“Fuck you, Mom. I look at porn.” That’s the root of the problem isn’t it? Not just her fault, that would be too easy and too damn typical and childish to stomach. And my continued trajectory are my own masochistic choices whether I like to admit them or not. But interpret as you will. For sure, it’s a deep-seated problem. From the very beginning women have shamed me. I told myself then, as I do now, she’s old fashioned, she’s of a bygone era and it shouldn’t bother me- but predictably, it did.

At about thirteen, I discovered the wonders and freedom of pornography and the awesome creative outlet it provided for me. At thirteen, fourteen, and even now, I was highly sensitive to the intimidating and overwhelming power that women have over me, and certainly the older, more developed woman. There’s not a strong enough word to explain the appreciation I have, I become like a despicable poet- longing for the fantasy surrounding the look and air of a certain woman- and being a creative type, imagine how much I might zone in on precisely the fashion risk you chose to take that day- that no one else seemed to mention anything about- but I was certainly watching.

Back then, I was pubescent at best- still shorter than them, I remember having the beginnings of arm-hair and this was pointed out to me by one of my brother’s friends growing up, and I was still having trouble with red pustules on my face until about 15 or 16. But would you believe I even kind of fetishized those, in the 15 or 16 year old girls I was into. But, they weren’t interested in me, and I certainly wasn’t interested in the tit-less boys who had vaginas and would at best, hold your hand, and I never goddamned settled for it, even then; I had seen porn.

And that was what I resorted to pretty early and I discovered how extraordinarily expansive it could be. In 1998, it had hardly hit its peak, and as the internet was still developing beyond the 28.8 modem; the photograph of the girl in a cheesy basketball uniform who had just pulled her shorts down and revealed her clit to you by the 23rd photo- was under par. The first 12 being all dumb and nearly believable, teasing poses- then she gradually started pulling forward her baggy men’s jersey to reveal her fake looking tits, whilst wearing her shirt, just between the cleavage now, and in the next six photos she started to pull down her shorts. All the while, it took about a minute each to load each photo, pixelated horizontal line, by horizontal box, until the ‘high resolution’ photo was presented to you in its entirety. It was a sad time for porn, but it got better, and it was certainly better than the ‘hustler mags’ my dad had grown up with- showing me them at the first time when I was 13, and I thought to myself, ‘Dad, I’ve seen better’. But this was the beginning of an era for me and for my internet generation. A group of co-workers I had once had all discovered ourselves to be right handed, except when we masturbated- this ambidextrousness reserved for a new generation of porno-aficianados. I don’t think I use a mouse anymore nor a desktop computer, but when I jerk off on something or someone, I do it with my left hand.

It got better, the porn, and I became more adventurous, as the internet pornography, matured with me. My first designation of interest was ‘teens’ (when I was still one myself), then it became ‘facials’ and I soon discovered a way to access a ‘facials’- specific site- also teens or young women, only giving head but with cum on their faces at the finish, this being, the grand finale. Still photos, and they still took for-ev-er to load.

Later I was told that there was transgression to this ‘facials’ category of porn, which is why men enjoy it so much- but I’d never really thought about it that way- it just seemed a logical termination- no one questions the splattering on a Pollack..

Then, the 56k modem came out, and what a miracle, and then cable, and DSL, and whatever the hell else- I didn’t care, it meant porn ran faster, and that gave way to not only faster loading of gorgeous, high resolution photos of beautiful, beautiful women, undeniably so; women with semen on their faces. But videos, most importantly! Fantasies more vivid than ever, and done by amateurs, so often times, they were much more creatively done- and still are at times more than any studio can mimic. And these days, there were also a lot more girls to select. My tastes changed, and as I became more complicated, so did the fabric of my fantasies and so did the porn that I searched for in the middle of the night, sometimes with my pants around my ankles, after my parents and brother had gone to sleep- it was harder to accomplish with the latter.

I was enthralled, I spent my nearly sleepless nights, but I never slept much as a rule, before going to school, which I hated, surfing for porn, from about 3 am to 6 am. Now, I was interested in other things like staying up and watching movies on television to escape reality half the night or listening to punk rock. But a fair amount of this time, I spent excited for the world of pornography ahead of me, in a darkened room, in the middle of the night, the fantasies becoming more and more elaborate, and I was, like I said- adventurous. That never changed.

