By Will Irwin, Staff Writer, Emerson College
When I was thirteen years old, I would venture downstairs to borrow my dad’s fancy laptop. It was for schoolwork--at least, that’s what I told mom. The usual routine was browsing the internet for ten minutes before venturing to XNXX.com. I told myself I would go to the website’s front page, look at the preview pictures of the pretty girls sucking cocks or getting fucked, but ultimately I would overpower the urge to click on the shiny yellow links against the cool blue background. It would be like a scene in a movie where a cocaine addict throws the white powder out the window and watches it wisp away in a grainy cloud.
It also was similar to a scene in a movie because I was putting on a show. It wasn’t for my sake--I was performing for the omnipresent voyeur in the clouds. I was putting on a show for Jesus.
When I was thirteen years old, I would venture downstairs to borrow my dad’s fancy laptop. It was for schoolwork--at least, that’s what I told mom. The usual routine was browsing the internet for ten minutes before venturing to XNXX.com. I told myself I would go to the website’s front page, look at the preview pictures of the pretty girls sucking cocks or getting fucked, but ultimately I would overpower the urge to click on the shiny yellow links against the cool blue background. It would be like a scene in a movie where a cocaine addict throws the white powder out the window and watches it wisp away in a grainy cloud.
It also was similar to a scene in a movie because I was putting on a show. It wasn’t for my sake--I was performing for the omnipresent voyeur in the clouds. I was putting on a show for Jesus.
See, unfortunately, I was raised very Christian. Luckily for me, my parents were pretty liberal for a pastor and his wife. They thought maybe being gay is sort of OK. Maybe. To you, this sounds ridiculous--but I saw my dad like Martin Luther nailing the 99 Theses to the cathedral door. Maybe being gay is OK. It was revolutionary. He was this modern day rebel--he considered things like the inerrancy of the bible, or the literality of the Revelations. He took on church doctrines and imposed slightly less strict doctrines of his own. For the majority of my life, he was the most liberal influence I had.
I had two models for masculinity in my life: my dad, and my God--and they were pretty similar. When my dad got angry, which was relatively rare, he would yell and stomp around. When my God got angry, he would slaughter a few thousand people and call it good. Both were prideful. My dad sits at the head of the table, and God’s name is never to be taken in vain.
One day, when I went down to borrow dad’s laptop, it was gone and I knew immediately I was caught. Caught with my pants down in my perverted conspiracy to masturbate against God’s will, and, more importantly, against my father’s will.
He talked to me about it. He said I might be a sex addict--but it’s possible I’m not quite that far. He said some of the videos I watched disturbed him, and he didn’t understand why I would watch them. My mom watched the videos with him, I guess, because she asked me about them, too. Both of them were disgusted with me, but most of all I was disgusted with myself. I asked them, tears running down my face, if they could ever look at me the same way knowing what I’ve done. They said “yes,” but the word burned like a lie.
Fast forward one year. I’m spooning a girl, and lo and behold, there’s a rustling in my boxer-briefs (I had a poor fashion sense). I had a boner--or as I called it, I was “horny” (I assumed the word referred exclusively to erections because, like stiff penises, horns are hard. I also thought girls peed out of their butts, but that’s a story for another time). She asked me how long it was. I had a few canned answers for this. I could either say “I’ve never measured”--which is obvious bullshit--or I could say “6 inches,” which sounds short enough to be true, and long enough to be satisfactory.
I had two models for masculinity in my life: my dad, and my God--and they were pretty similar. When my dad got angry, which was relatively rare, he would yell and stomp around. When my God got angry, he would slaughter a few thousand people and call it good. Both were prideful. My dad sits at the head of the table, and God’s name is never to be taken in vain.
One day, when I went down to borrow dad’s laptop, it was gone and I knew immediately I was caught. Caught with my pants down in my perverted conspiracy to masturbate against God’s will, and, more importantly, against my father’s will.
He talked to me about it. He said I might be a sex addict--but it’s possible I’m not quite that far. He said some of the videos I watched disturbed him, and he didn’t understand why I would watch them. My mom watched the videos with him, I guess, because she asked me about them, too. Both of them were disgusted with me, but most of all I was disgusted with myself. I asked them, tears running down my face, if they could ever look at me the same way knowing what I’ve done. They said “yes,” but the word burned like a lie.
Fast forward one year. I’m spooning a girl, and lo and behold, there’s a rustling in my boxer-briefs (I had a poor fashion sense). I had a boner--or as I called it, I was “horny” (I assumed the word referred exclusively to erections because, like stiff penises, horns are hard. I also thought girls peed out of their butts, but that’s a story for another time). She asked me how long it was. I had a few canned answers for this. I could either say “I’ve never measured”--which is obvious bullshit--or I could say “6 inches,” which sounds short enough to be true, and long enough to be satisfactory.
“It doesn’t feel that small,” she said. I guess it was a compliment. Of course, the sobering truth was 5 inches. Five. Not even as big as the smallest sandwich you can order from Subway.
“How long do you like it?” I asked. In my brain, I was scrambling to think of something I could say to make myself sound less inadequate.
“8 inches, at least,” she said.
“Maybe it’ll grow,” I said with a shrug. I was absolutely fucking crushed. Five inches. That’s three less than 8. That’s basically half as big.
