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With the advent of chat rooms on AOL, I supplemented porn with cybersex and sometimes managed to find clips and videos online, which took hours to download. Others were uncomfortably real, such as forlorn Thai hookers and mistake-making drunk party girls. I prayed the “teen” porn stars were 18 like the disclaimers promised. Whether I was in a relationship or not, my bond with porn never waned. It didn’t matter if the stories I invented in my head were true.I needed to have an empty house and no plans for the day for that kind of work. I was proud when I talked to boyfriends about my kink. Tuning in and rubbing one out always sounded like a good idea. It didn’t matter if I’d already had two or three orgasms that day. I hadn’t a clue what compelled these actresses to pursue this line of work.Robert Louis Stevenson will forever be an erotic novelist in my mind.
I started staying up late, when Mom and Dad were snoring away in oblivion, to watch softcore porn on Cinemax. I didn’t know whether to hate her or love her, but I knew I needed her. My brother was three years older, and I'd wait for him to leave the house and then raid his stash, hidden in his bedside drawer under men's fitness magazines and school notebooks. Later, when classmates at my all-girls Catholic high school were talking about MTV, YM magazine and PMS, I was educating myself on all sorts of other acronyms: DP, POV, ATM and more. Some of the videos had horrible acting bits that made me giggle. This girl probably wanted to be an actress, but couldn’t make it. The more pitiful the story, the more I was turned on. What did it mean that my escape method was someone else’s supposed misfortune?
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If nobody was talking about porn and masturbation, then certainly I was doing something odd. I knew porn stars by name, bookmarked all my favorite sites and switched up all the ways I got off — fingers, vibrators and, of course, the water faucet for old time’s sake. Then one day, I found myself clicking through gang bangs, but bored by the number of men I saw. After all, that's how I found pleasure — in that bathtub at 12, submerged in fear and confusion and the belief that I was bad — and that’s how it had to remain. And, just as I’d blamed yet glorified my softcore hero Shannon Tweed as a child, the women in various porns were also subject to my ambivalence, and eventually my anger. The act was unsatisfying unless I felt some inkling of shame.
I familiarized myself with all the various categories. Six in this one, eight in that one, 10 in the other. I’d wired the neural networks in my brain so well that it had become impossible for me to feel sexually turned on without feeling horrible about it. I wanted them to be punished for their insatiable lust, their vacant eyes, and their tireless, mechanical movements with men, just as I emotionally punished myself for my similar relationship with porn. I often fantasized about men cheating on me, hurting me, using me, just so I could get off.