Around this time at school, 14-17, I wasn’t doing so well with women, but this wasn’t the greatest detriment to my existence- but this became, my fault.

Now, I described how the development of the Internet itself was slow- going (extremely rapid in terms of how other technology had progressed- but my generation even, learned how to be spoiled) and it had not yet quite adapted, as its still not quite there, to the human beings using it. The features amended to the Internet and to computers considered inherent today weren’t developed yet and neither was the family computer and its ‘browsing history’ which told of the benchmarks from scores of porn sites. I wasn’t stupid about it, I deleted the history, went in and dissected the ‘cookies’ from the other *.NLL files? that I didn’t understand the use of, trashed all those IMG-0896, and subsequent numbered files on the Start Panel, after I had physically cleaned up, and finally, emptied the goddamn Recycle Bin! Evidence, leave my goddamn “family” computer! It was a lengthy and delicate process and one need perform this custodial task every time he closed the portal to the evocative world of fantasy.

Some images or some browsing history website, a miscopied ‘.html link’, perhaps, had gotten by my careful and now experienced computer cleaning and my mother let me know about it. “That’s disgusting!”, “That’s not what real men and women do.”, “That’s not love!” And Mom, I hate to tell you, but “No. It’s not- or if it is, that’s what’s great about it..”, “Yes, it.. really is.”, “And not always, but it can be.” On the latter point, a lot of these porn sites now and generally, the ones that interest me the most today, are the more-or-less real women, often with their boyfriends- who they may or may not love, carrying out the most elaborate fetishes asked of them- often by their members. And anyone who stumbles on their site can see a sneak preview of any millions (or at least, thousands) of sample sites that will feature your sexy, LittleMissWhatever whatever your fetish-sickened, lovesick heart desires to ail it- vividly, accurately, and quite correctly- the only thing missing of course- you.

But my mom, wasn’t concerned about me, she wasn’t in this aspect. She was worried about how it reflected on her if she had a pervert for a son. By her and still, by this boring, homologous society’s definition, I am.

Still sexually squeamish, as it is, after all these years, even after pornography found its way into popular culture- I wasn’t so sure anymore, at least where I live, that to give a facial or get a facial for that matter, was that big a deal anymore. But it can be made into one- by the old fashioned “idealism” of society and especially when I found so many of the wrong type of girl- as a product of this.

And I think it started with my second girlfriend- and what a fool I was to have cut it off with the first one. I had to drive a fair deal out of my way into Newark Valley, no that’s not in Jersey, but in the middle of nowhere in a far flung suburb of Binghamton, in order to pick her up, and I had to drive her all the way back in time for curfew. She offered me money, made me chocolate chip cookies- I still haven’t happened often upon a girl, who takes that much time out to find what I’m interested in and appeals to my good nature- If I’m not kidding myself that I possess such a quality- to do such a thing. Did I mention, though I went up to her and was looking her way the entire night, she was the one to ask, did I want her number? A thousand praises. I was self-conscious though, she wanted to take it further, and I think there was something learned in me that felt that this was beyond the realm of what a girl could have wanted. Alas, she introduced me partly to physical sexuality, at least, with another person, though she was pretty inexperienced herself. Whenever I deep-mouth kissed a girl, anytime before she’d put her cold hand down my pants, I knew there was more, but I hadn’t quite grasped the connection between the two yet. I got an erection, but I hadn’t linked that to my brain, beyond sexual fantasy. I jerked off thinking about a-lot of girls in high school- but never did it turn to anymore than fictitious sex. Oh, and guess what, I think it was wholly out of a little thing called, guilt. And though, I wanted to and she wanted to- she told me on the phone once- she wanted me to be her first. Her dad even liked me, I remember, because I wasn’t an idiot- and as I remember, neither was he- her mom was the one to try to brainwash her and the rest of the family with church.

I don’t do it. How could I? I didn’t love her and I knew it. That was the requirement for sex. We had nothing in common, I hated that she liked Weezer, although had never been exposed to better music like Queens of the Stone Age – and this was in 2003. What I thought that I’d wanted was a cool-girl, already in the know, listened to underground music, was attune to the D.I.Y. punk scene, and had doused her brain with post-feminist hogwash. God, I was wrong. And so I ended it, after the Spring semi-formal dance that she and I dressed up for, my classmates finally noticing how gorgeous my girlfriends actually could be, in my car, in front of her long country driveway with her crying away her gobs of mascara running down her cheeks, remarking.

