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The idea of sexual engagement with anyone in my family was flatly repellant and preposterous to me. I knew instantly in reading it that it didn’t equate a 1-to-1 example of what I wanted in my own life. Handjobs, whose content was ostensibly endlessly controversial (if not completely problematic) in nature, immediately represented something bigger for me than comics and stories about incest and intergenerational relationships.
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One of these sites must have mentioned Handjobs in passing and in searching I must have found my way to avenueservices-dot-com (the ultra-inconspicuous home of Handjobs Magazine online, once upon a time).Īnd for that, my life wasn’t ever the same. I know I searched endless combinations of “gay sex,” and “how to,” and “penises+every celebrity name,” leading me to lots of unbearably slow-loading images and mpeg files. I don’t remember how I first came to Handjobs Magazine, specifically.
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I quickly figured out how to use AOL to download and power a separate browser – RIP Netscape Navigator – whose history I could control and erase (that my mom never added up why my AOL usage history was so immaculate is a mystery in and of itself).
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When my begging and collection of mailed promotional CDs finally overwhelmed my parents’ better judgement, we found ourselves, like much of America, on a 4670 hour free AOL trial, with the modem sharing one overworked cord with our house’s single phone line. We had a computer but no internet for a couple of my childhood years. Guys like me were coming of age right along side “Handjobs,” here at 16 years. “There’s only so much a single naked lady can accomplish or convey in a photo spread,” I would think to myself. That those men never seemed to make it into other magazines seemed like a real miss on the part of the smutty magazine business. I remember liking Hustler the best because it featured photos of penetrative sex, which meant that men were present, naked, and aroused.
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There were also some early 90s magazines – one Hustler and one issue of Penthouse – I had swiped from an uncle’s bathroom, upon which I meditated furiously, looking for guidance or clarity about all the things I felt I didn’t understand. I had a vague awareness that these things were happening all the time, but where was I supposed to learn or see them demonstrated? I had some particularly child-of-lesbian-mom books about my “changing body” and they featured some crude line illustrations of boners and penetrative vaginal sex, along with rotely reassuring passages about nocturnal emissions and the okness of fantasy about friends of same or differing genders. I remember thinking my penis was great and spending long hours alone in my room or in the bath viewing and touching it different ways and stretching and tugging on my foreskin.Īs I moved into my young adult stage and came to understand more about sexaul engagement and its myriad non-reproductive activities – and very particularly after I mastrubated myself to ejaculation for the first time in my treehouse at age 11 – I found myself in a desert of fresh information and practical instruction. I carried no shame or really baggage of any kind about my own genitals – they were like any other part of my body and my child brain assumed that everyone was just as fascinated with seeing and touching as I was and simply never spoke about it. But also like any precocious child, I had a vivid and thorough imagination, and a deep desire to understand better what sex was really ABOUT.Īlso, a desire to see any and all penises that might be accidentally made available to me at any given moment or day (it was Florida and lots of men wore baggy shorts with equally baggy, sometimes entirely absent, underwear – a kid had a decent shot of some covert up-leg spying). But we didn’t have internet access in my early years and weren’t allowed or couldn’t afford cable, and the idea of who had sex and with whom and for what reasons – these weren’t questions I had clear answers to, or even questions I could articulate well. I knew what it was, like every good precocious homeschooled kid knows the mechanics and all the names for all the parts. Growing up when and where I did (the American South in the 80s and 90s), I wasn’t often exposed to extremely sexual situations, or even sex in general with any regularity. Feelings of isolation and outsider statuses only ease when humans can see that others are so very like them and want the same things.