As a pornosexual, I have memories of watershed pornographic experiences. The first time seeing hardcore pornography stands out of course. But there were other moments, many moments, after that one. I like to recall them when I’m edging to my own life-long porn addiction, what in many real senses is my sexual expression and ingestion.
The first time I received a set of three hardcore porn magazines after the first time stands out. Between the first full experience with entire magazines, I had no access, and except for some ripped out pages from others, Sears order catalogues, Nat Geo, etc. I had recently started ejaculating, so I splattered every page of the start of my hardcore collection by the time they were at the bottom of the stack of hidden gooning material.
A fellow classmate had them on him, but felt paranoid about throwing them out or keeping them on or around him. In addition, this was a Christian private school, so there was no small amount of religious guilt compelling him. I could see it in his face, the shame and want at once. I was careful to mask my expression as unreadable. I was more than willing to “dispose” of them, which was my cover for taking them in secret in the bathroom, and tucked them into a binder in my backpack. Both of us knew my cover was just that. We both lusted for this sinful contraband. He left immediately after and I sat down right away and locked myself in a stall. Alone, I quickly skimmed through them and became rock hard. I had a long jacket on so I wasn’t concerned about jerking off right away–to hide my erection on my ride home with the rest of my peers. I was vibrating with lust and the need to edge, masturbate, and then explode. I tried to wait.
My stop was nearly the last, and I nearly always sat in the second to last or last row of seats. As people were dropped off the rear became vacant, except for the remote last-of-us that always sat middle and front. Once enough were gone, I couldn’t resist the urge. Using my large jacket to cover most of what anyone who got up and came back might see, I reached inside my pants and, with an odd sort of reverse-grip, got up to a thrilling, rolling edging session for about twenty to thirty minutes. I blew my load under a minute from my stop. My face was a brighter shade of flushed red when I exited, but nobody would know why. I even made sure to lay sideways and keep out of line of sight from the driver’s mirror. Ever so careful, I satisfied my covert exhibitionist streak and my longing for hardcore porn again. Within an hour of possession. I felt incredible guilt and paranoia when I got into the car for the rest of the drive home. Afraid God would speak into my mother’s mind ans ask what was in my pack. Why would she do this, never ever having done it before? I knew it was unreasonable, but such was my guilt and mortification. When I was home, I hid them as soon as I was in my room–a locked chest.
Later that night, when everyone was in bed, I used a flashlight and warily edged for several hours as I soaked in every page and word. Those magazines fed my addiction, got me through, until I could finally secure better and more reliable ways.
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