Pornography, n, explicit description or exhibition of sexual activity in literature, films, etc., intended to stimulate erotic rather than aesthetic feelings; literature containing this.
Oxford English Dictionary

WITH THE Internet revolution, the definition of pornography is changing. As I write this, I have set up my computer, while connected to the Internet via a local telephone number, to look in on a network called C-U-Seeme.
This is a brand of software which permits ordinary home computer users to see each other, if they have a camera installed. You can connect one-to-one, or, through something called a reflector, can join in on a group conference. It is possible to do this without shelling out for anything the demonstration is free, but it times out after three minutes, rather like a Victorian seaside peepshow. It is even possible to lurk on some reflectors without a camera, observing an increasingly strange world through a one-way mirror.
The most commonly used camera is like a grey plastic eyeball, nestling in a little pyramid base with a concave apex, which perches on top of your monitor. It costs about #90 sterling. The image that it produces is postage-stamp size, and has the mesmeric quality of 1940s black and white television: grainy, jerky and compelling.
A reflector, as its name implies, bounces back images from a maximum of eight cameras to everyone who has connected to it. These reflectors are mostly hosted by college computers, for the resources necessary for such networking are slightly beyond the capabilities of the average PC. But of course, as with everything to do with the Net at the moment, it is in its infancy, and within a very short time this situation will have improved beyond recognition.
Once connected to the reflector, the images from the various computers all over the world that are broadcasting , pop up on your screen in little windows. This is when you realise that the futuristic concepts behind the Net are constantly pushing against considerable physical limitations; the reception is lousy, the images are indistinct and fragmented, and the windows flash on and off as each three minutes are up and they have to put another farthing in.
PNEUMATIC LAND
Pornography is rife on the Net. I ve written before about the risks of young kids getting connected and squirrelling away gigabytes of flesh on their hard disks. But this video technology is something else entirely; for it enables any computer user to become their own pornographer.
As I type, in front of me are two little windows with the owner s nickname in the frame. There s HotStud sitting in a chair. He s got the camera focused on his bedenimed crotch, and a very appealing sight it is too. Beside him is RobJN which I presume means he s Rob from New Jersey. He s a bespectacled large man in a teeshirt, and he s busy typing away on his keyboard. He seems oblivious to the fact that he is being watched. Then up comes Stinger , who s proudly showing off his big cock to the world. But his hand, sliding up and down, is a blur, for the video signal cannot keep up with the speed of his movements.
Now HotStud has disappeared. After a while, Frnchboy pops up; or rather his pneumatic torso. And then, in quick succession, James and LOOKer , neither of whom can be seen at all, except for LOOKer s tattooed bare arm. HotStud returns, is joined by SportNZ in a jockstrap, and on it goes, fleeting apparitions in my and my computer s memory.
Are these guys intending to stimulate erotic feelings ?
Undoubtedly. But this is life, not a description of life in literature or films . And yet each one of them is their own actor, director, and lighting designer, creating live-action electronic postage stamps for each other s pleasure.
ADOLESCENT FRENZY
There is no exploitation, no money exchanging hands, there is no risk of catching anything. Because there is no real contact. Gay men, forever the experts at detaching from feeling and the perfection of image, have adapted the latest cutting-edge technology to do what they have always done, to show each other their willies.
But that s only one half of the story. In my recent exploration of this live aspect of the Internet, over the past few weeks, I may not have actually met anyone new yet. (This is going to be remedied tomorrow, over a pint, I m pleased to say.)
But I ve had the most intense conversations with people, discussing sex, community, love, shamanism, HIV, fetishes, astrology, tattoos and, most amusingly, the Eurovision Song Contest, which is being hotly debated nightly on the gay-skinheads channel, of all places.
I ve discovered that IRC people do meet, keep in touch, say nice things about each other. One Irish guy told me proudly last week that he met his boyfriend through the IRC. It s a medium perfectly suited to rural gay people.
Or perhaps I should say it s a medium perfectly suited to gay people. Andrew Sullivan in Virtually Normal argues that a large part of the difficulty that we face is simply statistical; there aren t enough of us, especially when we are growing up, to give us a sense of confidence that we will someday meet someone special. This marks us, in a way.
However, I have found, to my cost, that living in a city with a huge gay population doesn t lead to happiness either; for this particular city s gay culture is probably one of the least friendly on earth. But the Internet offers a way of contacting others who share the same interests and sexuality in a way that nightclubs simply can t; at least not for me, anyway.
No doubt there will be a few kids reading this who are going to steal a few hours late at night on someone s computer and get a look at these men flashing at each other. I was almost not going to write about it for this very reason. Until the Internet comes of age, and it s far from that now, it is not suitable for young kids. There aren t the safeguards in place. There s no way of preventing a curious kid spending the money they would have spent on trainers on one of those little plastic golfballs.
I wouldn t wish for little Patrick to find that in a rush of adolescent frenzy he s sent a picture of himself the world, which may haunt him for the rest of his life.
You never know who s watching. n