“But, I sucked your dick!..”

That she did, and what I also presumed uncharacteristic outside of pornography, was that she actually enjoyed it. She’d asserted it to me right after that she’d do it again, and many times after that, as much as I liked. But I was set on a different ideal- in other words, I probably didn’t know what I wanted.

I loved and resented my next girlfriend from the very start. First of all, she had shorter hair; second of all, she had a boy’s name – but spelled it differently, artistically as it were – named after an art teacher her mom had. I was apologizing even before my brother got to know her. Because, he also pulled that judgmental bullshit on me. Hey, I don’t like her hair or name either, but she’s really cool – and smart, and creative. She received far better grades than I had and was an integral, and later, very boring, repetitive face in the local punk rock scene. I was so glad I fucked her friend a year or so after we broke up, the one who I lusted after during the whole time we dated. But the girl I lusted after, wasn’t this dichotomy of nice for mommy, creative, intelligent, and then, involved and into punk. And I’m not sure that girl was entirely interested in me while I was subjected to the wholesome love life I shared with my boy-named girlfriend.

My girlfriend, I came to learn, as ‘punk’ as she was, wasn’t incredibly confident – and certainly very conflicted. I was too. But much more than me, she catered to what mommy and daddy had wanted, all the while fucking up by making friends and then fucking them in the local punk rock scene. When it came down to it the wholesome girl façade prevailed, my parents were divorced too, hers weren’t – incredibly wholesome. Her teachers loved her. I, by contrast came in nearly five hours after classes had started many afternoons as a senior and they would mark off that I was late again. But she was a teacher’s fucking pet among other things and she went to this really disgustingly liberal high school, where she had the benefit of calling all her teachers by their first names. Fuck you, my administrators all assumed we were porting weapons. I found out later she needed to feel well liked by just about everyone she came in contact with, that was, everyone but me.

One fateful night it came, and I feel stupid about it because the history entailed is somewhat moronic in matter, and I had known I liked this all through high school, and probably before that, I had discovered a tight fitting, white, small sleeved, and glossy blue image on the chest, t-shirt in her closet. It was cold to the touch and when she’d left it in her basement room and its sheen design made me wild with excitement. Furthermore, it showed her naval, just barely, her midriff – and it gave me such extreme arousal. I was told how this was odd and degrading by a number of girls after that, starting with her, but all of the same type.

On her own, she’d buy frumpy band t-shirts that were too big, and they’d had nothing besides a men’s small when they’d come to town and she would need to represent the band – the greater cause, you know. That went along with her, what’s been called a ‘post-feminist’ viewpoint by a friend. The bands weren’t ever any good – don’t worry.

The t-shirt became requested by me, and even a staple in her coming over. She complied sometimes, but would never surprised me and adhere to the request on her own. And we did go out shopping once to the Syracuse mall and we stopped by a popular store that displayed graphic t-shirts. There happened to be one there, that was fitted, I wouldn’t say necessarily of constricting tightness, but it was sexy and it was sexy as it formed to her cute little body, when she tried it on. It was either the store it came from or her not so immoderate discomfort from being made to wear this shirt I requested. I would have only asked that she wear for me in privacy. So when we got home, we could get together and I could fulfill my sexual fetish with her. She wouldn’t buy it. It made her uncomfortable and I respected that. Did I feel a heartfelt sense of disappointment? I did. I had gotten so excited about it. But, did it matter? Not much. I think the idea was, she’s a female, I’m a male, I should be happy to be with her no matter what. And I’m sure that worked with a lot of the boys in the local punk rock scene, she was the only girl they saw – and she in turn got involved with a lot of losers – that I still will say, were far below what she were capable of. Did this also bother me, because she still kept in close contact with every one of them? Yes. But what the fuck, this is a small, horrible town in Upstate New York we’re talking about – where any worthwhile, think-outside-the-box type of girl was always slim pickings – I’m trying to not let it bother me anymore.

