Written by: The CinCitizens
Self-love is a sticky subject, to be sure. But when one looks at the progression of what I’ve used as a reflection of the evolution of society and technology, then there’s valuable data here. (So when do I get that government grant?)
In the beginning, age 12 or so, it’s all physiological. Things are discovered, touched, explored. Innocent. Basic. Rudimentary. Fundamental.
But this is short lived. Suddenly, exterior factors weigh in. Lust for the girl next door (actually, two doors down). Imagination is the key here, wondering what she’d look like naked, grooving to that, eyes closed, smiling.
It doesn’t last. I started noticing that everywhere, actual images were in front of me. Cosmopolitan covers, to be specific: scads of big-time cleavage. So I went to my local library branch, grabbed magazines appropriate for me, and crammed a few Cosmos between ‘em. I slinked back to a far table, got the Cosmos out, and flipped to the back where the breast-enlargement ads are. I pulled out scissors and cut away. I put the ads in my pocket and returned the mutilated magazine to the rack. I went home and taped the ads onto the back of my bedroom door. Before too long, I had a door plastered with innumerable breasts but no heads. Just breasts. Then my mom found the collage and asked me “What the hell?” I take them all down, embarrassed. They’d accomplished their purpose, and I found I was moving on, anyway.
Posters! I had two, the famous one of the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, and one of Loni Anderson in a red swimsuit. Loni was pretty hot in her day. Looking up at her, bewitched, I would have done anything for that dame. She did a lot for me. My parents weren’t too bothered with this. Just a normal, everyday boy, right?
Then I ran across skin mags. I got a few Playboys and hid them in my closet. But there was something too pure about those bunnies, though, so eventually I get up the nerve to go into a downtown bookstore and get a copy of Club magazine. I was maybe 14 and the guy didn’t bat an eye—I just gave him my money, and he gave me the goods. Getting home, checking it out, a new world opened to me. There’s two girls going at it! Four tits! Holy crap! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Don’t think I’ve ever studied anything like I studied that spread. Revelatory shit!
So that particular mag covers a lot of ground, a lot of years. But then, here comes videos! My roommate Tom had four or five pornos on tape, New Wave Hookers being the only title I remember. I would watch ‘em when Tom was out, mouth open and amazed: people actually having sex, and me as spectator! I’d seen a few pornos in college, but in an auditorium, with people everywhere, so obviously I couldn’t pull it out. But now, being able to watch this stuff in private, it’s a wonder I ever left the house!
Videos, of course, have their drawbacks. Endless fast-forwarding and rewinding. WHHHRRRR. And hairy people. And low production values. Didn’t stop me, though, from a amassing a pretty good collection. The Dinner Party stands out as the best of what I had. Certainly a self-love peak of some sort.
Enter DVDs, a serious improvement. It’s easier to navigate the material, no doubt, plus there are “extras” like pop-shot recaps and behind-the-scenes stuff. You can pause them and they won’t be grainy. More choices are available. You can be very specific—like brunettes-with-big-lips-and-natural-breasts-who-blow—and find exactly what you’re looking for. And attitudes towards adult fare seemed to have changed. Porno now is a regular thing, a commodity, no longer in back alleys and sleaze joints. You can also buy the stuff online, taking away the shame factor (not that I ever felt shameful about it), which surely helped.
Currently, with computers, there’s video streaming and “live” girls and stuff like that, and you have regular people uploading their personal movies, and I like the idea: exhibitionism, a new horizon. Problem is, most of the people are yucky, so I’ll stick to DVDs.
Now what to expect in the future? Hard to say. Virtual sex sounds lousy to me. Will they invent some computer add-on into which you can deposit your Johnson for some new level of ecstasy? Don’t think I’d try that, no way. I get the feeling that, like aging, it’s a circular progression, a return to things, which means as I get older I’ll probably go back to thinking of that girl-next-next-door, eyes closed, smiling.
Not so bad, really.