Things I omitted from my autobiography. Episode 1.
So I've heard quite a bit recently about the general dislike of my porn destruct videos.
"What the fuck r u doin that for?"
"u some sort of feminist?"
"i wud fuck u all the way up if i cud find u"
These are some of the comments people might send to me if they thought I was worth even talking to, probably.
Soooo.... yeahhhhh.... that thing.... that I doooo...
No, I don't know how to explain why I feel compelled to do it. But through the power of story telling maybe I can at least try to detail why I believe I came to feel this way about it. Let's start with Episode 1.
Hobby.
noun, plural hobbies.
1. an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation
A few years ago I was busying myself with this dictionary definition of the word hobby. I felt it was missing something. It lacks the concept that the activity or interest must be legal and is required to be socially acceptable. 'They' won't permit one to call a hobby something that is not legal. One cannot have a hobby of mugging people or drawing cocks on people's windows. These don't get called a hobby, they get another names, like 'crime' or 'nuisance'. This I found intriguing as I did have hobbies such as video games, astronomy and beekeeping. Over the years hobbies come and go but the one thing they have in common is that they get called a hobby. Yet none of these activities have occupied my thoughts, attention to detail and devotion as much as I have sunk into "The acquisition, discovery and appreciation of pornographic magazines on all subjects throughout the ages". Certainly nothing else on this earth including housing has come even close to the colossal amount of money I have spent on the subject.
My earliest memories include the discovery of paper porn, from a time before I could even read properly. At that time and for years beyond I had no idea what these magazines were, but I did know I absolutely loved them. Testimony from my mother was that I started humping pillows at the age of two and this was quite the conversation stopper. Regardless of what the nanny state portrays about our early development, I was itching for action from the moment my hand could reach my dick and I have yet to regret or feel in any way bad about my disposition, everything is working how Darwin intended it.
My father built train engines, at work he built deltics and at home he built steam engines. The attic was a workshop, a total mess, filled with strewn tools, metal and blueprints. The place was lethal, everything was sharp, gnarled and had no safe place to be stored. Yet I was encouraged to 'help' build things and to spend all my time up there 'practising'. Father worked upwards of 12 hours each day at the train yard and I spent countless days alone up there, I cannot have been any older than four, but my era was better than your era, so that's that cleared up.
Beneath the main workbench was a particular mess of exceptionally heavy things and I couldn't move them. On one particular day I noticed a large box way back there. I couldn't clear a path to it, but I could clamber over everything and reach it. The box was odd, large and made of plate metal upholstered in some fabric, most peculiar. It was oily and difficult to open but it was not locked. Inside I was surprised to find not metal or tools, but magazines. These magazines were nothing to do with metal or trains, they were about women, women that had no clothes for some reason.
Emma from along the road was about my age and I had spent a lot of time with her. I was aware she and I were different down there but I didn't know why and saw no reason to care. I knew my mother was different but again the differences seemed largely irrelevant. The women in these magazines were also different to me, but in this case, the difference made perfect sense. Instinct was right there, they were like Emma only grown up and of some actual purpose. They were grown up like my mother but clearly in a manner that was available, unlike my mother.
This is the point that social justice warriors and health care workers would likely refer to as the moment at which I became a damaged person. But I disagree, this was the moment that suddenly everything I liked doing to myself made a lot more sense. I wanted to be with these pictures of women for some reason, I didn't know the reason but I was absolutely drawn to them. I pulled some magazines out from the dark underbench and made a pile of them in the middle of the floor. I positioned myself over the pile and humped it while reading more magazines. This was the most incredible feeling I had so far ever had and it made so much sense, I had found something worth doing in my life.
It was clear from the position of the box and the fact that I had seen nothing like this before that whatever was going on here was unusual and somehow secretive and so I treated it as such. For years that box became my favourite toy. As I grew I moved on from humping pillows and piles of porn mags to humping chairs covered in porn mags. It felt much better for me to hump furniture than use my hands. So over the chair I would place a magazine or two so that I had my dick as close to some girl pictures as possible while I looked at others. I can't even guess how many times I dragged that box out but since Father vanished near a decade later and took his box with him, yeah, hundreds, maybe thousands. Dry humping porn mags is absolutely where I started.
Over these years I started noticing these sorts of magazines in shops far out of my reach but I knew what would be inside them. I would often find myself caught fast just staring at the shelf wishing I could see the girl on the cover with her legs wide open. Yet still I had absolutely no idea why I was so lured. I was sure that Emma could not be of any use in this department because, clearly, she was not a magazine. Nobody was a magazine, I was on my own. So clueless I was I actually thought the very point to it all was that they were pictures of women and that none of the girls and women I would see around were even the same sorts of creature as the ones that were in the magazines. The ones in the pictures were the elite, the select few, the best of the best, chosen to represent that which cannot be expressed in words, they had to be in pictures.
