4 comments/ 33387 views/ 4 favorites Pornographic Mind By: M_Sirk I'm standing in front of my wardrobe, a built-in affair with shelves that reach up to the ceiling, some filled with clothes, others with books or toys. I feel a peculiar sensation in my stomach and groin, a sort of pleasantly uncomfortable, constricting spasming. I can't remember if I touch myself, I don't think I do, but the next thing I feel is an incredible throbbing in my dick. I reach into my underpants and find that I seem to have wet myself, although I realise it wasn't quite that simple. So went my first orgasm. I would have been about five. The next few I experienced were similarly spontaneous, often triggered, for reasons I can't quite understand, by embarrassment. The only one I remember clearly occurred when I turned a page of one of my English textbooks too quickly and tore it almost out. I must have thought I was going to get into terrible trouble for this and, doubling up, I came almost immediately. I had been fascinated by my penis for as long as I could remember. I'd lie in bed at night toying with it. I loved the way I could push my balls up into my body and bring them out again. Sometimes, after having a shower, my father would walk into the lounge room naked and stand watching TV and towelling his hair. I'd look at his penis - it looked huge to me. I wondered if mine would ever be that big. Now I knew that touching myself there could bring on this delightful feeling whenever I wanted it. I soon gathered that it was all to do with sex, that it was extremely shameful, and that the results could be enhanced by viewing pornography. In this memoir, I shall use the word ‘pornography' in its broadest sense, in a somewhat similar manner to the way it is used by Martin Amis's narrator John Self in the novel ‘Money'. Pornography is not confined to books or magazines or videos. Pornography is a woman's breasts glimpsed as she reaches down to get something in a supermarket; it's fashion spreads; it's two cute girls spotted kissing in a café; it's a bra strap slipping from a shoulder. Porn is where you can find it and, from a very early age, I was looking for it everywhere. Today the media is saturated with pictures of naked celebrities and the Internet supplies a torrent of porn images of a most extreme nature to anyone with access to it. Things were very different back in the late ‘60s, so the few pornographic images I chanced on in books or magazines, or glimpsed on TV were much prized. For the first time I ever looked at a girl's pussy I have to reach back even further than my first orgasm, to one of my earliest memories. I used to play with a red-haired girl my age named Teena, who lived in a house behind my grandmother's. (The only other thing I remember about her is that she once accidentally swallowed a fly.) One afternoon I coaxed her into the dingy, disused, grey cement toilet in my grandparents' basement for a game of "You show me yours…" She pulled her knickers down and I gazed at her round, featureless crotch. I know this must have been an early incident, for I was simply astonished that she did not have a penis like I did. In fact, I thought she must have been hiding it from me somehow, and I grew angry and refused to pull my pants down, something which I'm still a little guilty about. I also have vague memories of playing a game called ‘hospitals' in the sandpit at my kindergarten, which mainly involved pulling the girls' panties down and sprinkling sand between their legs, and I remember a teacher catching us playing this game one day. A few years later (I'm a bit hazy on the chronology of these early memories, perhaps when I was six or seven) my parents had taken me to visit some friends of theirs. This was a couple who had about five children, one of whom was a girl called Christine, who was my age and the one I usually played with. On this particular visit I went into the bathroom when she was having a bath, and stood talking to her and watching her for a long time. I can remember thinking that there was something naughty about me seeing her splashing around in the tub naked, but I didn't want to leave. A few years after this, I was sitting in Christine's bedroom with her and her younger sister and she mentioned, with great pride, that her chest was starting to swell. "See," she said, and placed a hand just below her right breast, smoothing down the material of her dress and at the same time thrusting forward one shoulder so that I could see the slight bulge formed by her budding little tit. Another memory from around this time. I had just stepped out of the shower and was standing in the bathroom when my little sister, who would have been around three, came in. I was drying my hair with a towel when I felt her take hold of my dick. I remember thinking vaguely that there was something wrong with this and my first reaction was to back away from her, but then I stopped myself. I continued to stand there, drying my hair, enjoying the curious sensation of her little hand holding on to my penis. The very first photographic image of a naked female I can remember seeing was in a book on the history of photography published by Penguin, which belonged to my dad. It contained a startlingly brightly lit photo of a woman's torso, her stomach sucked in, her breasts acutely pointed. Looking at it now (I still have the book) I think I can see why I was both excited and slightly unnerved by the discovery of this photo, taken by one Ferenc Berko. Up until then I would have thought of the female breast as a soft, rounded thing like my mother's. This photo showed something hard, the nipples, pointing out stiffly, looked like they could do you harm. The best source I had for nude images was the magazines that my mother bought. There were always piles of thick, glossy magazines in the lounge room - Vogue and other fashion mags, women's mags like ‘Cosmopolitan', home and garden magazines. Best of all was a magazine called ‘Viva', a sort of ‘Penthouse' for women (it was edited by Bob Guccione's wife) which featured photos of naked men and women together. I can still see my favourite images from these magazines as clearly as if it was yesterday. There's an ad with a shot of a woman sitting on a sort of rope bridge in a jungle, her nipples showing through a white tank top. Another ad for some bathroom product has the page neatly divided into nine or so images, all pictures of a slender, honey-haired young girl in a shower. Her face is obscured but there are close-ups of her beautiful, pear-shaped breasts (these were my favorite nude images for a long time; the particular shape of this girl's breast, caught in one side-shot, is still my ideal.) There's the ad for a shower which I found tucked away in a house and garden magazine (usually slim pickings in these - I memorised the date of it - November - so that I could find it in the pile quickly). It showed a pretty, laughing blonde showering, clasping a sponge to her chest, with one round, pink-nippled breast protruding surprisingly from beneath her arm. I liked this particularly because it looked like an accident (perhaps it was). I returned to these few, treasured images time and again when left alone in the house, poring over them as I stroked my dick until the stuff came out. Why did I find these images of naked women so compelling? I can't say for sure, but I think it had something to do with ownership. Once I had found these pictures, they were mine. Whenever I wanted to see some tits, I knew I could go to the shelf and take out the photography book. I think it gave me a sense of power, just as porn does today. It was much more difficult to see anything on