Watching porn with me is like being in a movie theater in south central LA. I’m constantly yelling at the screen, “That comforter is so ugly. Her heels look like parmesan cheese rinds. That plot point doesn’t make sense…” I’ve been told these comments are boner killers, but I can’t help myself.

I’m mesmerized by bad porno movies because I never get to see them. I’m too embarrassed to call the cable company and ask for the Spice channel, so when I catch it at friend’s house, I hunker in. For the record, I don’t like the Playboy channel with their meticulously coiffed princesses, I’d rather see bad porn, Bom-Chickie-Bom-Bom-porn.

Porn starlets are not stupid. They’re like Thomas Edison when it comes to inventing new sexual positions, and they’re smart enough to be in the only industry where women make more money than men. Also, bad porn movies are both educational and inspirational. They keep me up to date on the current styles of pubic hair and they motivate me to be more flexible than just downward dog my yoga class. If I ever get my ankle behind my neck, I’m going to send those nice girls at Vivid a thank you card.

Ironically, pornography doesn’t turn me on, it does something else, it makes me feel better about my body flaws. I’m grateful for really bad porn movies because those girls don’t spend their time feeling insecure about their bodies, they work with what they have. They embrace their stretch marks, c-section scars and over-processed hair with missing extensions. From now on, when I talk to the screen I’m going to say encouraging stuff to those girls like “good for you, putting that condom on without using your hands!” or “keep going to the doctor, that prison tattoo is almost gone !” If a girl with incredibly strange labia can be confident giving the camera a full beaver shot, how can I possibly feel bad about showing my flabby upper arms at the grocery store?

That’s why I’m grateful for really bad porno movies