My Duplicitous Love of Porn

zara's picture

Duplicitous (adjective): "Given to or marked by deliberate deceptiveness in behavior or speech."

I realized a couple of things recently about myself and my writing. I tend to mentally Xerox patterns of speech without much given thought. I also have a strangely diverse vocabulary.

When I'm reading a novel or any other portion of text, my brain translates certain words that I don't regularly use in my own vernacular as if I were transitioning them from a foreign language into English. I know the words, I just have to flex the muscle to remember their exact meanings.

Sometimes, when I'm reading something online and am indulging in my own laziness, I'll look them up for definitions. Most of the time I'll stop to consider the word within the context of the passage and just grasp onto it like the tip of my tongue reaching the climax that so many people blather on about.

I received an email from a reader who complained that I tried "too hard to sound smart all the time." Since I am instructed not to reciprocate most correspondences, I simply thought to myself that this person didn't try hard enough to think half the time.

I'm branching off subject. Duplicity is what is on my mind in the afternoons. It's the time that I try to fit in as much social networking catch-up that I need to play since I don't have access to a computer during my day job anymore. I answer emails when I'd rather be masturbating. I leave birthday wishes when I'd rather be typing "big tits" and "blowjob" into a search engine on one of the many free porn sites I've hunted down over the years.

When I was about 12 years old, a friend down the street whipped a black rectangular box of plastic from behind his back and announced that he'd found his brother's "stash." He asked if I wanted to watch it with him. And while my mother had described in detail the answers to every sex question I'd had since I was about 8 years old, I was still naive about the reality of sexual relations.

I watched that grainy VHS tape with a stern eye. I tilted my head and studied the woman in the film using her mouth on a man's penis like it was a 25 cent Popsicle bought from the ice cream man. I fell in love with porn in many ways that afternoon.

I was not propositioned then, although I'm certain I was just too ignorant of any fumbling cues I might have been expected to catch on to. It would be a couple of years and many afternoons of racing home to carefully rifle through my dad's stash of porn, labeled in the same OCD manner than he used for his LP and CD collections (alphabetically by title) and recorded mixed tapes (numerically based on date recorded), before I would ask to act out anything that I'd been rigorously perusing.

More amusing to most people is that it would be almost 4 years more until I masturbated. I preferred to be the dominate person in a liaison and I had no concern over dominating myself. There was far too much to be gained from controlling another person through technique and persistence than bothering with my own equipment.

I still have that pre-teen mentality. I want to rush home from work and watch porn. The internet makes it all too real and even tedious in its accessibility. I miss my teen years because there was so much to be gotten away with. So many rules to potentially break. So many opportunities to fly high on the thrill of being caught in the act.

I recall once getting one of my dad's video tapes stuck in the piece of shit VCR that we owned and needing to carefully pry it out, navigating a pencil into the opening to unravel the black ribbon that was snagged inside. All while knowing that my mother would be back from the grocery store with my sisters any minute. An X-rated Mission Impossible faux pas.

Being sneaky is a hobby no longer afforded to me as an adult. There is no need for it now, with no age restrictions in place and no angry ex stomping around the house like a toddler, demanding reason and explanation for why sexual relations with him alone were not enough for me. My current boyfriend has no jealousy toward the uninhibited people on the computer monitor. There is no speed limit on his freeway of tolerance for my love of porn.

When I went through the Ice Age of no internet and my destroyed stash laying in ruins for some curious teenager to happen about in the dumpster where my ex evacuated my carnal hobby, the world had started to change. Jenna Jameson was new on the scene and Janine Lindemulder became the poster girl for my accidentally uncanceled subscription to Penthouse. Porn started its brief interlude with cultural acceptability, even if I wasn't allowed to spank to it.

I rented documentaries and watched "Real Sex" on HBO for catharsis. I found interviews with triple-X girls in the pages of my mainstream magazines and marveled over Jameson's talent with the stock market.

I mistakenly made some of my favorite stars "real" people. I have email chats with an online friend who is a costume designer for one of the major adult film labels. I have seen the nitty and gritty titties and they're not always as alluring as they used to be. Granted, there is always a new cache of unfamiliar faces to look at and in the end, the face is never as important to look at as the insertion point. But the point is that I doomed my own hobby to a minuscule pigeonhole.

So here I am in my duplicitous pile of afternoon confusion. Ignore the inbox, send the kid to her room for indeterminable adult reasons and lock the bedroom door to quietly bust a female nut? I have the gadgets with which to accomplish this feat with efficiency. And there are afternoons where sticking the landing to this maneuver has not been outside of my reality.

Being in a committed relationship has more benefits than drawbacks. It just so happens that one of the drawbacks is a punishment of my own mind. Having someone know your comings (pun intended) and goings and be blase about it doesn't always mesh well with the only need I have greater than that of sexual release.

It always feels so much better when you feel as if you're getting away with something.

And try as I might that feeling, in its innocent incarnation, is gone. Which is such a damn bummer.

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