television. There was an unspoken rule in the house that I was never allowed to watch anything - those dreaded words - ‘not suitable for children', and I can remember making a point of not watching adult programs in front of my mother (while seeking them out surreptitiously - I was already developing secret life). But there was very little nudity on TV then anyway. The first glimpse of nudity I can remember came in a documentary summing up the ‘60s, so it must have been in late '69, early '70. It was a shot of a girl in a see-through dress, which was shown in the ad for the program. I waited excitedly for the program to come on and was actually able to watch it, but this was the only nudity in it. At some stage I saw some of Helen Mirren's nude swim in ‘Age of Consent', still one of my favourite erotic movies. My most powerful pornographic moment came as I was standing in the lounge room before school watching one of the morning TV programs (Mum was there too.) They started talking about a new movie called ‘The Road to Salina' and showed some clips from it, one of which was seared into my memory. A pretty girl with short blonde hair, standing in the sun wearing a dark, short sleeved top, buttoned down the front, which leaves her midriff bare. Suddenly - incredibly suddenly - she pulls the top open, exposing her breasts. I felt like an electric shock had gone through me. The fact that Mum was standing next to me when I saw this made it somehow more exciting. I told the other kids at school all about it. I remember the kid who lived next door to me saying "Did you see her cherries?" I thought of ‘The Road to Salina' and ‘The Age of Consent' as the most exciting movies ever made. A few years later, when I saw the former on TV, I wasn't disappointed. It's a 1971 flick with a gorgeous blonde actress named Mimsy Farmer in it. Robert Walker Jr. plays a guy who is probably her brother, and they fuck themselves silly all the way through it. But I did get a surprise when I saw it - there was no scene which exactly corresponded to the one I remembered so clearly. There was a shot of Mimsy standing on a beach, peeling off a white T-shirt to reveal her lovely little tits, which was presumably what I had seen, but it just wasn't the same. It was an early lesson in the tricks that memory can play. I was masturbating once or twice a day now. Every afternoon when I got home from school I'd go into my bedroom, shut the door, lie on my side on the bed with a book in my left hand and my dick in my right. Sometimes Mum would come through the door - she'd never knock - and in what became a reflex action, I'd pull my hand out of my pants, lie on my back and hold the book up to my face so I looked like I was reading, all in a split second - or so I hoped. (I'm sure Mum must have suspected something sometimes, and one day I'm sure I heard her and Dad talking about my habits.) A highlight of the week was when Mum came home with magazines. The TV guides were the best. I'd pore over them, wanking over shots of my favourite actresses. All this emission of semen caused a disposal problem. At first I would just wank into a handkerchief, but I used my father's handkerchiefs and noticed one day, to my embarrassment, that I was leaving stains on them. (I remember well standing washing handkerchiefs in salty water in the bathroom sink, having heard somewhere that salt would eliminate the stains). After that I'd squirt my spunk into bits of paper, or run my dripping hand along the back of my bedside table, which became streaked with caramel-coloured dried cum. Semen is considered a magical substance in many cultures, and I undoubtedly thought along similar lines. I was fascinated by the way, when it came into contact with water (as I found when wanking in the bath) it became a jelly-like substance which, when left, slowly dissolved into water. I did weird little rituals with my sperm. Once I got a cylindrical plastic pill container, put some semen in it along with the sap out of a tree, and buried it underneath our house beneath a slab of concrete. I supposed some weird chemical reaction would occur, but I never recovered it to see what had happened. It's probably still there. The lack of masturbation fodder was so acute I began to manufacture my own. I'd take pictures of women and redraw them naked. I filled two pages of an exercise book with repeated images of a girl who was a sort of fantasy girlfriend. In the first picture she was naked, then in the following ones she wore a variety of clothes that I liked - lots of halter-necked tops and see through blouses. I created fetish objects, like the upper half of a nude woman in modeling clay. I even remember putting a couple of marbles up the blouse of one of my sister's dolls and having a wank to that. I hid my drawings away on one shelf of my wardrobe, along with the few real porn images I had found. Most of these came from some ‘Sunday Mirror' newspapers, which were famous for their photos of topless women, left behind by workmen who were building an extension onto our house. Another prized possession was a little tourist guide to Hong Kong, which contained several photos of topless strippers and hostesses. On a couple of occasions I went into my parents bedroom and put on some of my mother's clothes. I put on a bra, stuffing it with other undergarments to make breasts, and a dress. I stood in front of the dressing table mirror, gazing at this woman I'd made, running my hands over her breasts. I lifted up the skirt and, with my dick tucked between my legs and out of sight, looked at her pussy. I don't think there was much in the way of transvestitism in all of this - I've never had any desire to dress in women's clothes since. I was just making another image of a woman to wank to. The only actual woman I really had a chance to perve on at the time was my mother, and I think it was her simple proximity, rather than the Oedipus complex, which led me to fantasise about seeing her naked. I used to plan elaborate schemes for planting mirrors in the bathroom which would enable me to see her in there, which of course came to nothing. There was a strange corollary to this, however, in that my mother seemed, on occasion, to exhibit definite signs of exhibitionism. One of my earliest memories is of going into the bathroom when she was in the bath and seeing her entirely naked, her large breasts and brown nipples and the mysterious dark patch visible between her legs, and I am certain (although with a memory as early as this you can of course never be 100% certain) that she asked me to go in to take her a towel or something. (This is the only time I was ever able to see her tits, except when she was breastfeeding my sister and her nipples became huge and purple.) Then there was the matter of the very short, white nightie she wore, which barely covered her bottom. She would often go about the house at night wearing this without panties on, so I would occasionally catch a glimpse of her pubic hair. I would probably think today that I imagined all this, if it hadn't been for one extraordinary incident. I was sitting on the floor in my bedroom one night, reading a book or something, when Mum came in, in her nightie, and began fussing over my bed, turning over the covers. I looked up to see her bending over it, her back to me, and her open bum and big black bush of her pubic hair completely visible to me. She remained in this posture for several seconds as I stared, mesmerised, at her arse. I remain to this day baffled by this event. She must have known what I could see, but she never did anything like this again. The idea that my parents had sex was as disturbing to me as