Laura Wilkerson

Laura Wilkerson
July 27


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JANUARY 21, 2011 6:10PM

I Was a Pre-Teen Porn Addict

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         When I was a Tween I became an avid collector of porn. We had just moved to Audubon Acers, a white brick ranch on Bullfinch Avenue with my mother and first stepfather, Jerry, when I collected, or stole, if you must, my first piece of porn, a book. No pictures, just words. I don’t recall the title but I remember the contents by heart. It was about an intrepid girl reporter who remains a virgin while witnessing numerous erotic encounters until the very last chapter, after having smuggled microfilm out of Communist Russia in her nether regions, she releases herself in an orgy of sexual frenzy.

         I read and re-read this book and eventually I stole another book. This one featured a fourteen year old protagonist, three years older than I at the time, who, in the last chapter, ended up the meat in an incest sandwich.

         I then began stealing magazines that depicted the sex act in every variation. Women with men. Men with Men. Women with women. Lots of men with lots of women at once. Anal sex, oral sex, double penetration, four on one, golden showers. I read articles on S&M and how bloodletting can be a form of orgasmic expression illustrated with photographs of people in leather masks and harnesses, suspended from ceilings, like string art airplanes. I collected Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, Screw and Stud, interspersed with copies of a men’s adventure magazine with the pugnaciously assertive title TRUE where I learned to believe that the outside world was populated with pimps just waiting to snatch any young girl foolish enough to take public transportation and where gangs of Hell’s Angels rampaged through parks on their Harleys, raping random picnickers and sawing the legs off flamingos. Soon I had filled a dresser drawer two feet wide and eight inches deep with porn.

         Sometimes I would babysit and when I did I looked for other people’s porn. The 1970’s were a time when whores were writing bestselling books and in one client’s house I found a copy of Pauline’s bound in elegant blue silk, its euphonic title rendered across the front in silver script. Inside was the story of Kentucky’s most exquisite brothel, Pauline’s, formerly located in Bowling Green. Pauline wrote in great detail about her beautifully appointed mansion, her Paris gowns, her fine liquors. She wrote about how she never hired amateurs, only seasoned professionals imported from the finest brothels in Chicago and New York and the men who frequented her establishment and the men she had to bribe in order to stay in business. Another client had the full Happy Hooker trilogy so I could follow Xaviera Hollander’s adventures from an ambitious young madam in New York City in the first book to a strumpet so jaded in book three that the last we see of her she is lounging by a swimming pool in the Hollywood Hills, directing lascivious thoughts toward her host family’s Alsatian.

         When visiting my father’s home I searched the closets for porn, finding only collections of single panel cartoons inhabited by Thurber-esque nudes telling jokes that rarely rose to ribald.

          Mother’s bedroom in the white brick ranch in Audubon Acres had sky blue carpeting and an en suite bath. In her room I found a pair of white ceramic bunnies whose sex organs were painted pink, a get well card from when she had her hysterectomy at Our Lady of Mercy where a cartoon physician advises “ Prescription for Recovery” on the outside and on the inside a photograph of a man whose schlong swung to his knees over the caption, “Swallow One Once a Day,” an assortment of vibrators and packages of French ticklers, one of which I opened, unrolled and stuffed like the sausage casing it was, a book, Curious George Goes to an Orgy, which, to this day, makes me think “dirty monkey” whenever I see Curious George, Tijuana comics where Popeye engaged in a three way with Olive Oyl and Wimpy, Dick Tracy was diddled by Pruneface and L’il Abner was every bit as inbred as you would expect, and where I learned to load an 8mm projector so I could watch a stag film whose plot, such as it was, involved a window washer and a horny housewife and read the sales brochure for descriptions of other films for sale such as Teacher Gang Bang where the action heats up when, instead of an apple, the students bring teacher a green banana!

         Porn permeated the culture. One of the books in my collection, called Naked Came the Stranger, featured a woman’s naked back on the cover in imitation of Man Ray’s famous photo and was written by Penelope Ashe who turned out to be 24 writers from Newsday who each contributed one pornographic chapter in hopes of creating a bestseller that would prove how debased American culture had really become. It made the New York Times Top Ten Bestseller list. Meanwhile, Erica Jong successfully searched for the “zipless fuck” while Hedy Lamarr disclosed her own zipless fuck in a Prussian brothel where her arms magnate husband had taken her teenaged self to observe, concealed behind velvet drapes, prostitutes servicing their clients. I read Looking for Mr. Goodbar where another zipless fuck is found.

         True Romance magazines carried stories about child brides and cheerleaders gang raped on the 40 yard line. True Detective Magazine, where I first saw poor Mary Kelly, skinless save for the lower part of her sprawled left leg clad incongruously in a worn Victorian boot, and a forearm tucked discretely into her open abdomen, and where tales of Peter Kurten reinforced my notions of German depravity first instilled by Hedy Lamarr, sported illustrated ads for anatomically correct blow up dolls with lifelike vibrating action.

         Free love was on the lips and in the loins. Jackie O was caught sneaking into I Am Curious, Yellow, with her sister, Princess Lee. Joey Heatherton, my husband’s boyhood crush, starred as the Happy Hooker in a mainstream studio film. Midnight Cowboy became the first X rated film to win an Academy Award and Marlon Brando tangoed in Paris like butter while a prepubescent Brooke Shields auctioned off her virginity at a turn-of-the-century bordello in New Orleans. Superstars fucked like porn stars in the balconies of Studio 54 while Debbie Did Dallas and Behind the Green Door we found the Ivory Soap Girl, now irrevocably soiled. Deep Throat became a cultural sensation and Linda Lovelace a bigger star than Joey Who?

         In Ordeal, Linda Lovelace writes that she was beaten by her then-husband, Chuck Traynor, who forced her to do porn, that when we watch Deep Throat we are watching her rape and she never, ever, had sex with that German Shepherd, though my second stepfather Fergie claimed to have seem the film and she most certainly had, and Chuck Traynor went on to marry the Ivory Snow Girl.

         All things must pass and there’s only so much porn a person can steal before their stepfather catches on, and so one day I came home from middle school and my mother told me, “I found your porn collection.”

         My face flushed so hard that I thought my flesh would melt from my cheeks. I went to my room and, true enough, my big drawer of porn was empty. Later I overheard mother talking to a friend on the telephone, “I don’t know why. She was curious, I guess,” and later still, after everyone went off to work, I went in and stole back my intrepid girl reporter.

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