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I was in the bathtub, helpless to a steady stream of warm water cascading down my lady parts, while the most intoxicating buildup brought me to my first orgasm.

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I started staying up late, when Mom and Dad were snoring away in oblivion, to watch softcore porn on Cinemax. I didn’t know whether to hate her or love her, but I knew I needed her. My brother was three years older, and I’d wait for him to leave the house and then raid his stash, hidden in his bedside drawer under men’s fitness magazines and school notebooks. Later, when classmates at my all-girls Catholic high school were talking about MTV, YM magazine and PMS, I was educating myself on all sorts of other acronyms: DP, POV, ATM and more. Some of the videos had horrible acting bits that made me giggle. I hadn’t a clue what compelled these actresses to pursue this line of work.When friends invited me out, I often made excuses, preferring the ease and familiarity of my screens and self-soothing to the pressure of social connection. When dial-up was replaced with broadband, porn was even more immediate. There was always time and a clip I hadn’t yet seen. I could be in a great mood, a foul mood, angry, sad, bored — whatever was going on, I knew I could top it. Six in this one, eight in that one, 10 in the other. After all, that’s how I found pleasure — in that bathtub at 12, submerged in fear and confusion and the belief that I was bad — and that’s how it had to remain. And, just as I’d blamed yet glorified my softcore hero Shannon Tweed as a child, the women in various porns were also subject to my ambivalence, and eventually my anger. The act was unsatisfying unless I felt some inkling of shame.I feared that somehow they’d figure out my dark secret. With sites like 89, Red Tube, Pornhub, Tube Galore and so many others, I didn’t have to depend on anyone else for my fix. Thoughts of the acrobatic arrangements of flesh and dirty talk filled my mind all day long. Later, when I started having sex for real, I didn’t abandon the usual porn-and-masturbation combo. I surprised boyfriends with my enthusiasm when they’d forgotten to clear their history and insisted that we watch together. Heaven was literally at my fingertips, just a click away, and mine for free whenever and however I wanted it. Usually gang bangs were a sure bet to getting off, but not this time. I’d wired the neural networks in my brain so well that it had become impossible for me to feel sexually turned on without feeling horrible about it. I wanted them to be punished for their insatiable lust, their vacant eyes, and their tireless, mechanical movements with men, just as I emotionally punished myself for my similar relationship with porn. I often fantasized about men cheating on me, hurting me, using me, just so I could get off.I got off once, then twice, then three times, and saved it for later use. But after I’d put my computer away, I felt something different than the usual post-orgasm glow. The introduction of Polaroid cameras in the 1960s allowed true amateurs to self-produce pornographic photography immediately and without the need for sending them to a film processor, who might have reported them as violations of obscenity laws.

One of the more significant increases in amateur pornographic photography came with the advent of the internet, image scanners, digital cameras, and more recently camera phones.

I watched condoms get pulled off just in time for these men to erupt all over Houston’s oversize silicon breasts. I was too angry and sad to enjoy sex, but that’s not all. I was the one who needed rescuing — mostly from myself. Her essays have been published by Salon, Substance, Hello Giggles and The Manifest-Station.

I watched Ron Jeremy finish her off as lucky number 620. It became clear to me, as if a light switch had been turned on, what had happened over the course of my porn addiction. The videos I had been watching recently shared common themes. She is also a staff writer and travel curator at Luna Luna Mag.

Robert Louis Stevenson will forever be an erotic novelist in my mind.

My hormones were a freight train, and I tried to keep up. This girl probably wanted to be an actress, but couldn’t make it. The more pitiful the story, the more I was turned on. What did it mean that my escape method was someone else’s supposed misfortune?

I didn’t know what I stumbled upon, only that it felt scary and wrong, but I tried not to care. Dredging through the book “Treasure Island” in seventh grade, I told myself I was allowed to masturbate to orgasm at the end of each chapter so I could finish by the due date.