I guess it is to most kids, but I only ever heard them doing it once. I was lying in bed and I could hear my mother talking to my father in their bedroom, and though I couldn't make out the words I was sure that she was asking him to fuck her. Then there was a pause, followed by a strange, regular slapping sound. I was baffled by it. Was my father slapping my mother for some reason? I was extremely shy about my body when I was young, and paranoid about appearing naked in front of anyone. I was mortified when my grandfather came into the bathroom one day when I was having a shower, pulled the shower curtain aside and stared straight at my dick. I loathed having to shower with another boy at a school retreat (although I made sure I had a look at his dick). But at the same time, the idea of being naked began to attain a certain thrill. I remember the first time I dared to take off all my clothes in the back garden. I ran across the lawn and into a clump of trees behind the garage, terrified that someone would see me. During the school holidays, I took to sunbathing in the backyard and, when Mum was out shopping, would occasionally slip my shorts off and lie in the deckchair with the sweat dripping off me and the sun shining onto my dick and balls. I was sure the people who lived on either side of us would, at any moment, peer through the fence and see me, or that my mother would come home unexpectedly and catch me. One Christmas we went to stay on a farm. Behind the farmhouse, at a lower level and therefore not visible from it, ran a creek. I would go down to it each day, make sure no-one was coming, then strip off all my clothes and swim naked in it. I had a crush on an older girl named Margot at the time and I took to performing another semen ritual. I'd pick up one of the round, smooth stones which lined the creek bed and scratch a little love message to her on it. Then I'd masturbate, squirting my spunk onto the stone. I'd rub it onto the message and toss it into the river. On only one occasion do I remember intentionally showing myself naked to anyone, and that was to my sister. She had her best friend over - I'm not sure how old they were at the time, probably no more than seven. On this day I remember being particularly overcome by a feeling of lust. I had a shower and, wrapping a towel around my waist, walked down the hall, stopping at the door to my sister's bedroom, where the two girls were playing, and looking in at them. I have no idea what I thought might happen (I think I had some sort of scenario in my mind of us playing and the towel dropping ‘accidentally' ). I went into my bedroom and took the towel off and stood in front of my wardrobe (in the exact spot where I had experienced my first orgasm), and looked like I was rummaging through there for clothes. I remember I had never felt so naked before, so aware of my dick and balls as part of my body yet hanging outside it, obscenely bare. After a few minutes my sister skipped into the room, saw me, went "Oh!" in an embarrassed way and raced out. I must have enjoyed this for I remained in position, my ploy of rummaging for clothes wearing increasingly thin, until my sister ventured in once more, saw my dick again, and repeated her hasty exit. I'm standing on a second-floor balcony at school when I realise there's some sort of commotion going on. There's kids going in and out of a classroom giggling. I walk in to see what it is. There on a desk is a porn magazine. It's open at a shot of a naked, dark-haired girl. It's the first time I've seen a photo showing pubic hair. That neat black triangle strikes me with the force of a talisman. I want to see more of photos like this. My next encounter with porn comes as I'm traveling home on the school bus. There's some kids sitting behind me looking at a magazine. I turn around and see a photo of a woman with short brown hair and, I seem to remember, glasses, perhaps sunglasses. She's very stylish looking, I think. She's wearing a dress and sitting on a low seat or step with her knees drawn up. And as my eyes travel down the picture from her face, I see she isn't wearing any panties and her cunt's exposed. And the picture doesn't make sense to me. The two halves - the woman's face, her bared cunt - don't go together. They form a paradox, and it's in this paradox that my relationship with porn is cemented. This woman seems stylish, sophisticated, yet here she is posing with her pussy showing. How could a nice, normal girl, like all the ones I've ever met, do this? How can she degrade herself like this? Pornographic Mind Now I don't believe it's degrading for a woman to pose for pornographic pictures. I don't believe women who do are sluts, if that means anything anyway. But when I am lost in pornography I enter another way of thinking. Despite the many thousands of porno shots I have seen, I still retain that childish sense of surprise that women would pose for such photos. And my pornographic mind is excited by their imagined degradation. I'm at a ten pin bowling alley with some school friends when a boy named Philip, who's a little older than the rest of us, having had to repeat a year or two, holds up a slide. "Look at this," he says. He puts it against that contraption they have in bowling alleys that projects the score, so that the light is shining against it. I have a look and see a tiny, abstract pattern which I can't make out. "What is it?" I ask. "It's a root!" he exclaims. I look again. I see now it's a close-up of a cock going into a cunt, the legs of the man and woman forming a diamond pattern. So there it was. I had finally seen a picture of that great and mysterious thing - the sex act. It is said that the 19th century art critic John Ruskin was so unnerved to discover on his wedding night the existence of pubic hair - having hitherto believed that women's crotches were as smooth and bare a statues - that he remained impotent for the rest of his life. I too at this time was somewhat in the dark as to what a cunt looked like. I knew there was an opening, of course, but I imaged if you were looking straight on at one it would be featureless. Then one day I was at the beach and saw a young woman emerging from the water, wearing a white bikini which had become quite transparent. She either had very sparse pubic hair or she had shaved, for the slit of her pussy was quite visible. In 1978 I finally mustered the courage to buy one of the porno magazines I had been eyeing in newsagents for years. I remember I'd been to see a Greta Garbo movie at a revival cinema, then walked to seedy area of town where I thought an underage kid could more easily buy porn. I went into a newsagent, my mouth dry and heart pounding, settled on a ‘Penthouse' magazine, took it to the counter to a woman who, amazingly, sold it to me without a word. I rushed home, shut myself in my bedroom, lay on the bed and contemplated my prize. When I moved out of my parents home a few years later I foolishly left my porn stash behind, this stash inevitably being found by my mother one day and hastily thrown away. I've since bought again some of those first mags I had though, and have another copy of the April 1978 ‘Penthouse', one of those satisfyingly thick and heavy publications from the period. On its cover is a very pretty blonde, wearing a white, halter-necked dress with thin straps, tantalisingly open at the front so that her breasts are almost exposed. Inside it contains four pictorials. The first of these, entitled ‘Living Dolls', features three extremely beautiful, similar-looking brunettes who are supposedly shop store dummies who come to life after the store closes for some lesbian action. These