Canada
4 min

Porn is my longest relationship

Happiness is a life spent around cameras and video

My relationship with porn started when I was 10 years old. My oldest brother had been shacking up with a girl named Mary and things didn’t work out, so he moved back into the basement of the family farm complex. With him came a VCR and a massive collection of straight porn.

It was the summer so I had the entire day to myself to watch porn. I was supposed to be weeding the garden, but I would sneak to the basement as soon as the rest of the family headed to the back fields and start watching smut. When I heard the sound of my brother’s car approaching I’d rush back to my green pepper patch, never getting caught. I remember being introduced to Ron Jeremy and finding his massive schlong interesting, and I remember a series featuring a dirty-talking ceramic rat. The rat was positioned on the headboard of the star’s bed, and it would talk to him before and after an encounter, but the film was so low budget you could tell that the rat was being voiced by the cameraman.

I was too young to even jerk off, but for some reason I found porn compelling and became obsessed. I got turned on watching the straight guys fuck the chicks, and would fast-forward through the scenes with ugly male models. My brother only lived in the basement for the summer, and when he moved out, he took the porn collection with him.

During the next four years I learned to masturbate, but was limited to things like the Sears catalogue men’s underwear section, and the illustrated puberty guide “What’s Happening to Me?” I didn’t get to see any more porn until I turned 14 and started working at the local Mac’s Milk. Within weeks I was working the midnight shift rotating between two identical twins — one slutty one, and one with a boyfriend. Between the slutty one taking random guys into the backroom to give them head, and the other one spending hours on the phone with her boyfriend, I had plenty of time to look at the porn magazines.

I started stealing every new edition of Playgirl, and any other magazine that had photos of guy’s cocks. I even found a way to manipulate the white trash owner of the store to order a magazine I’d read about in the back of another magazine — Celebrity Sleuth Special Edition: Nude Dudes. It was a magazine that printed screen grabs of the moments in movies when you could see boobs, and I convinced the owner that one of our female customers had asked me to confidentially ask my boss to get the male version. Of course as soon as it arrived it went straight into my backpack.

As the pile of magazines accumulated in my bottom desk drawer, and as my masturbation became more regular, I would feel guilty. Guilty for stealing and guilty for jerking off to naked cock. So I put everything in my backpack, rode my bike down the street to this abandoned house where Harley bikers would party late at night, and shoved the magazines through a broken pane of glass in the kitchen door, one by one.

Of course my love for porn did not go away, and I would start accumulating Playgirl magazines again. Whenever I felt guilty, I would put them all in an envelope and give them to a female friend of mine, professing that I had been “saving them for her birthday” for months. She was a ballet student, so she knew gay when she saw it but she went along with my story in order to not embarrass me, later confirming that she suspected I was a big homo all along.

On my 18th birthday, I skipped school with my friend Kristina and went to the Adults Only Video store. We rented a massive VCR (I swear it was the size of a suitcase) and a whole bunch of porn. I had been waiting forever to be legal, and I loved finally seeing full action gay smut. I had already come out to my mom, so to explain why I had this suitcase sized VCR in my bedroom, and why I needed to borrow the only family TV, I showed her one of my rentals, Male Erotica from the Past. Black and white reels of underground footage from the 1920s and ’30s. We watched it together, and she said she thought it was artistic.

A few weeks later, I borrowed a videocamera from school, and set it up in my bedroom on a tripod. It’s a surreal video — I no longer worked at Mac’s Milk, so I enter the frame wearing a Jumbo Video striped dress shirt, and strip down and jerk off on my kids-style NHL bed sheets. I made a youthful statement to myself at the time: I’m going to tape myself jerking off at least every two years, and then when I’m 75, I’ll compile it all together and watch myself age.

I didn’t end up following the grand master plan of shooting myself shooting every two years, but when I moved to the big city I was still obsessed with porn. I got into the digital video and home computer revolution at the beginning, and was one of the pioneer male webcam models on the now mega-site iFriends. I spent hours in my room on webcam, accumulated my own porn collection, and then a few years later started producing porn.

I have now shot or produced at least 200 scenes and even though I am desensitized to a lot of the aspects of porn production, porn is still my fool-proof release. I am still a connoisseur, I spend money on adult websites and pay-per-view minutes, and 99 percent of the time when I jerk off, it’s to porn.

With sites like Xtube and DudeTube and even some creative searching on YouTube the current generations of teens can discover porn for free. Some people find that disturbing, but I think porn is a very healthy and safe thing. I talk a lot about casual sex, bathhouses, and locker rooms, but in the end, my best sexual relationship is sitting in front of the computer or TV, cock in hand, watching porn.