When I met my husband, he had a subscription to Playboy. But every month when the black plastic-wrapped magazine arrived in his mailbox, he would not allow himself to open it until he found the hidden bunny on the cover. I found this display of self-restraint so endearing that I couldn't have cared less about the silicon-enhanced girls within.

The Internet is deluged with bad pornographic copy and, courtesy of the ubiquitous digital camera, photographs. Finding quality adult literature online is a daunting task, particularly if you don't care to see images normally reserved for a gynecologist. But I take it on because writing about sex is important. I like to do it well.

I am not about to report on a site that features poetic erotica or lovely art nudes. Just like the reason behind my acceptance of my husband's Playboy subscription, there must be something more, another layer, an important detail to expose.

I found it at BeautifulAgony.com.

The subtitle of the site is "Facettes de la Petit Mort," or "Faces of the Little Death," the French euphemism for orgasm. This site features regular people doing what they have been doing (ahem) alone ever since they figured out how.

There is no nudity on the site. The available film clips feature men and women pictured from the shoulders up as they masturbate. The result is banal, fascinating, crass, embarrassing, beautiful, arousing and nerve-racking all at once. In me, the clips evoked a strange self-awareness.

It is entirely too human to be called pornography.

That the administrators of the site choose to eschew all nudity is a stroke of brilliance. The viewer must focus on the facial contortions associated with this ultimately private moment. They portray anguish, pain, irritation, playfulness and even grace. Collapsed eyebrows, clenched teeth, giggles, shudders and pauses reveal the relative emotions.

Sometimes their eyes are open, sometimes closed. Sometimes their eyes startle into round o's as if they have somehow surprised themselves.

Perhaps the most provocative aspect of the clips is the sounds: utterances, fabric brushing fabric, inhalations. One woman exclaims, "Fuck yes!" to herself in a congratulatory tone.

The singularity of each clip is stunning. The climaxes expose the subjects (called "artists" and identified by innocuous labels such as AO366) in surprising ways. Some are imbued with intense emotion; in others, the indication of orgasm is marked by a simple jerk of the head or one punctuating gasp.

Then there are the corresponding confession videos, in which the fully clothed artists talk about sex. Topics they discuss include strangest place (on top of a car parked in front of a motel), favorite accessory (the "bunny") and impetus ("There's nothing good on TV.") One gentleman advises Americans, "Don't be so moralish about it," then later clarifies that although he has performed anal sex on other men, he has never been thusly penetrated. Another woman casually reports that she finds masturbation useful when a drunken evening out does not result in a "shag." There's not a great deal of emotion in her corresponding masturbation clip.

One man begins his session with an elaborate lick of his finger. He is then interrupted by a muted off-screen voice, perhaps from another room. It shocks him, but he calls out an answer nonetheless. Apparently satisfied he will not be disrupted again, he completes his task. Then, languid in the aftermath, he relishes a cigarette.

The one commonality in the masturbation clips is the smoky, satisfied look nearly every artist has at the conclusion of the session. It belies the profound power of orgasm, whether it has been achieved with a vocal thrash or a subtle sigh.

The videos are not professional. The artists are regular people of all colors, sizes and sexual orientation. Most appear to be in their 20s and 30s. Women outnumber men by approximately four to one. Despite the gender and age disparity, the participants collectively portray that which is unflinchingly honest.

And with honesty comes sadness. One man appears boyish and sweet in his clip. Then in his confession, he discloses, "I was a gay boy that grew up in a country town." He then recounts tales of his days as a prostitute, the details of which include soiled undergarments, defecation and a group ejaculation on one paying older customer.

Out of the score of clips I watched, not one failed to fascinate me. I simply could not take my eyes from the screen. The site succeeds because it elevates this common human act and puts it on the edge of art and erotica and pornography and even scientific research. The producers and participants at BeautifulAgony.com have achieved a rare goal: Showing us a side of ourselves most of us have never seen.