images of women kissing and fondling each other's breasts and pussies were the first lesbian images I had seen, and were incredibly exciting. And there was one picture that was particularly notable. The three girls are seen draped over a couch, fingering each other's pussies. One of them has her backside to the camera and her anus is quite visible. For some reason, a woman showing her arse to the camera like this seemed to me even more obscene than her showing her cunt. The next two pictorials, of Mariwin (the centrefold) and Kiki, are relatively unrevealing, although there are a couple of nice shots of Mariwin pulling the crotch of her panties aside to show her pussy, still one of my favourite erotic poses. But it was the final pictorial, of Teri, that had a profound effect on me. Teri's a typically American looking, slim, suntanned blonde with white triangular bikini marks on her pointy tits and crotch - which later became something of a fetish for me. She's seen frolicking around on a beach. In one shot she's sitting in about an inch of water. In the picture I liked the best she's wearing a blue dress of lacy material which is pulled up to her waist. One tit is poking out of the top of the dress and she's staring intently down at her pussy with its thick blonde pubes. But it's the picture on page 144 which really got to me. This time Teri's inside, apricot-coloured dress around her waist and her tits bare. She's looking down at her cunt again but this time she's got her legs spread and with two fingers she's opening it up even more and pulling the clitoral hood back. And for the first time I saw the structure of labia and vulva, the hard, shiny, intricate lines of pink flesh which reminded me of the shape of a gothic church window. So that's what a cunt looked like! The image, and this realisition, frankly shocked me, and it was a while before I could masturbate to this particular picture, but I soon came to love photos of women opening themselves up as wide as possible. I have often wondered what it would be like to have sex with a woman for the first time, without having seen in pornographic pictures what an open vagina actually looks like. I can only imagine it must be quite a disturbing sight. As it was, some years and innumerable crotch shots later, on my first night with my first girlfriend, Louise, I couldn't wait to get my hands, and mouth, on her cunt. To see as many cunts as possible, both in pictures and in real life, had become one of my main goals. That ‘Penthouse' was the first of many porno magazines I would buy and hide away in my wardrobe, My favourites became the British magazines published by Paul Raymond - ‘Club International', ‘Men Only' and ‘Model Directory'. These were bigger than their American counterparts, had more numerous pictorials with clearer photography, and I generally preferred the British and European models to the American ones. I also liked the irreverent approach to sex shown in the articles. My porn purchasing soon took on a regular pattern. Every couple of months I'd feel the need to see new images - to have another fix. I'd head into town, to one of the book shops which sold second-hand porn mags and leaf through their plastic-wrapped stock, terrified all the while that someone who knew me would come in. Having selected five or six promising looking publications I'd go to the counter - after ascertaining there was a man serving behind it - and hand them over, looking as relaxed as I possibly could. I'd always try to give the exact amount - I didn't want him to see my hand shaking as I was given change, and I didn't want to sense any reluctance on his part to touch my hand - the hand of a masturbator. With my purchases safely tucked away I'd head for home, a journey which could never be completed quickly enough. Once there, I'd lie on my bed or on the floor, on my right side, with my new treasures spread out in front of me. Pulling my pants down, I'd take hold of my cock with my right hand and, leafing through the mags, begin to wank. When I had been though all the magazines I'd open them to the image in each one I had found most exciting, and poring over these, bring myself to orgasm. Leafing through the pages of these magazines I marveled at the infinite variety of women's bodies, the myriad variations of breast and cunt. I believe that the fact that today I have no particular physical preference in women probably stems from this time. Blondes, brunettes or redheads, flat-chested as a boy or big-breasted, shaved or hairy, skinny or voluptuous, I can find all these types attractive. But always my initial attraction is to the face. If I find a girl's face attractive, her body is automatically interesting. For me, pornographic images were more than two-dimensional. I wondered about the women whose images I wanked to. Who were they and why had they posed for these photographs? Were they prostitutes, for whom a porno shoot meant nothing? Were they normal women who had been cajoled into posing just the once? I studied the photos for details of the rooms in which they had been taken, and imagined how the shoots might have gone. On a couple of occasions I plucked up the courage to enter sex shops. The first one I went into contained the usual room filled with X-rated magazines and, in a back room with a very high ceiling, a big, black, freestanding structure which housed booths for the viewing of porno loops. I noticed a young guy with a mop and bucket walking around this structure, and realised with some queasiness that his job was to wash out the spilt semen on the floor of the booths. I nevertheless ventured into one of the booths, where I saw film of a woman stripping. I got my cock out and wanked into my handkerchief, not wanting to create any work for the unfortunate cleaner. The next sex shop I visited had a black painted room also filled with video machines. On the first machine I put my money in, I watched film of a podgy, middle-aged man of middle-eastern appearance fucking a girl from behind, with the two of them lying on their sides and him with one leg raised so you could see all the action. Fascinated, I watched his balls wobbling as he plunged his cock into her cunt. This was the first filmed fuck I had ever seen. This sex shop was also notable for the fact that, out of about ten loops on offer on the machines, no less than two of them featured bestiality. In one, called something like Farmyard Antics, a woman was seen fondling and kissing the genitals of a horse and other animals. In another, two naked women are in a barn with a pig. One woman gets on all fours, the other drapes a sack over her back and encourages the pig to mount her . She guides the pig's prick into her friend's pussy and the pig fucks furiously, its haunches wobbling. I found this extremely unnerving. Only once did I venture into a cinema to see an X-rated movie. It was a cinema in Chinatown, which still exists today (it shows only Chinese films now) and on the advertisement were the tantalising words ‘live acts on stage'. The first movie shown I have no recollection of. The second was called ‘Devil's Little Acre', and I remember it as being a very strange film indeed. It was set in the American south and had a sort of surreal feeling to it. It concluded with a bizarre wedding ceremony conducted by a masked preacher, with about five couples fucking standing up. My favourite scene featured a girl waking up in the morning, going outside, sitting on the ground with her legs apart and washing her hairy pussy with a hose. I could have watched this for hours. In between these two films came the live act - not, as I had hoped for, a couple fucking - but a