I love porn. Possibly more than Kanye West. I climbed straight up the rope in gym class and directly into the scrambled, yellowgreen, Max Headroom-esque transmissions of the late night nudie flicks. I couldn’t get enough of getting off, but i needed more. Unscrambled, glorious, glossy pages full of nubile vixens being plowed by cocks 10 times the size of my mushroom cap were out there (or up there, as it turns out) to be found, and so i embarked on a shameful mission of discovery, passed down from god herself, and delivered straight into my grey track pants.
The ‘mother load’, as it turns out, was stashed on my dad’s top closet shelf, tucked conspicuously underneath his vast collection of Cosby sweaters. Once home alone, i grabbed my mom’s footstool from the sewing room and climbed up to investigate the treasures waiting above. What i found was beyond immediate comprehension. Two skin mags (Club, and another that inexplicably escapes me) were tucked inside a third, massive, full colour, all photos no filler, thick as a brick and glossy as fuck pornographic masterpiece. Fantastical waves of flesh and bush washed over my crotch and spilled out shockingly fast onto my parents’ bedspread, as the likes of Nina Hartley and Vanessa Del Rio stimulated and mocked me at the same time. I’m not sure if i was more horrified by the fact that the spread wasn’t machine washable, or that the stash had been mysteriously removed the next time i sought out such pleasures.
Submitted to Nerve.com - Formative Porn Experiences
