son, bless his heart, is craving a little retreat in the world, and it just so happens to be after he starts his day. Now, that tells me he's got a story that needs to be heard, feelings that are looking for a way out.
What he's doing is not uncommon. We all have our ways of cushioning life's edges, of finding a nook where we can let the noise of the world fade away. But what he needs, more than anything, is to know that his story, whatever it is that's weighing on him, is important. He needs to feel that unconditional love that only a parent can give.
So, here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna reach out to him, not with worry or frustration, but with that open heart of yours. You're gonna say, "Sweetheart, talk to me. Tell me what's on your spirit." And you listen, really listen. You don't have to fix it right then and there. Just be present with him.
Life is all about finding that balance. A little porn is like a little spice – it's fine in moderation, but you don't want it to overpower the dish. Encourage him to mix it up. Maybe find a video you both love and make it a date. Discuss it, laugh about it, let it be a bridge to all the other conversations you could have."
Albert's mom smiled gently.
In his room, Albert continued to read pornhub comments. He did this meticulously.
CAm_ooo: Sexy Ass fuck
He carefully sounded the words in his mind.
Rickhbb: A chill from my loins every time i hear you breathe. it feels like my breath. sacred. I shower every day before wathing you bring it back
LoveChrist96: If you're reading this, Christ loves you. He loves you, and because he loves you, He does not want this life for you. Turn to him, and He will save you. Seek and you will find, know and it will be opened for you. He will return unto you the glory that is yours. He will hear your prayers and He will heal you. Turn to him and find rest for your restless heart.
Albert stared at this comment until his monitor went to sleep and the black screen mirrored his face. He felt he looked "wretched".
Albert said "Oh God" and put his hands in his face again. Albert had never prayed before. Nor did he believe in God. Nor did he spend much time dwelling on the existence of God, which was, to him, obviously an artificial human construction. But at that moment, he felt like he was in a movie, and so, in a semi-ironic gesture, inspired by many movies and television shows where the protagonist prays in despair, he decided to pray. Kneeling on the floor, his hands in prayer position, he said:
"Dear God, if you exist, I'm sorry." "Dear God, if you exist, please wipe my mom's memory." "Dear God, if you exist, please give me a girlfriend."
He paused.
"Dear God, please bequeath me a girlfriend." "Dear God, please guide me to a girlfriend." "Dear God, please grant me a girlfriend." "Dear God, please, give me a girlfriend." "Dear God, please." "Dear God, please, help me." "Dear God, please help me." "Dear God, please help me."
He repeated this last phrase, in his mind, over and over again, until he was screaming it silently.
"Dear God, please help me."
The inner screams turned into a trembling whisper.
"Dear God, please help me." "Dear God, please help me." "Dear God, please, help me."
Albert felt a great pressure in his throat and began to cry. Then he heard a knock on the door. "Albert? Honey? It's me. I'm so sorry for earlier. I should've knocked. Are you there?"
The doorknob turned, light peeked in. "Albert? Are you still... you're not still... are you?" Albert's mom took a deep breath and opened the door fully, and she saw Albert there, exposed, quivering, kneeling on the hardwood floor, looking silently at her. She rushed to him and cradled his head to her chest. Albert felt her warmth and his mom stroked his head and hair and cooed to him as if he were a child.
"My baby, my baby, it's ok, it's ok. I love you, I love you."
They continued like this. Thoughts such as "what the fuck?" sometimes rose in Albert's head, but he ignored them, savoring the comfort of being held.
Albert's mom asked "What were you watching before?"
Albert looked at her, incredulous. She continued, "Maybe... um, maybe... we can watch together sometime?" Then she remembered chatbot Oprah, and shook off her sheepishness. Firmer now, she said, "Albert, I want you to know that I care about your interests-- whatever they may be. It doesn't matter" She looked at him firmly, feeling a strength that was feminine and protective.
Albert looked at his mom. He felt the earnestness and seriousness of her expression. And then he laughed-- a genuine, tender laugh. A laugh from the belly. A laugh that made his shoulders move up and down, and his stomach ache, but in a good way, like he was exercising muscles that had never once been used.
"Absolutely not. Absolutely fucking not." Albert said gaily. Then his mom laughed, and they both laughed together, laughing to tears, and then they both sat on the floor, in tears, and mucus, and moisturizer, laughing, until Albert got up and said, "I'm going to go put on pants now."
When Albert woke up the next day, he thought about God again.
He brushed his teeth and looked at himself in the mirror and repeated mentally, "Dear God, please help me." The phrase gave him both hope and doom. Hope, because he allowed himself to entertain the childish belief that his prayers were working. And doom, because he aware of this self-delusion.
As Albert brushed his teeth, Albert's mom was in the kitchen making coffee. She'd been riding the emotional high of the previous night all morning. She texted her soul sisters about the healing that had taken place, the new chapter she and Albert were stepping into. He was finally ready to heal. She indulged in fantasies of her new relationship with her son. Albert, smiling happily, laughing with her, stepping into the living room while her friends were there, cracking a joke, making them laugh, and them saying to Albert's mom, 'wow, he's such a great kid', and Albert's mom would feel proud.
Albert's mom rehearsed the morning in her mind. When Albert walked in, she would beam at him, and say "good morning, baby", which she hadn't said in decades. Then he would smile (also for the first time in decades) and they would embrace.
Albert finished brushing his teeth and entered the kitchen. He looked at his mom, and just as she was about to beam him the good morning she had rehearsed, he hit her with a cold, flat, lifeless, low, "hey" and averted his eyes.
This one word scrubbed all the warmth from her heart and face and ripped the voice from her throat. She gave him a strained smile, the kind she gave cashiers when she was stressed but pressured to be nice. Albert didn't see it. They shuffled silently around the kitchen for a while like two awkward strangers in a hostel kitchen.
Albert was aware of what he had done and felt terrible. He tried to catch his mom's eye and smile to salvage the situation, but he felt physically incapable of such a thing.