stripper. An obviously young girl, she failed to excite me much, being clad in an elaborate harem costume with her face masked (I've never been turned on by strippers, I must admit). She was dancing for a while when I realised that, while it was surrounded folds of wispy material, her crotch was bare. "I'm looking at a cunt for real," I told myself, my eyes fixed on her brown-haired triangle, but the effect was oddly less exciting than watching a movie or looking at a photograph. My immersion in porn from a young age meant that I was well acquainted with just about every fetish and perversion in existence years before I was able to have sex for real. I devoured de Sade's ‘120 Days of Sodom' and, in my mind, played out countless outre sexual situations. Another great influence, and the inspiration for this memoir, was ‘My Secret Life' by ‘Walter', the anonymous Victorian gent who faithfully, and in monumental detail, recorded his memories of the thousands of women, mostly servant girls and whores, whom he had fucked during his life. I had the one-volume, abridged and expurgated edition of this vast work, and an unexpurgated edition of the first third of it. I marveled at the ease with which Walter had seduced women and, over the years, satisfied every fantasy that had appeared in his mind. Having engaged a girl in conversation, one of Walter's favourite methods of seduction was to unbutton his trousers and pull out his penis (or ‘pego' as he calls it) and show it to her, a method which was surprisingly successful. They were simpler times then, I thought. I began to develop fetishes of my own, but instead of becoming fixated, in perpetuity, on one particular fetish, as is the case with most fetishists, I found myself picking and choosing, taking up one fetish, fantasising about it for a while, then dropping it for something else - a pattern I retain to this day. While I will candidly admit I have no interest in rubber clothing, suspender belts or feet, I can assure you that there few other fetishes, both common or uncommon, that I have not at some point contemplated and usually enacted. The first fetish I can remember having was for women's armpits. I fantasised endlessly about licking the sweat from under a woman's arms. This fetish blended into another involving T-shirts, particularly white T-shirts. I also had a thing for female tennis players for a while, and used to wank watching tennis matches, looking for glimpses up the female players' skirts. A typical fantasy involved a woman tennis player after a match, wearing a white T-shirt with big wet patches under the arms which I lick. I was thrilled when the first Emmanuelle novel, which Mum bought (and later the movie) featured a scene where Emmanuelle plays tennis with a young girl whom she then undresses and makes love to. I started to collect pictures of women with their arms raised and their armpits showing. Later I would attempt to lick Louise's armpits when we were in bed, but as she was ticklish there this proved to be less than erotic for her, and it never got very far. (I do remember fucking her armpit once however, with her pressing her arm against her side so that my cock was held tightly in there, and finding this very pleasurable.) It was in fact not until some years later that I was able to satisfy this particular fetish, when I took to bed a younger sister of one of my friends. Bronwyn was a short, slightly plump girl with an elfin face and thick red hair. Her skin, dusted with freckles on her shoulders, arms and legs was otherwise a doughy white. Her breasts were large and rounded, the nipples so flat and pale pink they were virtually invisible, and her pubic hair was so bright a shade of orange as to be startling. I woke up next to her in bed in the morning and, as she put her arms back on the pillow I saw that her freshly shaven, slightly creased armpits were slaked with sweat, although it was not a particularly hot day. Kissing up from her fleshy breast I licked at her glistening armpit. Her sweat tasted incredibly sweet. She wasn't at all ticklish and as we kissed and fondled each other my mouth kept returning to the sweat which ran freely from under her arms like nectar. I still have a fetish for women's armpits but it has mutated somewhat into a love of armpit hair. When I was young I found the sight of hairy armpits on women off-putting. I remember visiting in hospital my cousin Kim, who was my own age, and being slightly disconcerted when she threw one arm back behind her head, revealing a patch of frizzy, light brown hair in her armpit. My first inkling that some men could find this attractive was a letter in one of the Paul Raymond magazines, by some fellow bemoaning the fact that photos of women with hairy underarms were so hard to come by, and that he had only ever found one - Japanese - magazine specialising in the subject (hairy armpits are a real taboo in Japan). In all the pictorials of women I had seen, I found only one featuring a woman with unshaven armpits. It was in an issue of ‘Club International', and once again I have acquired another copy of it. It is, for the record, Vol 4, No 2, from February 1975. The pictorial of Jane included therein is unusual because it has an historical theme, being set in the American West, and photographed in mainly brownish tones. Jane's a skinny girl with long brown hair and an ordinary looking though not unattractive face. In the first photo, she's sitting on a chair cradling a rifle, wearing a felt hat, old-fashioned stockings, cowboy boots and a white cotton petticoat which is pulled down to the waist so that one small breast is visible. In the second she's standing, facing three-quarters towards the camera. The cotton petticoat is tangled around her waist - she's polishing a gun with it. And for the first time the hair beneath her arms is visible, little strands of it poking out from her right armpit and trailing towards her breast with its little puckered nipple. The petticoat is lifted up to reveal her crotch too, which is covered with a luxurious bush of pubic hair, and there are dark-brown hairs visible on her skinny forearms too. In the next photo she's sitting again with her legs parted, lifting up the petticoat to show her crotch, and you can see the way her brown pubes grow along her inner thighs, and extend up towards her navel. Photo number four is similar, but this time she has one arm raised, thrown back over the opposite shoulder, and the patch of hair in her armpit is visible. The final photo shows her from behind. The petticoat opens vertically at the back and her bottom is poking though it. If you look closely you can just make out the hairs in the crevice between her buttocks. When I first saw this pictorial, I was puzzled by it. This scrawny, hirsute girl looked nothing like the other models I had seen in magazines, and I was a little put off, I recall, by the hair on her arms in particular. Looking at her now, however, I find her far sexier than the more conventional looking models who fill the rest of the magazine. One afternoon, I was standing behind a girl in a bookshop. She had short, honey-coloured hair, and wore a pair of khaki-coloured overalls over a pink blouse, the sleeves rolled up to her shoulders so her upper arms were bare. As she raised her arm to pick up a book on the shelf I saw spiky, flaxen hairs radiating from her armpit and had a sort of fetishistic epiphany. Ever since then the sight of armpit hair on an attractive girl is as exciting to me as a glimpse of breast or cunt, and I am forever on the look-out for it. Some of these chance sightings remain burned on my brain: the pretty Asian woman, raising her arm to grab