In all the years I’ve spent researching, thinking about, and, yes, consuming many different kinds of porn, this was the first time I’d ever heard anyone mention an audio-only varietal. I went home and googled “audio porn.” Quickly I realized that, as with conventional porn, there was a seemingly inexhaustible audio-porn archive on the internet: everything from humorous fantasies about dildo genies to Audible.com’s erotic e-books to Tumblrs vibrating with orgasms rubbed out in office bathrooms to Reddit’s endless selection of “faps” and “schlicks” (the onomatopoetic names for male and female masturbation sessions).
Sure, I’ve read about the nonsexual “brain orgasms” of ASMR, and any child from the 1990s remembers seedy ads for 1-900 phone sex lines. Sometimes these files are customized for the listener, but even when they’re not, the intimacy of audio makes it feel like they are.
(Everything she’d read told her men were visual, not aural, creatures.) But a few hundred dollars’ worth of orders came in immediately.
She wrote a few scripts, booked some studio time to record, and shipped out vivid audio fantasies to her clients—mostly married professionals who kept their kinks to themselves.
Audio porn could preserve Johnny’s anonymity in a way sexting or camming couldn’t, but the experience was disarmingly intimate—.
It was an uncanny porno-monogamy I didn’t know was possible.
As Johnny climaxes, I imagine him biting a pillow to muffle the sounds of his orgasm from his parents, who stand right outside his bedroom in this fantasy. Unlike with porn vids, I was participating, not just staring.
I needed to know, so I kept pressing “play.” Audio magnifies whispers and swallows, humanizing the performer and creating a tangible experience that photography and video can’t compete with.
“We feel like we are right there in the room with the action,” says Northwestern University media professor Jacob Smith.
By the early 2000s, Shattuck was selling CDs, grossing around 0,000 a year, and living in Silicon Valley with her tech millionaire husband.
(She and the panty fetishist had long since parted ways.) Everyone in her suburb simply thought she was another rich housewife; I imagine her like an audio-porn version of protagonist Nancy Botwin, a pot-dealing suburbanite.
But with only a wire separating his voice from my brain, it feels like we’re in the same room, talking and touching one-on-one. Lately Émilie had been gravitating toward threesome scenes because at least they were all talking to each other.