This will not be my only statement on the subject. It is too broad and loaded to allow just one brief article to encapsulate my thoughts on this. No, I hope to spend time fleshing this out and bringing some insights from other sources to this discussion. So this entry will just be my introduction. No literally, I want to tell you about my introduction to pornography.
I don’t actually recall the first images I saw as a kid. It is the events surrounding those images that stick in my mind. When I was about nine years old, I lived with on a military base in Atwater, California. The house were cinderblock duplexes painted in fadedd pastel colors. When ou are nine, things like this stick in the mind, but don’t really have an imapct. I was more interested in friends and playing.
One friend (for the life in me I can’t remember his name. Just his long late-seventies hair) was good people. He had an extensive rock collection, a great set of classic Hot Wheels, and access to his dad’s nudie magazines. When his father and mother were at work (most of us were latch-key kids), we’d sneak into his dad’s stash and thumb the pages. I was never certain what I was looking at. I knew though, from the reaction of the older boys that tthis was important stuff. This important stuff generated a lot of excitement that caused hands to be stuffed deeply into Tough Skins pockets. Yet I was oblivious to what elements generated that excitemnt.
It just so happened that my step-father kept a stack of similar magazines on the lid of the toilet tank. It was never suggested that I not look at these magazines. My mother believed that any stigma about such things should be acquired through experience and not by the infamous “Because I told you so” reasoning practiced by many parents. So these magazines were never hidden from my view. The joke in our house was that my step-father bought the subscription as a gift for my Mother.
To impress some of my friends, I would tear pages from my magazine and share them. The reading circle would gather in my room under the pretext of playing with Legos. Once we all settled in, I lifted the mattress and pulled from under several neatly pressed pages. My friends would ask to take them home and I would deny them the pleasure. After all, these titilating pieces of pulp were social gold and a rare commodity. Not to mention, if I was ever caught, I could hand them over in return for clemency.For months, I watched and worried as my step-father scratched his balding head. “Where are my missing pages?” It never occured to me that he would notice the missing pages. After all, he said he kept them to read the articles. I never tore any pages that had text on them. I only wanted the pictures. It wasn’t long before he discovered my stash. Truth be known, my mother discovered the stash. I should have known that the woman who straightened my room and changed my sheets would uncover my secret.
I came home from school one afternoon to find my step-father sitting on my bed with a stack of torn pages in one hand. He stood up when I entered in the room and loomed over me. (He knew how to intimidate) In his calmest voice he said, “Son, I don’t mind you looking at my magazines. I just wish you would leave the pages in the books for others to enjoy.” With that, he left my room and the subject would never come up again.
It wouldn’t be until my adulthood that I would learn that my mother stood behind me. During my step-father’s brief speech, she was trying desparately to keep from bursting with laughter. What my terriefied nine year old eyes neglected to notice in my step-father’s demeanor was that he was beat red and trying desparately to keep a straight face.