a pole as she got off the bus; the beautiful, skinny, flat-chested, chestnut-haired girl named Nikki who I worked with and had a tremendous crush on, sitting in the garden at back of a pub, wearing an elegant, full-length, halter-necked black dress, her arms lifted back behind her head to reveal two long, spidery strips of damp black hair in her armpits. Or just a few days ago, in the city. I was waiting for the lights to change when I saw a short girl with a plain-pretty face covered with dark freckles, and shoulder-length brown hair. She had flat breasts and wore a tightly-fitting sleeveless blue cotton dress. She was deaf, and carrying out an enthusiastic conversation with another girl in sign language. And as she raised her arm, she revealed a wonderfully thick, star-shaped patch of brown hair. For a moment time stood still as I memorised this image, locking it away in my head for future reference. (Before leaving the subject of hairy armpits, a paradox which shows how much fetishes are tied to cultural fashions. It was only in the early part of the century that women in the UK, US and Australia began to routinely shave under their arms. This means that, in the Victorian era, a man who cajoled his wife into shaving her arms, and who derived pleasure from her smooth armpits, would have been operating as a fetishist). My first girlfriend, Louise, was a very pretty girl with long brown hair and a lovely figure. I had been admiring her from afar for a while when we started kissing at a party. We were standing in the hall, tongues exploring each other's mouths, when I slipped one hand under the jumper she was wearing and fondled a breast for the first time. Leaving the party we went to her car, and she drove us to a spot a few streets from my house. In the back seat, we undressed and I ran my hands eagerly over her naked body. I sucked on her shapely tits and, moving down, began to lick her pussy. I'd really had no idea what a cunt would taste like, and was pleasantly surprised. The next morning, I found I could still smell Louise's cunt on my hands, and delayed washing them as long as possible so I could continue to savour it. Pornographic Mind A few weeks later Louise and I went out to a movie or something, and then went back to my house. We sat at the dining room table chatting (my parents had gone to bed). She was wearing an elegant, black satin cocktail dress, and looked gorgeous. We started to kiss and, against my better judgment, I led her into my bedroom, where we fucked. When she left some hours later, she went out the back door and up the side of the house. Next morning, my mother was furious and wouldn't speak to me. She must have heard everything, and she was particularly annoyed with the way Louise had left via the back door. Soon after this, Louise's mother went away for the weekend and I was able to spend a night over at her house. We had the big double bed in their spare and spent a magic night there, talking and fucking until the early hours. Louise had long brown hair and brown eyes, velvety soft olive skin and lovely, tapering breasts with large, puffy, pale brown nipples surrounded by faintly visible blue veins (something I've always found sexy). I was just crazy about her tits. She had a favourite, brown satin petticoat which she'd wear when we were fucking. She'd get on top of me and I'd scoop her teats out of the petticoat's lacy bodice, one in each hand, and lick and suck them furiously as I pumped my cock into her. I'd go into the bathroom when she was having a bath and soap them up and squeeze them (we had sex in the bath quite often - I loved the unusual sensation of fucking underwater, the squeaky feel of her pussy). I'd feel her breasts though her clothing at every opportunity. (I remember in particular a cream-coloured, short-sleeved blouse of thin, rough/smooth material, probably silk, which she sometimes wore without a bra, and the specific sensation of stroking her nipples through this material until they grew hard.) At night I'd lie in bed holding her from behind, her breasts cupped in my hands. One day I rubbed moisturiser onto my cock and, placing it between her tits, fucked them until my sperm shot onto her throat. I just couldn't get enough of those tits. Louise's cunt was an utter delight too. I went down on her just about every time we fucked, exploring its amber folds with my fingers and tongue, reveling in the taste and smell of it. Sometimes I'd pour honey into it and lick it out. (Louise would go down on me too, but she didn't like the taste of sperm. She'd let me come in her mouth, but then she'd usually spit it into a tissue.) When we were fucking, I loved to look down and watch my cock sliding in and out of her cunt. Not happy with any of the contemporary words used to describe the vagina, I resurrected an old Anglo-Saxon one, ‘cunny', which I had read in a porn magazine. Looking back on it now, we seemed to discuss Louise's cunny a lot. It didn't take me long to learn the art of making her come with my hand, inserting my fingers in her hole and rubbing the little bud of her clitoris as I sucked on one of her tits. Her favourite position was with her on top. The first time we fucked like this I heard the sound my thighs made as they slammed against her buttocks, and remembered the sound I had heard from my parent's bedroom years before. The mystery had been solved. Mum had been on top! Soon after I started going out with Louise, we went on holiday with a group of people, including a friend of mine from school and a friend of hers, a red-haired, red-faced, heavily freckled girl named Melissa. Louise had bought a new bikini with a design of pineapples on it especially for the holiday, and I was surprised when, on our arrival at the beach on the first day, she immediately removed the top of it (topless bathing on public beaches was still quite rare at this time). This gave me quite a queer feeling. I was, at this point, extremely possessive of Louise, and I didn't like the idea that my friend could look at her tits - my tits. But I was at the same time rather excited by seeing her half-naked in public. I remember later on, in the afternoon, lying on my side about a foot from her, and she lying on her side facing me, and thinking how weird it was that there were people walking around us, and yet I could easily reach out and touch her bare breasts, which hung only inches from my face, or even reach down and slip my fingers into her bikini bottom and touch her pussy, and probably no-one would have even noticed. (A couple of years later, my friend returned the favour of seeing my girlfriend's tits handsomely, when he invited Louise and I to the beach with him and his cute blonde girlfriend, Gina. She was a rather shy, straight girl, and upon our arrival at the beach, I was thrilled to see her emerge from the water wearing only a tiny black bikini bottom. Gina's breasts were larger than I had supposed, nicely rounded, with small, dark-brown nipples, puckered from the cold of the water, which stood out starkly on her pale skin. She sat down on a towel next to us and put a shirt on, but failed to button it up. For the next fifteen minutes or so she sat in front of me, chatting away, with her shirt open and her breasts fully exposed. I was amazed at how the beach induces such a double standard in people when it comes to nudity. There is no way that Gina would have, under normal circumstances, let me see her tits. After the beach we went back to my friend's flat. We were sitting in the loungeroom talking, but I was so excited by having seen Gina's tits I went into their bathroom and had a wank.) Louise teased Melissa on that first day for