Episode 2: will follow soon(tm)
"What the fuck r u doin that for?"
"u some sort of feminist?"
"i wud fuck u all the way up if i cud find u"
These are some of the comments people might send to me if they thought I was worth even talking to, probably.
Soooo.... yeahhhhh.... that thing.... that I doooo...
No, I don't know how to explain why I feel compelled to do it. But through the power of story telling maybe I can at least try to detail why I believe I came to feel this way about it. Let's start with Episode 1.
Hobby.
noun, plural hobbies.
1. an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation
A few years ago I was busying myself with this dictionary definition of the word hobby. I felt it was missing something. It lacks the concept that the activity or interest must be legal and is required to be socially acceptable. 'They' won't permit one to call a hobby something that is not legal. One cannot have a hobby of mugging people or drawing cocks on people's windows. These don't get called a hobby, they get another names, like 'crime' or 'nuisance'. This I found intriguing as I did have hobbies such as video games, astronomy and beekeeping. Over the years hobbies come and go but the one thing they have in common is that they get called a hobby. Yet none of these activities have occupied my thoughts, attention to detail and devotion as much as I have sunk into "The acquisition, discovery and appreciation of pornographic magazines on all subjects throughout the ages". Certainly nothing else on this earth including housing has come even close to the colossal amount of money I have spent on the subject.
My earliest memories include the discovery of paper porn, from a time before I could even read properly. At that time and for years beyond I had no idea what these magazines were, but I did know I absolutely loved them. Testimony from my mother was that I started humping pillows at the age of two and this was quite the conversation stopper. Regardless of what the nanny state portrays about our early development, I was itching for action from the moment my hand could reach my dick and I have yet to regret or feel in any way bad about my disposition, everything is working how Darwin intended it.
My father built train engines, at work he built deltics and at home he built steam engines. The attic was a workshop, a total mess, filled with strewn tools, metal and blueprints. The place was lethal, everything was sharp, gnarled and had no safe place to be stored. Yet I was encouraged to 'help' build things and to spend all my time up there 'practising'. Father worked upwards of 12 hours each day at the train yard and I spent countless days alone up there, I cannot have been any older than four, but my era was better than your era, so that's that cleared up.
Beneath the main workbench was a particular mess of exceptionally heavy things and I couldn't move them. On one particular day I noticed a large box way back there. I couldn't clear a path to it, but I could clamber over everything and reach it. The box was odd, large and made of plate metal upholstered in some fabric, most peculiar. It was oily and difficult to open but it was not locked. Inside I was surprised to find not metal or tools, but magazines. These magazines were nothing to do with metal or trains, they were about women, women that had no clothes for some reason.
Emma from along the road was about my age and I had spent a lot of time with her. I was aware she and I were different down there but I didn't know why and saw no reason to care. I knew my mother was different but again the differences seemed largely irrelevant. The women in these magazines were also different to me, but in this case, the difference made perfect sense. Instinct was right there, they were like Emma only grown up and of some actual purpose. They were grown up like my mother but clearly in a manner that was available, unlike my mother.
This is the point that social justice warriors and health care workers would likely refer to as the moment at which I became a damaged person. But I disagree, this was the moment that suddenly everything I liked doing to myself made a lot more sense. I wanted to be with these pictures of women for some reason, I didn't know the reason but I was absolutely drawn to them. I pulled some magazines out from the dark underbench and made a pile of them in the middle of the floor. I positioned myself over the pile and humped it while reading more magazines. This was the most incredible feeling I had so far ever had and it made so much sense, I had found something worth doing in my life.
It was clear from the position of the box and the fact that I had seen nothing like this before that whatever was going on here was unusual and somehow secretive and so I treated it as such. For years that box became my favourite toy. As I grew I moved on from humping pillows and piles of porn mags to humping chairs covered in porn mags. It felt much better for me to hump furniture than use my hands. So over the chair I would place a magazine or two so that I had my dick as close to some girl pictures as possible while I looked at others. I can't even guess how many times I dragged that box out but since Father vanished near a decade later and took his box with him, yeah, hundreds, maybe thousands. Dry humping porn mags is absolutely where I started.
Over these years I started noticing these sorts of magazines in shops far out of my reach but I knew what would be inside them. I would often find myself caught fast just staring at the shelf wishing I could see the girl on the cover with her legs wide open. Yet still I had absolutely no idea why I was so lured. I was sure that Emma could not be of any use in this department because, clearly, she was not a magazine. Nobody was a magazine, I was on my own. So clueless I was I actually thought the very point to it all was that they were pictures of women and that none of the girls and women I would see around were even the same sorts of creature as the ones that were in the magazines. The ones in the pictures were the elite, the select few, the best of the best, chosen to represent that which cannot be expressed in words, they had to be in pictures.
Episode 2: will follow soon(tm)
3 years ago