The inevitable happened. She continued to buy frumpy, disposable clothes, nothing sexy, she was an intellect, remember… and I continued to ask her to bring over what became known as “the Oasis shirt” though I knew how much it bothered her. Finally, she became really exasperated by it, it was by now apparent that her disinterest in me and that which persisted, her “punk rock scene” that she kept in regular contact with, was still most important. It lay on the bed next to her body, she demanded the knowledge,

“Do you want me? Or the t-shirt!?”

Oh, my God, fuck you. There was some sort of curse that followed me afterward – that I’m sure had much to do with my guilt and self-confidence, but also with the conflicted generation of girls I dated who needed to feel in control, who I still wanted to be respectful and accommodating to, as was taught to me. It’s what popular movies show, (damn that guy, I’d never do that to her!) it’s what my mother had taught me, it’s what this politically correct-bent society had told and skewed for me my whole life. If you’re nice to girls, my mom said, they’ll do anything for you – untrue, they didn’t and not without making me feel really, really, fucking guilty sometimes.

Under the cover of night, I hooked up with a friend of mine once. I never should have and it was admittedly my fault, no one deserves that, but it happens. She was younger and naïve, though, very smart, and had been through a lot of shit for being the black sheep in her otherwise upstanding Long Island, conservative family, although I bet she received the best grades – but, her sisters were really beautiful and she’d contracted the short gene. I knew she was self-conscious getting into it, but several beers and a dark desire to degrade – or being pissed off about I couldn’t connect with the girls I had wanted, I pursued it.

I’m not saying I’m perfect, or this misunderstood nice guy, you’ll never meet. I have done things and many times regretted them – a product of my poor luck with girls, although, my asking her to wear this black, tight, 80’s t-shirt that I furtively purchased on my own at a vintage clothing store in the East Village, with a Snoopy cartoon character on the breasts and silver flaky letters which read “ROBERTA” underneath, was not one of them. It made her large bust really stand out and flatter her. A girl, and this one especially, certainly needs to know how incredibly sexy and shapely she is. But she was seeking out philosophically deep, world, and culturally defining significance to complex formulae that just weren’t there. Who was this Roberta? Why is he making me wear this t-shirt? Is there something wrong with my body he’s trying to cover up? Does he not approve of my breasts or beauty? Is it my nose? She had the courage to ask only the first question and my response was true the first time I’d responded. “Nobody.” I just liked the t-shirt, I found it’s fit and stupid design on the front, along with the flaky foil moniker, sexually exciting. I don’t think I ever knew a Roberta. I did not have some sexual fantasy revolving around a do-all, be-all, spout of Venus, named Roberta – who I once showed affection for, but was rejected by – that perfect lost love.

Wait, I do, all except that she hasn’t rejected me yet, nor do I believe in lost-love, but she certainly would not have in my most ardent, chaotic desires have ever been named, Roberta. And hey, I reasoned with her, I know it’s sorta stupid, but we are alone and its making me really hard. All the while, she’s wearing, but clawing at it, destroying it, peeling the silver foil letters off that leave their impression despite her efforts to erase the “slutty” ghost from the room.

So, the logical assumption is that I’ve been picking the wrong women. And that may well be true, and I’ve taken into account my fault in that. Although, I’ve also hinted that there is something still very static and terribly conservative in our society that arrests even young women. My mom’s dismissal of every profession in which women are paid for using their powers of form, persuasion, and sex – when it often pays for college, apartments, and in some cases houses-of-their-own, is so degradingly ingrained in many women that it’s hard to know whether or not its innate. I don’t think that is. But then, I also don’t believe women are nearly as sexual as men. Call it a product of my upbringing, call it chauvinist, call it plain male ignorance. I just don’t know the answer to whether it’s true or not – I’d like it to not be. I’ve always wished, what a partnership it would be if I could meet a confident girl, strong, sexy, independent who were willing, pleased to satisfy and even excited by my whims – fetishes and otherwise. I’d like to hear hers too. Instead, I hear about how I objectify women.

Isn’t that the sound of the choir in the bar, where the guys hang out, at the basketball game, playing tackle football; their time away from their wives, when they’re allowed to have it. She cares about family, if he’s been being a good father to the children she bore for him, financial stability, mortgage payments, if he’s going to his job. After all, she sat prostrate in an uneventful position with her legs open and a sheet hopefully, over her head so she did not have to view the horror of the penis. Oh yes, my mom commented to me once, how she believed, “the penis to be an ugly organ”. But as a woman, you know, you have to put up with it – tolerate the monstrous thing inside of you, while you make babies. That’s it.

