Captive’s Log – totaladdict
Re: Captive’s Log – totaladdict
post by totaladdict » Sat Apr 12, 2025 9:35 pm
This is a copy of something I wrote somewhere else.
Life long pornosexual edger here.
When I can make the time, and I mostly manage to, I spend at least three to four hours an evening in this seat after work, right at this porn station or ones very similar to it. On days off, anywhere from eight to over twenty hour watching, collecting, and edging to porn if at all possible. A reasonably conservative estimate of six hours a day on average is 2190 out of 8760 hours a year spent revelling in my inescapable pornography addiction.
My life has been engineered to accommodate my porn habits, so I have maintained a lifestyle that has allowed this degree of porn consumption for the last 27 of my 45 years. More or less consistently. Only ever abstaining when I just cannot indulge. I knew early on that I wanted, craved, longed for–yet tried to resist mightily–a life where I could use porn and edge any time I needed to. I knew my dream of this life was possible when I got my own room with my own PC I built, and a heavy door that locked (with a coaxial cable ready to go!) when my family finally sold the farm and moved to a nearby town with high speed Internet available when I was about 18 (verily, the month after the start of my first ever semester of college). That was a significant inflection point in my ability to covertly escalate my porn addiction at any time. Upgrading from dial-up where 1 jpg = 15s to 3m to multiple instantaneous jpgs and the ability to download many videos at once in minutes instead of one over hours or days.
At first I fought it, this addiction, given my sincere religious convictions in addition to the cultural stigmas around porn and masturbation addiction back then. Convictions I had been schooled in from birth warred with my growing awareness of my inability to just stop for good. I might make it a day, or maybe up to three days, between relapses. Or as I understood it then, backsliding into sin. Each stroke was a sin, but yet I could not deny my flesh. In the end, my faith died on the vine and porn took its place. I understood this from very early on as my porn addiction, collection, and use increased over time–this deceitful and wicked heart of mine, seeking after the desires of the flesh even though I knew better. I asked myself after every edging session, “Am I even a Christian if I can’t love God more than porn? What am I?”
Even through my religious education (beginning in 1997) which progressed to an MDiv in theology, my pornography addiction could not be suppressed or ignored. It grew steadily each time I indulged.
Before school started, I booked myself for a solitary dorm room. After school started, I was so glad I had paid extra for a solitary dorm (it had two beds with no barrier between them), knowing well ahead of time that I would need privacy to be certain I could look at porn while masturbating without getting caught. I loved the idyll summer of endless nights of edging, in solitude, just prior to the start of school again. That summer was like my dream life before it, wishing to explore it all without fear of getting caught, and wanted to continue that. Despite my secret 10 year battle with porn addiction up to that point, I knew I would not win the fight any time soon and planned ahead.
Inwardly, I was deeply concerned that my addiction was noticeably growing even as my sincerity to fight it did too; it constantly outdid my willpower. I even started theological training itself as a means to draw myself closer to God because back then, with my religious goggles on still, I suspected it would take divine intervention to save me, to deliver me, from my deeply rooted addiction. I was saved, to my theological reasoning, I hoped. I had said the sinner’s prayer when I was five, and repeated it often to make sure the deal was still fresh–usually after a lustful thought and always after looking at porn, in addition to repentance itself. The remorse was very real. I was desperate to be free of this thorn in my side. But despite being saved, after learning more, I knew I was badly in need of sanctification. I knew I needed to be purified by the indewlling of the Holy Spirit, the Ethos of holy action and behavior to the Logos of the received divine wisdom and the salvific contract. I knew I risked my salvation, under certain theological frameworks, by my repeated sinning. I hoped deeper understanding by formal education would go some way to bringing that purification process about. I was wrong about that idea, nothing changed at all and instead my addiction has only grown over time.
An endless line of relapses dogged me, followed by guilt and remorse, the heartfelt re-dedicating of myself to my Lord and Saviour and trying to resist forever. “That was that last time, Lord!” Only to inevitably give in once more, sometimes within hours. I recall one relapse distinctly. I had resisted for several days, maybe two or three–doubt it was four. I had finally cracked, since this was after the move into town and it was now so easy, and started watching porn with high speed capabilities again right after dinner. I started around 8PM when everyone was in their rooms and I wouldn’t be bothered. I edged that night until I noticed the sun showing through the window near the ceiling of my basement room. I looked at the clock: 6:20AM. I remember that being a moment of reckoning for me: that is the longest ever, this is what you have become now, you may never be able to overcome this sin.
Prior to that record, I felt my will crumble when I let my mind work with a memory of a time before “I stopped forever,” as I was edging to porn, as I worked to make money for school in the fall. I had gone for hours before, but never resisted for over something like 5 hours. I had dismissed myself for one of my frequent edging breaks, which I called pee breaks, and went to rub out a quick one to the idea of edging for 24 hours or something. While I was edging, I had an idea, “Why not see how long you can really go?” I didn’t cum in the stall. I knew I had the following day off and had recently started to really extend the edging time as long as possible, so I cleared my schedule and forgot about time to see how long I could edge for. I was committed. Later, I would see this in distinction as a lack of conviction around my faith. I busted soon after I finally noticed time again, slightly from the worry and guilt, and also because I realized the heights of pleasure were mine for the taking at any time. That is, this wasn’t a one-off, I could go even further if I just committed. I wanted more, even as I inwardly winced at the realization and the implications.