being too shy to remove her own bikini top. Later in the holiday she did build up the courage to bare her plump, pink-nippled tits, and her shyness made looking at them all the more pleasurable for me. In addition to Louise and her friend, there were another four girls in our group, and by the end of the holiday I had seen the tits of all of them. I had found myself in a happy situation where I could speculate what a girl's breasts looked like, then have my curiosity satisfied. I was in heaven! I was fascinated by how different their breasts were, and how they almost seemed to match their personalities. Liz was a slim, lively, good-humoured girl with long, straight brown hair and a pretty face, who was the least self-conscious about being topless. I remember her happily sitting next to me on the sand, chatting away as I enjoyed the sight of her perky, brown-nippled little breasts. (A story about Liz, told to me by Louise, has stuck in my head. Some time after we returned from our holiday, Louise was sitting in the university canteen when Liz came along and sat up on the table next to her, her legs apart. She was wearing a short skirt and as she chattered away Louise found herself looking right at Liz's crotch. She was wearing, Louise told me, a pair of extremely ragged knickers, through which her vagina could be clearly seen. Louise had, as far as I could tell, no lesbian tendencies, and related this incident to me as simply curious behaviour on Liz's part, but I found the idea of her looking at another girl's cunt extremely exciting.) Fiona was the radical amongst us, into student politics and fucking activists from third world countries. She was a pretty girl with a pug nose and straight blonde hair parted down the middle, who would not have looked out of place in a 1970s Swedish porno flick. I only saw her tits once, as she lay on her back sunbathing. They were perfectly round with compact little pink nipples - no-nonsense tits. Karen was a reasonably pretty, sexy-mouthed girl with long, unruly, curly blonde hair, shy and with a reputation for eccentricity. She began the holiday a pasty white and, at the end of it, hardly seemed to have tanned at all. Her body carried some excess fat, so that she looked a little shapeless, her stomach flabby, a look which was accentuated by the crocheted bikini she wore. Because she was so shy, I had not expected to see her tits, and it was only on our last day that I saw her on the beach with her top off. Her breasts, I saw, were a little bit saggy, with brilliant pink, conical nipples. Finally there was Lisa, a skinny, sallow-faced girl with mousy brown hair she kept tied back in a pony-tail. Her body was scrawny, her arms thin and her shoulders a little bowed. Her tits were small, insignificant, brown- nippled things, but with a certain charm. On the second or third day of the holiday, Louise became badly sunburnt. With the exception of the two white triangles on her crotch and backside left by her bikini bottom, her body was an angry red colour. Her sunburnt breasts looked particularly amazing, with no apparent difference between the colour of her nipples and the surrounding flesh. I was initially displeased when this happened, because I thought it would preclude us from having sex, and I still wanted to have sex with her all the time. I shouldn't have worried. That evening, we left the others sitting in the lounge room of the house we had rented, and went into our bedroom. Louse took off her dress and asked me to rub some moisturiser on her sore body. I began to rub the cool lotion onto her shoulders and back, feeling the heat radiating from her skin. Then she knelt on the bed, leaning against the bedhead so that I could rub some cream onto her bottom. She seemed to be particularly sore where the burnt skin met the unburnt triangle, and as I gently rubbed around it her buttocks were parted and my face was inches away from her anus. I couldn't believe I had found myself in a situation where staring at a girl's arsehole like this was such a natural thing. Afterwards, Louise lay on her back on the bed and I gently fucked her, being careful not to hurt her hot and tender body too much. When I first left home and moved in with Louise, I left, as I have mentioned, my collection of porn behind. I fully expected never to have to masturbate again. Why should I need to, when I had the real thing on tap? Louise loved sex and we were fucking constantly for the first few months. She was the only girl I have met who was willing, even eager, to fuck when she was menstruating. I can remember feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the idea of menstruation (as I suppose is fairly common) when I first started going out with her, but I soon came to positively enjoy fucking her while she was having her period - the sight of my cock covered in thick, dark-red menstrual blood pumping into her bloody brown-haired pussy; the peculiar, slightly cloying smell of it and the dark, sticky stains left on our thighs and genitals after we had finished. I mention this as an example of a fetish which was, as it were, nipped in the bud. Had I conceived of fucking a menstruating woman without knowing Louise, the desire would quite possibly have gone unsatisfied and become an obsession, most women I have encountered being unwilling to fuck during their period, though they will admit to being particularly randy during it. (As it is, I only remembered this facet of my sex life with Louise as I was writing this.) One day Louise came home from work with a vibrator she had acquired in a roundabout way. It was pink and took the form of an turbanned oriental figure, with another, smaller figure sitting in front of him - an extension designed to massage the clitoris. When you turned it on, it vibrated and writhed slowly around. I thought it was one of the most ridiculous things I had ever seen but one night, while we were fucking, I brought it out of the wardrobe and stuck it in her cunt and found I enjoyed fucking her with it, and she enjoyed it too. One day, I found the vibrator under our bed. Picking it up, I noticed that it was coated with some dried stuff which was flaking off. Suddenly I realised what had happened. It was dried pussy juice, left on there after Louise had used it to masturbate. The knowledge that Louise also masturbated secretly absolutely thrilled me. I imagined her lying alone in our bed, pushing the vibrator in and out of her cunt, her back arching until she had made herself come. Despite all the brilliant sex I was having, I gradually found my mind again turning to pornographic images. Sex with Louise was great as far as it went, but I began to realise how straightforward her sexual tastes were. She had little desire to experiment. What she lacked, in short, was a pornographic mind. The catalyst of my frustration was a growing fetish for women's arses, which had been triggered a short time before by a particular issue of ‘Penthouse'. While they're common in men's magazines today, in those days photos with women showing their arseholes were still quite unusual. This particular pictorial of a blonde woman (of American Indian extraction, I seem to remember), featured several large, exquisitely clear close-ups of her arse, cheeks spread to show off her beautiful, puckered anus, looking like a lump of pink chewing gum. For a while, whether a girl's anus was visible or not became my criterion for a good porno picture, and I began to fantasise about anal sex, which I had up till then dismissed as something distasteful that gays did of necessity. I loved to part Louise's buttocks and look at her anus as I was fucking her from behind. I'd grab hold