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Robert Louis Stevenson will forever be an erotic novelist in my mind.
My hormones were a freight train, and I tried to keep up.
When friends invited me out, I often made excuses, preferring the ease and familiarity of my screens and self-soothing to the pressure of social connection. When dial-up was replaced with broadband, porn was even more immediate. There was always time and a clip I hadn’t yet seen. I could be in a great mood, a foul mood, angry, sad, bored — whatever was going on, I knew I could top it. What mattered is that I was getting off on their — real or imaginary — pain and subjugation.
Nothing in my hush-hush Catholic upbringing and innocent friend circle had prepared me for this earthshaking experience, equal parts pleasure and shame.If nobody was talking about porn and masturbation, then certainly I was doing something odd. I knew porn stars by name, bookmarked all my favorite sites and switched up all the ways I got off — fingers, vibrators and, of course, the water faucet for old time’s sake. Then one day, I found myself clicking through gang bangs, but bored by the number of men I saw. After all, that's how I found pleasure — in that bathtub at 12, submerged in fear and confusion and the belief that I was bad — and that’s how it had to remain. And, just as I’d blamed yet glorified my softcore hero Shannon Tweed as a child, the women in various porns were also subject to my ambivalence, and eventually my anger. The act was unsatisfying unless I felt some inkling of shame.I familiarized myself with all the various categories. Six in this one, eight in that one, 10 in the other. I’d wired the neural networks in my brain so well that it had become impossible for me to feel sexually turned on without feeling horrible about it. I wanted them to be punished for their insatiable lust, their vacant eyes, and their tireless, mechanical movements with men, just as I emotionally punished myself for my similar relationship with porn. I often fantasized about men cheating on me, hurting me, using me, just so I could get off.Police said 13-year-old Christina was strangled by a married restaurant worker she met on the Internet. Peter School so students and parents could attend a memorial service and meet with grief counselors."I'm so devastated," former teacher Andrea Cappiello said."She was a very good student and a very good cheerleader.Her body was found early Monday in a remote ravine in Greenwich. She was very spirited, just a doll," said Cappiello, who taught Christina's fifth-grade English and religion classes. Police said the teen-ager routinely had sex with partners she met on the Internet and that she had been with Dos Reis several times, The News-Times of Danbury reported.
In fact, it reminded me a lot of that Margaret Cho bit where she talks about how the men in straight porn are the most repulsive men on the planet, lest straight men get turned on? Apparently they do a routine at some point and then the "Queen" is announced after a frightening beauty pageant event. Or Betsy's dream sequences that tend to feature pom poms made of razor blades (the movie's original title was Bloody Pom Poms)! )Cheerleader Camp really isn't a good movie at all. And even though I picked the culprit from the opening scene, the reveal was still a hoot.