The jacket copy more or less gives you the basic plot of this one: Lynsey G. was in her mid-twenties, more or less broke, and not doing anything with her liberal arts degree. After getting referred by a friend, she started writing porn reviews for a skin mag, which led to more gigs, interviews, her own online website -- appropriately titled WHACK! -- a development deal and, ultimately, this book. The author admits that she was extremely naïve when she started her porn journalism career, and some of the stories she tells about her early experiences are pretty amusing: she tells us that noted porn dude who was her first interview subject had to more-or-less walk her through the process, and that he laughed the whole time. As she gained more experience, she moved from mainstream porn to the world of gay, queer, and indie porn, which are friendlier to fetishes and body types that aren't gym-toned, and, heck, she learned more and more about what she liked and what she didn't like as she did so. She met a lot of charming people in the sex inustry and a few creeps, too. But it's she also makes it pretty clear that while she grew up in a sexually repressed environment and finds porn fascinating, she's not all that interesting a person. In an envrionment filled with big egos and people desperate to build their own brand, this admission is pretty refreshing.

The author's honesty about herself allows her to focus on her ideas about porn, though, and that's not a bad thing. Lynsey didn't admit that she watched bootleg porn clips on the internet to the friend who helped her get her foot in the door, but in "Watching Porn", she insists that most of us do, and we should be talking about about it more often. It's a constant presence in many of our lives that we struggle to form articulate thoughts about. The author sees herself in a sort of gray area between porn consumer and pornographer, a "hanger-on" that is trying to evaluate what porn means and what makes it good or bad. She has her own opinions and her own biases, and while she doesn't judge anyone who prefers the rough stuff, she comes to the conclusion that the key ingredient in good porn is consent. In her opinion, porn actors who want to be there, who get on with their co-stars, and who are genuinely turned on are more likely to give performances that you'll remember long after you close the browser window. She named the one-woman media piece she did about her time in porn "Consent," and she makes a good argument that it's necessary to smut of real quality. According to Lynsey, there's no substitute for self-determination, even if you're not wearing anything while showing off for audience of thousands.

Honestly, a lot of people who've done some reading in feminist studies will be more or less familiar with a lot of the concepts that the author presents here, even if they're not familiar with every aspect of the blue movie industry. Still, the author doesn't have an academic background in feminist theory, and can be given credit for learning about a lot of these gendered realities firsthand. I'd also argue that the behind-the-scenes specifics that "Watching Porn" provides are valuable in themselves: the author shows that she has a deep understanding of the trends and economics that define the industry she spent more than a decade covering. She was there long enough to see the decline of print, the rise of internet piracy, and the popularization of boutique sexual services that cater specifically to the whims of viewers. Like so many histories of our recent past, "Watching Porn" is a story about technology, too. Predictably enough, things get weird fast. Readers who want to know why an actress might make more money playing with balloons or filming herself getting a pedicure than you know, taking her clothes off and getting it on with somebody are encouraged to read this one. As is anyone who wants to lean more about porn or articulate exactly what it is they're doing when their browser is in "incognito" mode and they think that nobody's watching. A solid, if perhaps not essential, addition to the canon of writing on the what porn people refer to as "the industry." ( )