5/22/15 Cliche

1) Harem

 

The first time I looked up porn was with Frankie. He had come over and was looking at a Super Street mag while I was trying to finish a paper given by my English teacher, Mrs. Haddan. Papers and books littered my small desk. I had a difficult time throwing anything away. There were some books at my feet. To Kill a Mockingbird must be one of the most boring books ever written, but you know–the cannon.

“Shit, man,” said Frankie. “You’d think, you know, if they could show this shit they would be able to show the whole thing, right?”

I swiveled in my office chair. My room was strewn with clothes. I usually just used the sniff check because the dirties and cleans got mixed up sometimes. A bag of potato chips was open in front of Frankie. I leaned over looking at the magazine he was displaying, and helped myself to some chips. Salty. A girl with extraordinarily long legs was perched on the hood of a shiny orange car. She wore a bra, cupping only the outsides of her breasts and wrapping around just enough to cover her nipples. Her legs were bent and together, but lacy ties stuck out from her hips where her bikini bottom was.

“I’m telling you, shit like this should be illegal,” Frankie said.

“She wouldn’t like you anyway,” I told him.

“Like me? She doesn’t need to like me. I just want to fuck her.”

“Yeah, but, you know, Asian chicks don’t like black guys,” I said, turning back to my computer.

He shrugged, not offended in the least. “I bet we could find some that do,” he said.

I laughed. “Don’t look at me, I can’t introduce you.” It wasn’t a secret among our little group that I was a virgin. We all were and we all wished we weren’t.

“Not any girls we know,” said Frankie. “I mean like on there.” He pointed to my computer.

It had occurred to me that I could see naked women on the internet, but I was afraid my parents might find out. The thought also made me uneasy, a little squeamish, hot with embarrassment and something more. It was the same with the Super Street mags and the girls that modeled in those pages. They were being compared with cars. Cars were something you could only buy with money, women on the other hand. . . Comparing long-legged, full-breasted, fit women to high performance cars in the pages of a magazine sent two messages to my teenage brain even if I wasn’t aware of it at the time. One: women liked money. Two: woman, like cars, were objects.

Taking away the car and adding action, motion, sex, it all sounded terrifying and extraordinary and, in the end, completely cliche.

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