Saturday, 7 March 2015

Me, My Porn and I (2)

65 Days Porn-Free

Embarrassment warning: 5 – Considerable. Mainly for me but probably for you, too. Just saying.

I will now recount for you, friends, the story of my first orgasm. Of course – you have already guessed – I was looking at internet porn when it happened, hence the story's (unfortunate) presence on this blog. I really am very sorry, but I don't feel I can truly relay my porn history without mentioning this pivotal (no pun intended) event.

I was about thirteen years old. I was in the study indulging my new, secret hobby of looking up nudie pictures of women on the newly-installed internet. I was in my 'Playboy' (O, the innocence) phase and was particularly taken with one Miss Jenny McCarthy. She was a classic Playboy centrefold: blonde and leggy with airbrushed, augmented breasts and a 'come-to-bed' smile. To me, at this age, she was to die for.

I was scrolling through a gallery of her best Playboy shots. This was about five-thirty in the pm and I could hear my mother in the kitchen not thirty feet away listening to Radio 4. In a way, it was the risk* of discovery as much as the images which got me excited.

* When I was a teenager, there was always a joke about doing the Danger Wank. This involved bringing yourself to the moment of climax, then yelling 'Mum!' loudly and repeatedly. The titular 'danger' was obviously that you would not be able to 'finish' and clean up before your mother came running and discovered you, the filthy little perv that you are, all covered in jizz.

I feel like I can almost remember the very image I was looking at. I had a raging* hard-on and, just as in the Men Only Episode a few years earlier, felt I knew what I had to do. So I slid my hand inside my pants and started gingerly whacking off. Unlike in the Men Only Episode, however, after only a short time, I got the distinct feeling that I was 'getting somewhere.' I had the curious sensation that I was moving towards some kind of destination or conclusion and that, whatever it was, it was worth continuing to find out.

* There's the anger metaphor again. Just as the 'masturbator' is furious, so his erection is in a rage.

Then it happened. It felt like simultaneously finding and scratching an itch of which I had been hitherto unaware. But now that I'd found it, I wanted to keep scratching it forever. My body convulsed, my hearing went fuzzy. I felt incredible. I felt in my pants the most modest amount of ejaculate soaking into the material. I shut down the porno and ran off upstairs to change my clothes. Somehow I knew something incredible had happened and that things would never be the same.

After this, life became a regular 'wankathon.' And not just over internet porn, at almost any time. I would be wanking in the morning when I woke up and several times at night. I would be getting horny in lessons at school and running to the toilets to whack off at break time. In short, it was the best thing since anything and I pretty much never 'wasted' a boner.

And I was looking for sexy material everywhere! Not just on the internet but all over the place. Obviously there were the 'lads' mags' but there was also the scouring of the TV Times to find any mention of 'nudity' or 'scenes of a sexual nature.' Caitlin Moran writes about this search hilariously (“Walkabout? More like Wankabout!”) in her book, How To Be a Woman.

(Most) children of our generation didn't have Sky and the internet was still too slow to meet all of our 'needs,' so we would paw over the TV papers looking for things that might have 'wank potential.' Anything French was a goer, as was anything starring Alex Kingston (remember Moll Flanders!). I remember when I managed to record Strip Tease onto VHS, I felt like I'd won the f***ing lottery!

We would collect a stash of illicit video tapes and give them innocuous labels like 'The Three Amigos' or 'School Play' and hide them at the back of the drawer. Then, when the house was quiet, we'd load them up and sit with our dicks in one hand and the remote in the other, thumbs hovering, primed over the 'pause' button to catch the exact moment of boob or bush.* If you were lucky, you could get it to pause right on a grainy image Demi Moore's boobs or g-string-clad behind and, for a few minutes, be in heaven.

* Listen here, late-Century children. In my wanking heyday, all of the pornstars and models had 'bush' i.e. pubic hair. And it wasn't disgusting, it was sexy; it was feminine. I'm not talking about a giant, be-dreadlocked hedgerow of a growler, but a lovely little patch of pubes that made her, if anything, far more womanly and attractive. The shaven, 'pre-pubescent' look is a thing of recent times and I for one would happily go back. The wider issue here is about choice. If a woman (or man) wants a shaven haven, let her shave and wax away. The problem is that porn is dictating that this is how a woman (or man) should look. And that just ain't right.

Although I spent many-a night up too late hoping that the late film would develop into a boob-fest, I found that more and more, I was resorting to the internet to get my fix. With the internet, you didn't have to guess. You were in control. And the more we searched, the more we found we could tailor our experience to exactly what we wanted.

The main problem with my new pass-time, was that the computer, as I said, was in my dad's study just off the kitchen. Not only was my dad often in there but anyone else could walk in at any time. Because of this, and due to the aforementioned lethargic internet speeds, I took to saving images (it was all images at this point, video seemed impossible) onto floppy disks (remember those?).

For those of you who think I'm making this up, floppy discs were 3.5inch* square plastic discs with a maximum capacity of 1.44mb.

* Q: What's the difference between a woman and a computer?

   A: A computer won't laugh at a three-and-a-half inch floppy. The mirth.

1.44mb!? This was about 15-17 years ago and that was the maximum portable storage capacity available. It makes me feel like one sad old fuck when I look at flash drives today which can store 16gb. I heard one expert say that, if storage capacity continues to increase at this rate, our grandchildren will be able to buy blister packs of hard drives for £1 apiece, each of which will be capable of storing all the information – music, film, art, literature – that has ever existed. The future is now etc.

But anyway, there I was at age 13/14 with a very secret habit taking place in a very public location with internet slower than an asthmatic sloth. So what do I do? I save my favourite sexy images on floppies and store them for times when the house is empty.* Obviously the images in question were far lower quality (whoop) than they are today as you could store 10+ on a disc. An HD image of today averages about 2.5mb, so clearly would not even fit on one.

* My dad commuted to work in London at this time and my mum used to go and pick my sister up from school half an hour away. This would give me over an hour of uninterrupted wank time in the afternoons when I got home from school.

I remember building up a 'catalogue' of about seven or eight discs and hiding them in my bedroom. I used to worry constantly that my stash would be discovered and spent inordinate amounts of time moving them to ever-more obscure hiding places. Eventually, I discovered that I could lift the carpet in my wardrobe and lie them flat on the floorboards underneath.

To this day, I don't think I've found a better hiding place for anything. The only problem was that it took so long to retrieve them from and replace them in the hidey hole that I think I probably spent more time moving shoes in and out of my cupboard than actually looking at tits.

This all continued for a number of months, and I thought I had the system cracked. Then came the inevitable: I got busted. Read on in the next instalment to discover one of the most embarrassing episodes of my entire life. All I can say is, God-Damn you, Temporary Internet Files!

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