While I can’t exactly remember the day family got actually got the internet, I do remember the way it changed how I masturbated. Instead of hiding away in my bedroom, perhaps using my parents’ old National Lampoon magazines that featured the occasional nude cartoon illustration, though often relegated to simply my imagination, I now had the World Wide Web at my fingertips.
And man, was it ever fucking inconvenient. My family, much like most families in the nineties, only had one shared, family computer, located in the living room. Thus, masturbating at the actual computer was more or less off-limits. As such, my jerk regimen consisted of locating dirty images online (that took exactly twenty-eight seconds too long to load), printing them out using the same machine I am convinced was used to first print the Bible, before smuggling them up into my bedroom to be used and abused until rendered a sad slab of inky-jizzy pulp. The process had to be well-timed, swift, and efficient.
What this meant, then, was that my image selection had to be carefully curated. I didn’t have the time or the bandwidth to delve into the darker sider of my adolescent interests, and had to ensure my choices would stand the test of time. Playboy models, celebrity nipple slips, and swimsuit shots from friends’ MSN Groups page reigned supreme. There was a certain Darwinism at play, wherein I would select images similar to the ones I had previously used most, as a way to ensure I would get the most bust for my buck. My sexual interests then, began vanilla, and remained so. Today, my sexual desires reflect such a blandness.
Which is why I seriously think I would be totally sexually fucked up and perverted and filthy and socially unacceptable and despicable and vile and potentially illegal if I had been born a decade later. I imagine if, instead of my archaic dial-up, my shared family computer and my four-hundred pound printing press, I had fibre optics and high-speed WiFi, my own personal iPad, laptop and iPhone, and maybe even a fucking on-the-wall projector in my own bedroom. Jesus fuck, the things I would have gotten in to. Because man, when I was ten, I would beat it to anything. Memories of my teacher bending over, hot chicks in my mom’s old high school yearbook, and pixelated printouts of Tiffani Amber Thiessen. I can’t even imagine the kind of shit I would have gotten into. Sure, it likely wouldn’t have been too outrageous: double-penetration, golden showers, bukkake. That’s not my concern. My concern is where I’d be now.
What’s worse: I plan on having kids some day. What in the fuck is my ten-year-old son going to be into? Shit-eating? Open wound fucking? Bestiality? I guess I shouldn’t worry too much, because at least it won’t affect me. Unless it’s incest, I suppose. That’s not going to be a thing, right? …Right?
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