She, the wife, is adamantly opposed to the wearing of form-fitting, nearly constricting pairs of black, high-gloss latex stockings with shiny, high-heeled boots with spikes all over the stiletto and box heels, making a porcelain white, shapely woman’s thighs accentuated just above the cut of the stocking. There’s the tactile sensation once again, the look, the feeling I’d like to imagine she experiences. And has probably much to do with my belief that this ideal in latex stockings and boots, is badass, confident, independent, and even particularly intelligent and absolutely nothing to do with the fictitious category of a slut. I never liked the word – and any man who has ever subscribed to this theory of, “she’s the type of girl you’d want to fuck, but not bring her home to mom.” I would have immediately discounted that, already. Like a bully, who kicks sand in the face of the kids already subjected to the most cultural adversity. So, I don’t doubt that there’s that, and still a good deal of it in this moronic society still bent on religious zeal, family structure, or what-the-fuck-ever, but I think it’s time to ditch the traditional codependence that just makes everyone miserable. He’s out fucking some young girl or sex worker, and thank God, because she’s terrible frigid in bed. She never needed to be, remember, she was sought out by the man, not the other way around. I never had a problem with that. But guess what girls, some men actually like being pursued too. I’ve thought it showed great character every time it’s happened – on the rare occasions that it has.

A friend of mine recently complimented me on how I was unlike every other straight man he knows. Funny, I don’t feel different. I feel quite a bit, I’m passionate, creative, and it’s part of my personality. These scenarios I create in my head, or search for on the Internet, are part of who I am, and I won’t let some batshit conservative old maid, or old maid at heart- take all the fun out of it – as it really should be that, fun! And if you have a partner, one of these wonderfully self-assured women who break the boundaries of sexual and societal confinement, you should be able to think about her all day. The romantic notion of one woman, one man is still very attractive to me, whether deep down I really believe it possible for myself, or not. But in any case, I think a heterosexual man should share some string of communication with his partner and not rely on homo-social relationships, as important as those are, to mask or “correct” his sexual fetishes, when all he should be concerned about is that he has some hole to receive his “ugly” member. I deserve, like those silly women’s magazines state for women, that s/he should love everything about me, completely. Well you better love my beautiful dick, like being fucked by it, and not snap back when I ejaculate on your face – or I won’t ever love you. I’m joking, a bit.

I’d like to say I’ve discovered a solution to all this, I haven’t, but I’ve certainly gotten better about not putting myself into denigrating situations. A week or so ago, a friend of mine introduced me to her more than willing and happy-to-meet me girl-friend. I resisted, nice enough – but not nearly dressed as well as their mutual friend who was meanwhile indisposed with speaking to some loser. But that’s of course not the one I was introduced to- I am almost positive the girl I was introduced to was one of these conflicted girl s- I talked about and part of my problem is going for them because they’re easy – they go for me – put some effort in. Unfortunately, most of the girls I want to fuck – if nothing else have a hard time with communication skills – because they’re unlike her – the willing girl who has had practice going for guys – and is perhaps weaker because she’s seeking the comfort and its apparent from her mannerisms. She might question wearing a t-shirt for me – she’s not secure enough in herself to dress like her friends, which are a lot sexier. Anyways, I insisted on talking to the other girl of course, but found it very difficult to make a connection, because she has nothing to say? I guess this is what most men go through, alright, I’ll never be fine with any of it.

But one thing’s for sure, those easy-to-get-to girls have sometimes come with a price that I guess descended from the same seed as my mother. Insecure and therefore, controlling, and conflicted by the society that tells them to be mothers. The type of girl I am talking about is quite free with the words “slut” or “whore” to describe those she is envious of – she wants to be talked to just as much but does not understand it. Hah, thinking about it, both of these are poor scenarios, the willing and conflicted girl I am already tired with, or the girl with nothing to say, because she’s inexperienced with ever having to hold a conversation – just dressing up; also most likely, conflicted. I’d still go with the latter and if I figured out how to do that, carry on a one-sided conversation and ignore her ignorance on any subject not in some kind of public consciousness or fad-public consciousness, she’d be lost – and I am sure I would be tired of her soon after too.