I felt a gripping, painful, and terrifying self-hatred an unworthiness followed by a thought that no one loved or could ever love me because of what I was secretly doing-and yet I had to get more. Late at night trying to fall back to sleep after an explicit dream sitting in church fantasizing about what was under the women's dresses getting caught by my parents talking on a phone sex call and lying that it was an innocent "chat line". It was at other times the shame of it all overcame me. I knew it was at very least unhealthy behavior and at worst immoral by my own personal standards. I couldn't get enough-and I was completely disgusted with myself. I spent my free time in my room poring over the images, fascinated by what I saw. Before handing it over, I plucked out the women's underwear and swimwear ads. For years I had been getting up early on Sunday to retrieve the ad-laden newspaper for my dad. This searching for images of women wasn't a new behavior. I didn't know it then, but that's probably the first act that showed I was a porn addict. Eureka! I took it home and tucked it under my bed. there I was, at the park, in the dark, digging in the trash to find it. I secretly plotted how I would go back and get it. But being good little boys, we threw it in the trash and continued our day.įor me, though, the thought of it never left. We were simultaneously fascinated, disgusted, and intrigued. We did what every group of pre-teen boys does in that situation: We laughed uncomfortably, ogled, and made crude jokes. But I did that night because out there was something irresistible to me.Įarlier that day, my friends and I found a porn magazine at the park. I was 12 and I had never snuck out of the house before.
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