Black Snake Moan

Anonymous in Providence writes:

My early pornographic memories were made in the basement of my childhood home, where my dad saw fit to gift his three boys with satellite television and a "black box" that gave us unlimited access to amazing channels like Spice. Spice had a regular cast of characters including "Black Snake," a muscular, well-oiled, man who was not surprisingly quite a hit with the ladies. Sometimes Spice's pornsemble was superseded by special non-Spice content intended for a specialty audience. "Life in the Fat Lane" for example; think hairy little men spreading apart mounds of flesh in search of an opening. This gem, which my older brothers subjected me to by fast-forwarding through the fascinating dialogue right to the money-shots, created some unfortunate associations in my impressionable pre-pubescent mind. This might partially explain why I was a late beat-bloomer, along with an ignorance of the benefits of lubrication, and an apocryphal story about a neighborhood kid (last name Peterson) who got his dick stuck in a bottle while using it inappropriately.

Sadly, it wasn't until I was twenty-one years old that I beat off successfully while fully conscious. My therapist found this impossible to believe. It was only after I explained the lubrication problem that she stopped scribbling notes (liar? severely repressed sexual deviant? pathological guilt?). I don't know why my ignorance of lube was such a plausible explanation. It can't be a common problem, at least not for seven years, but for me, friction was an insurmountable obstacle until at the age of twenty-one I confided in my older brother and he told me, "skin on skin is no good. You need lotion." After that, with the help of a few magazines I brought back from Brazil, vegetable oil (an innovation born of need) and memories of a Brazilian prostitute who showed me what is possible in life, I started to make up for lost time.

A college roommate of mine that year had very strange sleeping habits. Most days, he would take around five very brief naps. Of course this was suspicious, so one day when he was gone I checked out his room and was delighted to find a shoebox full of lesbian VHS tapes. I put one in the VCR, and immediately it was clear why he needed to take so many "naps". Sitting on his bed, dick in hand, enjoying the spectacle of a giant 69-style circle of cheerleaders, I heard someone come home. I was nearly finished, and I wasn't about to stop now.. no, I wouldn't even stop when that someone knocked on the door.. but, why, why didn't I say "don't come in" or "just a minute"? I don't know, there was the intensity of the moment, and I thought the door was locked, and I thought he would just go away. But the door wasn't locked. It opened and my roommate looked at me in shock and quickly shut it. When I came out a few minutes later he asked me why it wasn't locked.

As a teenager who was not yet familiar with the pleasures of self-pleasure, no locked doors were necessary. My friends and I sat in the basement with pillows discretely placed on our laps watching the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue "Making of" video over and over (was there ever another reason to buy Sports Illustrated?) hoping to capture in slow motion the elusive single frame where Ella MacPherson accidentally pulled up her bra to reveal nipple. I'm not sure if that frame ever existed, but it did in my mind.