Sunday, March 15, 2015

The Change in Me

When I was ten I stole a few dirty magazines from my father’s closet. I found copies of Hustler, Penthouse, High Society, Playboy, Juggs, and Mayfair neatly stacked inside the unlocked cubbyhole. I picked up a Hustler, with a picture of a voluptuous woman wearing only suspenders and started leafing through it. After looking at a few pages, I took half of the stash and brought them inside my room. I don’t know whether I was already bound to like brunettes (and Asian women) with huge tits, but, as it turns out, I do.

   As the days went on, I started to realize why other people were addicted to these publications. I learned about the babysitters of Fort Knox, the wraparound and other crazy sex positions, the communist sex spies, Prince's wild fantasies, Hitler's shocking sex life, and the hidden hookers of Capitol Hill. I also found out that the Pope had a thing for Valley girls; women in the 80s wore high heels and bow ties to bed; and Manila was the sin capital of the world.

   As I got older, my fascination with nude images, pornographic videos, and erotic novels grew stronger. During my college years, as porn became more accessible via the Internet, I found myself drawn to weirder stuff. If Real Swingers and My Hot Stepmother were kinky the other day, then I'd need something more twisted today.
 
   Five years ago, when I got married, I stopped actively watching and reading porn. But some nights, after my wife had gone to bed, I surfed the Internet for dirty stuff. I never considered myself addicted to X-rated materials but I spent countless nights wanking the life out of my dick to pictures and videos of luscious porn stars.

   Last month, I returned to my childhood home in Laguna and spent an entire day helping my parents clean the house. My father's "porn closet" was still there but a lot of those dirty magazines were gone. His room was a total mess with empty liquor bottles everywhere and a filthy ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts sitting on top of the small table. 

   I found stacks of old Polaroid photos and paperbacks, a broken toaster, an improvised shotgun, five Ping-Pong paddles, a very old hookah, piles of dusty VHS and cassette tapes, a 50-year-old sewing machine that didn't work, and a shattered transistor radio. There were a couple of Playboys, some Mayfair, Penthouse and Juggs, but I wondered what happened to all those Hustlers. I swept the floor, cleared all the clutter, and put the obvious junk inside a trash bag…including the magazines.

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