of her buttocks, one in each hand, and as I watched my cock sliding in and out of her, I'd push my hands together so my thumbs were pressing into her arsehole. Without actually coming out and asking her about it, I knew that having anal sex with her was an impossibility. I had read in one of Paul Raymond's magazines that a favourite technique among the French was for the man to insert a finger into his lover's anus at the point of orgasm. I tried this a couple of times with Louise, but was left in no doubt that she didn't like it. When I was going down on her, I would lick as far up towards her anus as I dared, but I felt she was uncomfortable with me doing this too, and it was only on rare occasions that I let myself go. The best time was early one morning, before I went to work. I had manouevred myself so I was licking her pussy from behind when, giving up all pretense, I buried my face between her buttocks and gave her arsehole a thorough licking. I went to work with the taste of her bum in my mouth, a happy man. Faced with the inability to fuck Louise's arse, I began to perform a regular, secret ritual. Louise and I were both students at the time and drinking heavily (alcohol, you will note from the following pages, is usually a vital ingredient in my more perverted escapades.) Often we would go to bed drunk. I would wait until the sound of her breathing told me she was asleep, then move her, if necessary, so she was on her front or her side. I would lift up her nightie, or pull down her pajama pants if she was wearing a pair of mine, and examine her backside. The skin between her buttocks was darker than the rest of her body, with the wrinkled surround of her anal opening being grey and shiny. Parting her buttocks with my hands, I would press my face between them, sniffing and licking her arsehole, pushing my tongue as deeply into it as I could. I would spit on her anus and insert my finger into it. Sometimes I would rub spit onto my cock and try to insert that too, but Louise's arsehole was very tight and this always woke her up. Usually I would end by coming on her arse and rubbing my semen into her hole. Sometimes, when inspecting her arse, I would find little flecks of shit on it. I would put these on my tongue and try to get the taste of them. I make it a practice to take pornographic photos of my girlfriends. I only ever managed to get Louise to willingly pose for one, which showed her lying on our bed wearing only a white camisole, open, her breasts and pubic triangle exposed. She had a sort of amused/slightly embarrassed smile on her face, and it was a cute photo. Unfortunately she managed to take it with her when we broke up. I have another photo, however, taken during one of my arse-worshipping sessions, which she has no idea I took. Louise's shapely backside occupies the centre of the frame. She's lying face down, a blue sheet (or perhaps they're pajamas) covering her above the waist. My left hand is on her left buttock, spreading it, and my stiff cock is pointing at a 45 degree angle from the bottom right hand corner of the picture. You can clearly make out the split of her cunt, surrounded by brown hair, but the photo has faded somewhat, as Polaroids do, and her anus is indistinct. It is nevertheless a beautiful photograph, and I still take it out and masturbate to it when I'm thinking of Louise, who I still see socially, and wonder what she would think if she knew I had it. (Email me if you would like to see it.) By way of contrast, my next girlfriend, Katie, a pretty blonde with pale skin and medium-size, pink nippled breasts, not only agreed to anal sex, she brought the subject up in a bar one night, saying something along the lines of "We've been together three months now and we've never had anal sex." A few nights later saw her kneeling on the floor of our tiny front room, her elbows on the couch, and her white, round backside pointing at me. I dipped my fingers into a jar of moisturising cream and dabbed it between her buttocks and began to rub it in, letting my fingers slip into the hole so the inside was lubricated, then rubbed some more onto my prick. Holding onto her backside with one hand, I rubbed the head of my cock up and down the creamy cleft of her arse until I located the slight depression of her anus. I began to push. "Do it slowly," she said. "I'll tell you if it hurts." I pushed a little harder. At first it was like pushing against a hard surface but then I felt the muscles of her sphincter loosen a bit, and the head of my cock was in. "I'm fucking a girl up the arse," I said to myself, overwhelmed by the thought. Then my cock was halfway into her. It felt incredibly tight and hot. When I went to push in all the way she gasped with pain. I drew out quickly (I'd read up on proper arse-fucking technique - it's best push in slowly and pull out fast). I began to fuck her in a slow rhythm, gradually pushing deeper and deeper until I was buried all the way in her rectum. It felt so good I couldn't put off coming for very long, and with a shudder I shot my sperm into her bowels. Fucking Katie's arse became a regular part of our sex sessions. It soon got used to my prick and I could fuck her as hard and as deeply there as I could her cunt. After such a session her anus, usually coral pink, would be swollen and purple. "Do you like that?" she'd ask as I buggered her. "Yes." "Why?" "Because it's dirty." Of course, my desire for anilingus was satisfied with Katie as well. Now I could spend as much time as I wanted licking a girl's arsehole. I would push my tongue into her ring as deeply as I could - sometimes I would wake up the next morning with the flap of skin at the base of my tongue torn, so great had been my exertions. I loved the earthy taste of her arse, and I was always delighted when I found her bottom somewhat dirty and I could lick it clean. When we fucked with her on top, I liked to stick my index finger in it, so I could feel the movement of my cock through her rectal wall. Seeing how much I liked to play with her arse she began to play with mine. One night she asked me if I would like her to lick it, and of course I said yes. I got on all fours, presenting my open bum to her. It felt lovely as she probed me with her tongue. She would lubricate her fingers with oil or moisturiser and slip them into my anus, and sometimes she would push a dildo up me. I liked the feeling of this but found I couldn't come when she did it, even when she wanked me at the same time. Katie, I soon realised, to my absolute dismay and delight, possessed a mind almost as pornographic as my own. She was, for a start, bisexual, and had fucked some of her girlfriends from school whom I knew (and fancied). I listened enthralled as she told me her sexual adventures. She enjoyed watching porn videos, especially lesbian ones, and sometimes we compared notes on which girls we found sexy and why (Katie liked girls with big breasts). She was something of an exhibitionist who liked to strip for me when she got drunk, while I masturbated. When walking home late at night from some party or gig she liked to take off her panties and walk down the street with me walking behind her, holding her skirt bunched up behind her so she was naked below the waist. She liked to have sex outdoors, which I liked too. We'd go into our back garden and she'd lie on a patch of soil. I'd get on top of her and, as I fucked her I'd pick up a handful of dirt and twigs, and rub it onto her breasts and stomach and into her pubic hair. One night we were wandering around in a cemetery when, overcome by a sort of midnight wildness, I lubricated her arsehole with saliva and buggered her on a gravestone.