My first year of what would become six years of theological schooling (97-2003), when I was 18, I went to great lengths to circumvent the campus network monitoring to get access to porn within the first two months. Two others had already received written warnings and were almost expelled in our year in under a month of commencement–secret porn addicts and masturbators identified. They warned us they were watching in the student indoc briefings at the very start. It was then I learned my method to get around their watchful eyes had worked–they were hit but I was not. I wondered if they couldn’t resist, or did they figure they were smarter than the network admins and their tools?
I knew I had to be very careful, so the Internet I did have access to before I bypassed the monitoring elements, I used in such as way as to obfuscate my actual usage. Searches terms and in languages their software was unlikely to monitor for, but would yield similar things. If spelled in Greek or Hebrew, it would be dismissed as someone doing homework, for instance. The preview thumbnails were cold comfort for someone with my history (clicking a link was asking to be caught), but it sufficed when paired with my imagination and saved erotic literature. Back then, pornographic options were not so widespread and languages were not always well “documented” for porn searches, so it took work. When it paid off the dopamine hit was great. My solution to restricted access was simple but risky to solve, and it came by luck.
When helping to move some boxes around to help out before our first classes, or even indoc, I noticed the room we were filling had an Ethernet port. We were using Ethernet ports into our rooms as this was before widespread WiFi. About two weeks into classes at an off-campus get-together, I met an actual hacker–I watched them crack a CD key in real time as he wrote the code to do it from scratch (had an actual comp sci degree, doing his masters in theology). He casually mentioned that one of the ports in a specific auditorium was totally unsecured–you could “see” the whole network. I instantly remembered that unused port down the hall. I soon tested my PC in that stuffed storage office after I faked being sick to get out of morning chapel service, which literally everyone attended–students, teachers, even the janitors. Everyone. Unless someone else was actually sick, I had about 45 minutes of being totally sure of freedom of movement. I was flooded with lustful joy when I tested it and found out it was like gaining root access (I was an early and deep adopter of technology, as early as dial-up when I discovered the Net was a gateway to unlimited porn around 93). I could see what admis saw via logging, and I could see that I was not being seen. Green light. Perhaps admins had assigned that port to unrestricted access because they used that room for admin stuff in the past, and just left it that way? I’m not sure why, it seemed widespread, but their lapse was my luck. I prepared to connect to it via my room afterwards. I thought up a way and bought a big spool of network cable.
I would lay awake at night until well after midnight when I figured everyone should have been in bed, accounting for time peeing at some point after cramming, then peeing again, then back to sleep. Early hours of the morning. I pulled a cable to my room from that unsecured port down the hall that led into that unused office space commandeered for storage. Unrolling the cable in small amounts at a time. 2-3 tiles, about 9 feet, at the most to minimize exposure through the movable light particle board ceiling panels that ran over the hallways and into our individual rooms. Zero evidence after I was done, no holes drilled, leaving nothing visible save for that professionally straight looking blue wire extending behind the boxes into the ceiling. I used different handwriting in all caps, “DO NOT BUMP. KEEP PLUGGED IN. NETWORK MGMT,” on a big yellow sticky note taped to the end of the cable where it plugged in. Risky, but my need was strong.
Since we all shared bathrooms with scores of other students along one hallway this meant I could be busted at any second. I slowly moved a random chair down the hallway (to reach the ceiling with) with a waist-height fake potted plant as cover. As part of my cover, I would covertly “prank” by slowly moving other decor around. I hoped I might have a snowball’s chance in Norway of surviving an inexplicable situation. I had a line, a plausible alibi about hearing movement up there and looking for signs of animal life. Thin, but it was the best I could think of to explain my position as I extended my “prank.”
When I finally connected it, I was already hard as a rock. I had brought some old porn magazines from when I started collecting a secret stash over a decade earlier, but it was not the thing I was used to by then. External drives were not expansive nor cheap back then, so my small internal drives could only hold so much and I knew I’d need more soon. I had been aching harder and harder as I returned to my room each adventure, exceptionally so in the last three days, knowing I’d have it soon. I needed the dopamine of all-night edging sessions again with new porn and the dirtiest of erotic fiction. It was probably around 2AM when I got online in my dorm the final night, and I didn’t sleep before class. I edged and then blew a load in my underwear.
Then I walked out the door to attend morning chapel service. I probably looked like hell, and the extent of crushing guilt was halfway to convincing me I was destined to end up there. I recommitted myself again silently in the pews, nobody the wiser.
At this stage, despite what the above may transmit, my life is balanced with work, friends, hobbies, etc. Though at times I do neglect what and who I ought to be more attentive to so I can feed my addiction, but I still manage. I have had long term romantic relationships with great sex (just harder to access porn and indulge when I need to be sexually performant in a relationship at the same time). Decently well informed and egalitarian, curious and non-judgmental by nature, not someone one would likely suspect. I am not a basement dweller nor do I broadcast my edging habits to those around me. I am passably fit of body and mind. I initially kept my secret out of social and religious necessity for decades, out of shame and guilt, and the need to preserve my porn, when it was vulnerable to such, from confiscation or my own reputational damage whatever the circumstances.
It is nice, after all these years, to fly a little bit of the freak flag among those who already know.
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