Porn in the Puddle (Rated R-)
Don’t ask me why (because then I would have to kill you), but today I was thinking about my first exposure to pornography. I know, I know, you’re all gasping, grabbing for your rosaries and thinking, “Oh my heck! Motherhussy has viewed naked people? People that are naked?” Yes, it is true. I no longer have the squeaky clean, bright round eyes of a porn virgin. [Hangs head, full of shame]My eyes have actually been virginless for years, and in those years my filthy-for-quite-some-time eyes have witnessed all sorts of naked people parts—a Lever 2000 amount, if you will. Now, don’t misunderstand me. Just because I’ve seen porn, doesn’t mean I’ve searched it out, downloaded it onto my computer, drawn the shades, and had a “tender moment” with it—my porn viewing has been inadvertent. Party patrons with poor taste, pop-ups, Las Vegas peddlers, public library leftovers—I am but a victim of circumstance! Innocent until proven guilty, I am. Years of inadvertant porn, and to think it all began at the tender age of…oh, seven or eight years old. I remember the first day I laid my eyes on human filth, smut, erotic art, or as others may refer to it, a two-dimensional lover…
It was elementary school—Rolling Meadows circa 1986. It had been raining and I was relieved to find out that the rain had stopped by the time school was over, since I had forgotten my Holly Hobbie umbrella that day. The playground black top was wet with rain and sparkled like broken glass on charred concrete. I loved the smell the rain left; it was a mixture of damp earth and hydrated foliage—with a dash of wet fur, a virtual nature cocktail! I drank it all in. For a child, there’s no greater reward than being outside after a day of stuffy indoors. I was out, I was happy, I was innocence in action! Until it happened.
There were puddles everywhere, and like metal to a magnet my foot was drawn to those small pools of grounded rain. Splosh! I would land a foot in one puddle and savor the result, a cold explosion of upwards water. On to the next—splish!...Splash!...Splosh!...Splush!...Splush? My foot came down in a puddle, but instead of the crisp sound of foot breaking water, there was a slight sucking sound like soggy paper stuck on a shoe. It was soggy paper stuck on a shoe. My shoe. What could this paper be? I wondered to myself. I had images of a love note, accidentally discarded (how scandalous!)—or better yet—secret blueprints to the school (how exciting!). As I peeled back the paper, I was confused. The paper was a magazine page, and on it was a woman, bare naked and spread eagle. She had a look of pain on her face (at least what I thought was pain). Her hair was long and wild, but it didn’t cover her exposed breasts. Her hands were holding something, but I didn’t look long enough to find out exactly what it was. Maybe it was because the paper was soaked with rain water, but the whole page had a dark hue to it. It was scary. I immediately threw the soggy paper back in the puddle from whence it came. What was that? What had I just been holding in my soft little hands? For some reason I felt like I was going to get in trouble for looking at it, even though I still wasn’t sure exactly what the picture was all about.
I mulled over the image on my walk home, and decided it must be something for men. Men like naked women, right? (I didn’t learn about homosexuality until I was 12) Even at that age I knew that much—but the naked women I referenced to were more like Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus” or Picasso’s “Nude Descending a Staircase”. I didn’t imagine men liked painful nakedness. I ended up keeping the discovery to myself, and as years passed the image of the woman faded, but not completely. As I got older, I don’t remember exactly when, I realized what the picture was all about—and it wasn’t scary anymore. Perplexing, yes—scary, no.
Today, there is plenty of scary porn around—and I’m actually relieved that my first exposure to it was gentle in comparison. Who knows how I may have ended up if I had been exposed to transgender S&M or adult diaper fetishes at the tender age of eight? For all I know, I could have grown up—changed my name to "Christina the Crusher" and become a foot fetish superstar! What fun I would have had stomping various food items in my red, four-inch spiked Jimmy Choo heels. Maybe I missed out—we’ll never know.
So there you have it. No longer am I the naïve child who once thought that porn stars were in pain. I have since grown up, witnessed more porn than I would have liked, and now I know that porn stars don’t cause pain--people cause pain. People in red, four-inch spiked Jimmy Choos.
*Oh Lordie! I can’t wait for all the hits my site is going to because of this title. Yes, it was a selfish act to drive up viewers, I know.
posted by Anonymous @ 4:21 PM
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