I look at porn almost every day. I feel guilty, but not enough to stop.
I look at real girls, too. Every time I see a girl in a skirt, especially a short skirt, my dick twitches. Okay, maybe not every single time. But ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, yes, especially if the girl drops something and has to bend over to pick it up. That doesn’t mean I want to have sex with all of those bending-over girls, if it were even an option, which it’s not.
Mom says our culture is overly obsessed with the way girls look. I get what she’s saying. It would be a lot to be a girl and to have guys watch you whenever you dropped something and bent over to pick it up. It would be a lot to know that those same guys were forming opinions about what you looked like, what clothes you wore, and what size your different body parts were.
Unless — do girls like it when guys look at them? Some do, probably, like Lily and Sabrina. Depending on who’s doing the looking.
In class, when Gertrude got upset because of the lady lobsters’ fragrant mists and all that, Stevie threw up his hands and blamed biology. Is it possible he’s right? Does it all boil down to differences in our sex genes or whatever?
That doesn’t absolve guys of responsibility. That’s not what I’m saying. But take the whole sex drive thing, and how everyone says boys have higher sex drives than girls. Is that my fault? Is it my fault that girls’ clitorises — clitori? — don’t twitch when they see guys bending over?
Unless they do. The clitorises.
I could ask Mom, but she’d tell me.
I could ask Dad, but he’s not around. My parents got divorced when I was in elementary school, and six months later Dad moved to Greensboro.
Another biological fact is that guys, in general, are stronger than girls. That’s not a good thing or a bad thing. It just is. But it’s possible for guys to turn it into something bad. Because if one human — a male — can overpower another human — a female — and do whatever he wants to her . . .
You see where I’m going?
That’s wrong. It’s more than wrong. But isn’t it unfair to blame all males for the behavior of some males?
When topics like mansplaining and manspreading come up in class, it feels like all the girls in the room turn and accuse me with flat eyes. I mean, sheesh.
I think about sex when I want to think about sex.
I think about sex when I don’t want to think about sex.
I imagine a girl with her legs spread, and I get excited.
I kind of doubt that happens when girls imagine guys with their legs spread. I kind of doubt girls imagine guys with their legs spread, period.
Mom says it all comes down to respect.
“God wants you to appreciate the female form,” she says, “just as God wants females to appreciate the male form. Or the female form, if they’re attracted to women, and vice versa for males who are attracted to men.”
Then, invariably, she’ll say, “And, Paul, I hope you know that if you, yourself, end up falling in love with a boy —”
“I won’t,” I always say.
“It’s unlikely, I agree. And I love you just as you are. But if you do —”
At which point I say, yes, I’m aware that she’s all kinds of supportive and would be fine having a gay son, but that I’m not that son, and that as my preschool teacher taught me, you get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.
Then Mom will turn brisk and remind me that pornography isn’t an accurate representation of anything, certainly not sex. That plenty of women like porn, too, and that there’s nothing wrong with liking porn as long as you understand why you like it and you don’t get addicted and you know without a shadow of a doubt that rape fantasies and submission fantasies are fantasies only.
“Okay, Paul?” she’ll finish. “Do you understand?”
Yeah, sure. What’s not to understand?
At the end of the day, we all need each other. That’s what I think. Women need men, men need women, and nobody should be anyone’s sex slave.
Our house has one main level. That’s where the kitchen, TV room, and dining room are. Also on the main level is the master bedroom, which is above my bedroom, which is in the basement. I have my own bathroom in the basement, too.
When I got home from school, I went straight to the basement to drop off my backpack and take care of some personal business. After flushing the toilet, I washed my hands and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Clear skin, brown eyes, brown hair. My muscles don’t impress, but my shoulders are broad. I went through a chubby stage in elementary school, stress eating my way through Mom and Dad’s divorce, but I’ve slimmed down since then. No more chipmunk cheeks.
I think I’m a handsome guy — and I don’t mean that in a cocky way like, Yeah, I think I’m handsome, so stick that up your bunghole and scratch it. I mean it in a legitimately uncertain way, as in, I think I’m handsome, but how would I really know?
Mom says I’m handsome.
When I say, “You’re my mom, you have to say that,” she says, “No. Well, maybe. But, Paul, baby, you are objectively handsome, believe me. Enjoy it. Just remember that you did nothing to earn it.”
Mom means well, but the truth is that I do work for it. It’s about attitude. Take the way girls look different on Instagram than they do in real life. Like, they have a face they make for selfies, right? Sometimes it’s a pretty face. Sometimes it’s an ugly face. If the girl is ugly in real life, but she makes a pretty face, then she looks pretty — on Insta and in real life. If she’s pretty in real life, but she acts ugly . . . well, fine. I guess she’d still be pretty, but only on the outside.
What I’m trying to say is that how you act matters more than whether or not you’re “objectively” handsome or pretty. Big truth.
I leaned toward the mirror and made a face. My lips look French, according to Grandmom. She also says they look “bee-stung.” So I guess my lips were stung by French bees?
I went to my room, swept a McDonald’s bag and some old French fries off my unmade bed, and sprawled spread-eagle on the tangled sheets. Mom’s rule is that I get to keep my room however I want as long as I keep the door shut, although supposedly I’ll have to pay a cleaning fee when and if I ever move out. Like if the carpet is stained (it is) or if the walls are messed up (they are).
Mom lets my room slide because of divorce guilt, even though it’s been five years since all that went down. After the divorce, Mom and I moved into a smaller house and tightened our belts, as Mom put it. We tried not to use the AC so much in the summer or the heat in winter. We canceled our cable subscription and all our streaming services except Netflix. We stopped ordering pizza from Big Mike’s, which is Mom’s favorite pizza place, and started ordering from Domino’s, which is mine. So now all the pizza goes to me, and Mom eats yogurt and granola instead.
I rolled onto my side. I growled and flopped to my other side. I fluffed my pillow for no reason other than sometimes it’s fun to punch something, especially if it makes a satisfying thwump-thwump sound and can’t punch back.
I wasn’t drowsy.
I wasn’t in the mood to jerk off.
Was I hungry? When was I not hungry?
I swung myself out of bed, kicking an empty Monster can out of the way. It was possible that ants were invading my room. A line of them streamed in from the window well. But live and let live, right?