Power of the Written Word

I have a very vivid memory of my first taste of porn. My childhood was spent playing with boys, and not in the way you might think. I was a tomboy. My two brothers were probably the reason for this, although my mother did her very best and bought me all the pink and frilly things that any good mother would have purchased. Much like children/disappointments everywhere, I eschewed these offerings to the feminine. I wanted guns. I wanted fatigues. I wanted to be just as fast and lewd and dirty as all the boys in the neighborhood, even before I knew the intentions behind all those adjectives.

So I spent an inordinate amount of time doing guy stuff with guys, and as we got older the guys got weirder and weirder about it. They would exclude me from their outings on occasion, but I was generally invited for treasure hunts on bicycle or hikes through the wilds of uptown. Little did I realize that the reason they invited me along had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that their mothers somehow knew I would boss them into staying out of serious trouble. A Domina, even then.

Most of all, they excluded me when they stayed in. After I expressed my displeasure with this situation, they pointed out that I was a girl and could not attend sleepovers. When this explanation worked, all their indoor events became sleepovers.

One day after such a night, I showed up at a male friend's house unannounced. His mother was surprised, but said she expected him home soon and that I could wait in his bedroom until he arrived. As soon as he got home, of course, that bedroom door needed to stay open. But she didn't watch me very closely until then. What harm could I do alone, after all?

As it turns out, plenty. I found his porn stash. In my defense: it wasn't very well hidden. He kept it in his guitar case and, as a boy, was honor-bound to never put his guitar away where it belonged. I was just looking for a pick, but what I found was much more interesting to me.

That encounter is probably the reason I love lingerie today. The pictures didn't titillate me. In fact, I found them rather disturbing. I didn't have hair like that. I didn't want hair like that. What I wanted were all those pretty things. Those few minutes of window shopping felt almost as good as a trip to Agent Provocateur does today. My mother was just thrilled at my change in demeanor, of course. God forbid she ever find out the reason for it. I flipped through three magazines before my friend came home and caught me. He was ashamed in those first moments. I wasn't. I asked lots of questions, and he answered.

I learned a lot that day. For some strange reason, he actually told me a version of the truth. He told me he liked the pictures. He told me why. I told him what I liked too, and we both found it interesting that we liked the same thing for different reasons. This pattern of porn viewing and discussion, by the way, lasted well into our high school years. It did, in time, become very titillating to me. In fact, it was fantastic. As was he, if you must know.

Penthouse letters is overrated. We all know this, of course, but many of us pick it up occasionally out of some sad hope that this time will be different. To this day I prefer the written word to even the most artfully crafted erotic photograph. Some say this is due to my gender, some say I just think too much. I often wonder if it all relates back to those conversations. Talking about the pictures was so much sexier than just looking at them.