Over the next few days I started to picture the life I would lead with such a small penis. I thought of the pros -- I don’t even need to try to hide an erection, who’s going to notice? I can have a firmer, more secure grasp during urination -- But then there were the cons, or really, the one big con. I could never satisfy a woman. I started to picture this long term relationship where the woman involved would fake orgasms and despise me, but she would feel so much pity for me for being this loathsome, perverted, small dicked thing, that she won’t break up with me on principle. Instead, she would spend every day dreaming about throwing herself off a bridge because the icy water of the Willamette would be preferable to living with me.
Time went on and life changed and I grew up. All of these stories became distant memories. I didn’t think about them, not only because I didn’t want to, but because they didn’t affect me anymore. At least that’s what I thought.
The problem was that I had been having “performance anxiety.” So much that yesterday while giving a speech about flying a shitty kite, the only words I could grasp to describe the experience were “I couldn’t get it up. It was not the best...”
So I did what anyone in my situation would do. I shamelessly consulted Google M.D in the back of one of my classes. “Why can’t I stay hard?” There were ads for Viagra, a medicine which I strongly considered. Then I found an article on anxiety in the bedroom. It said to save the little blue pills for fifty years from now, when I really need them. It said something was wrong, and I needed to confront it.
So I asked myself: “what’s wrong, Will?” And to answer, I started writing this. The sad truth is, a lot of us were raised with various belief systems shoved down our throats. Maybe our parents thought it was without consequence, but the truth is, it wasn’t. No matter how liberal my Christian upbringing was, it hurt me. I know two things, though--two truths, my saving grace.
Firstly, I’m not alone. Too many members of my generation were raised like this. There’s support out there. You can talk to somebody. I did--and it helped. I’ve now talked to you and I talked to her.
Secondly, everything this bullshit society and my parents have taught me has done nothing but make me hurt. Sex, however, has been universally incredible. I’m not going to let my parents’ anxieties hurt my sex life. I’m not going to let a bunch of porno directors transfer their low self-esteem onto me.
I’m taking back sex. I don’t care what my parents think, and I don’t care what society thinks, and I don’t care what you think. My sex life belongs to me and believe it or not, yours belongs to you, too. Break the chains. Fuck them--fuck everyone who told you you’re dirty, or you’re not good enough. They’re lying. They want you in their trap. It’s a lion’s den, and the big cats are hungry. But you aren’t feed, and neither am I.
Will Irwin is a Writing for Film and TV major at Emerson College. To the dismay of his peers, romanticism got to Will at a young age on the back of an embarrassing amount of late Middle School nights spent watching romantic comedies on TBS. He fell in love with love a hundred years ago, and their relationship--though sometimes dysfunctional--has been going strong ever since. And they all lived happily ever after, the end. Contact Will on Facebook.
“How long do you like it?” I asked. In my brain, I was scrambling to think of something I could say to make myself sound less inadequate.
“8 inches, at least,” she said.
“Maybe it’ll grow,” I said with a shrug. I was absolutely fucking crushed. Five inches. That’s three less than 8. That’s basically half as big.
Over the next few days I started to picture the life I would lead with such a small penis. I thought of the pros -- I don’t even need to try to hide an erection, who’s going to notice? I can have a firmer, more secure grasp during urination -- But then there were the cons, or really, the one big con. I could never satisfy a woman. I started to picture this long term relationship where the woman involved would fake orgasms and despise me, but she would feel so much pity for me for being this loathsome, perverted, small dicked thing, that she won’t break up with me on principle. Instead, she would spend every day dreaming about throwing herself off a bridge because the icy water of the Willamette would be preferable to living with me.
Time went on and life changed and I grew up. All of these stories became distant memories. I didn’t think about them, not only because I didn’t want to, but because they didn’t affect me anymore. At least that’s what I thought.
The problem was that I had been having “performance anxiety.” So much that yesterday while giving a speech about flying a shitty kite, the only words I could grasp to describe the experience were “I couldn’t get it up. It was not the best...”
So I did what anyone in my situation would do. I shamelessly consulted Google M.D in the back of one of my classes. “Why can’t I stay hard?” There were ads for Viagra, a medicine which I strongly considered. Then I found an article on anxiety in the bedroom. It said to save the little blue pills for fifty years from now, when I really need them. It said something was wrong, and I needed to confront it.
So I asked myself: “what’s wrong, Will?” And to answer, I started writing this. The sad truth is, a lot of us were raised with various belief systems shoved down our throats. Maybe our parents thought it was without consequence, but the truth is, it wasn’t. No matter how liberal my Christian upbringing was, it hurt me. I know two things, though--two truths, my saving grace.
Firstly, I’m not alone. Too many members of my generation were raised like this. There’s support out there. You can talk to somebody. I did--and it helped. I’ve now talked to you and I talked to her.
Secondly, everything this bullshit society and my parents have taught me has done nothing but make me hurt. Sex, however, has been universally incredible. I’m not going to let my parents’ anxieties hurt my sex life. I’m not going to let a bunch of porno directors transfer their low self-esteem onto me.
I’m taking back sex. I don’t care what my parents think, and I don’t care what society thinks, and I don’t care what you think. My sex life belongs to me and believe it or not, yours belongs to you, too. Break the chains. Fuck them--fuck everyone who told you you’re dirty, or you’re not good enough. They’re lying. They want you in their trap. It’s a lion’s den, and the big cats are hungry. But you aren’t feed, and neither am I.
Will Irwin is a Writing for Film and TV major at Emerson College. To the dismay of his peers, romanticism got to Will at a young age on the back of an embarrassing amount of late Middle School nights spent watching romantic comedies on TBS. He fell in love with love a hundred years ago, and their relationship--though sometimes dysfunctional--has been going strong ever since. And they all lived happily ever after, the end. Contact Will on Facebook.