Nine Stories About the First Time You Saw Porn

You would never look at sock drawers the same way again...

by Nerve Readers

You never forget your first experience with porn. A wrinkled magazine half-buried in the recycling, or an errant folder on the desktop, and your world is never the same. Here are nine Nerve readers' formative porn experiences. Stay tuned for part two!

My late father was a teacher at a private all-male boarding school. In our basement, he set himself up with a desk, filing cabinets, and row after row of homemade shelves for his extensive paperback collection. When I was about twelve, maybe thirteen, I noticed on his very top shelf an out-of-reach stack of thick magazines he had apparently confiscated from his students. Curious, I climbed on a chair and reached for one to see what it was, and was rewarded with my first Playboy.

The cover girl was scantily clothed, but inside was where I saw my first pair of naked female breasts. I had to climb down from the chair and take a seat because I was light-headed, my mouth was dry, and my hands were shaking. I looked again. They were magnificent. The great Barbi Benton was my first.

— Robert

 

My family always spent the Jewish holidays at my grandparents' house. Back in the day, I was quite a tomboy, and with two younger sisters, I relished the time I could spend with my cousins, boys who liked to get up to as much mischief as I did. We weren't allowed in my grandparents' bedroom and office, so naturally we had to explore them every time I visited.

While the adults were downstairs, we searched every inch of the office, looking for anything remotely interesting. I stood on a chair to get a better look at the giant bookshelf and noticed a stack of magazines. I read the side of one: Playboy.

Ever the protective older sister, I made my sisters go downstairs. My cousins and I locked ourselves in another room and sat with our backs against the door. We flipped through the magazine, looking at the giant silicon boobs, shaved vaginas, and oiled flesh. I don't think I felt anything at the time, but after that, I though of how I'd always liked looking at any nearly-naked girls I could find on TV. It wasn't until around eight years later that I finally put two and two together and realized that I just really like girls.

— Alex

 

My parents though that bringing their eleven-year-old son along to see the epic film version of the James Michener novel Hawaii was relatively safe. The ad campaign suggested a sweeping historical saga about earnest nineteenth-century missionaries; perhaps there would even be educational value. It starred Julie Andrews, for heaven’s sake.

But by the mid-'60s, the world was changing rapidly, and neither my parents nor the MPAA was keeping up. Forty-odd minutes into what was shaping up as a very starchy epic about starchy white folks came the scene in which the missionaries’ ship finally sails within sight of Maui, at which moment dozens of native nymphs dropped what they were doing, as well as what they were wearing, to swim out and greet them.

This was not your James Bond-esque, strategically shadowed pseudo-nudity, either. This was nude-nudity! Boobs! Boobs everywhere! Firm, ripe, ethno-nymph boobs!

I turned to my father. His back was tilted forward at an odd angle. His eyelids fluttered and his Adam’s apple had embarked on some sort of autonomous exercise regimen. He looked as if he were very slowly being electrocuted.

I dared not speak but sent him a telepathic message: Dad… Aren’t you going to stop me from watching this?

There was a pause.

Leave me alone, I sensed him replying. My gosh, look at that one.

— Josh

 

My stepmother once bought me a copy of Playboy magazine because I mentioned that a woman in a wheelchair was getting a pictorial. I grew up with cerebral palsy, and at fourteen, I was fascinated with any portrayal of people with disabilities in the media.

It’s hard to know why my stepmother did it. But the combination of holding such a “dirty” object, and her sending my brother upstairs gave the evening a forbidden thrill that brought a flush to my cheeks. Until I saw it. I don’t know what I was expecting. I'd once filched my mother’s copy of Erica Jong’s Parachutes and Kisses from the shelf and spent many nights with it, but that experience was more mental than visual. But at the moment of truth, all Playboy offered was just Ellen Strohl, in what I found out later were clichéd centerfold poses. Groundbreaking or not, it was no big deal.

“So, how was it?” my stepmother asked.

“Fine,” I said, flicking the magazine closed.

— Erica

 

When I was four, my mom would put my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles tapes on top of the VCR, and I knew how to put play them. Around that time, my mom and dad had been separated, and she had been dating a new guy who ran a local video store. She liked him enough to let him babysit me when my normal babysitter couldn't. On one such occasion, I went into her room to watch Ninja Turtles. I saw a tape on top of the VCR, with no label on it. I pushed it into the VCR, pressed the sideways triangle, and saw three girls, naked in a field, sucking on the udders of a sheep. This was not Ninja Turtles.

I stayed and watched I don't remember for how long until my mom's boyfriend came in from the kitchen and found me watching a movie where a guy was diddling a woman with a fish. Needless to say, he and my mom didn't stay together for long after that.

— Julius

Next: "If it's two women against one guy, why are the women losing?"

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