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Once, some kids from my highrise and me discovered an abandoned van, which wasn't that strange in post-Soviet St. Petersburg, and inside we found pieces of paper on which some lady and a naked guy were doing stuff to each other, in that very van.
"I know what this is," I told my friends, I knew exactly what it was, it was genitals and I knew all about that because my parents had given me a book about it. But I didn't know why the man was putting his penis near the vagina, I hadn't finished the book yet.
Later, my parents, technical but anti-screen, relented and brought a PC home.
On day one, I played Space Cadet.
On day two, my dad explained how to use the modem and my sister showed me
On day three, I found a link at the bottom of to brought me not the Java applets I sook, but offered instead women getting naked and I was intrigued. I invited a friend over, and we dispassionately examined the ladies together. "I have that," she said. "I do not have that," I said. Then she went home. was a nice website, it was neatly designed, had a good color palette, and the ladies were all in various states of naked just as promised. And, best of all, it was accessible through, so all the post-Soviet children could be enriched by the art of striptiz.

One of the first IMs I ever received when I was a child of single digits was a link to a porn website. The link went to an image of a woman spreading her butt, but it loaded so slowly on my wimpy 28k modem that I had no idea what the hell it was until it was nearly finished, and I closed it as confused as when I had opened it.
I was raised in a very strict Christian household and taught that sex, sexuality, and human bodies were essentially damning outside of marriage, and to some extent that sinking fear, even of my own physicality, is something I still carry. It should come as no surprise, then, that conventional pornography wasn't something I sought out as a tween and then as a teenager, but around the time I was 17 I had found the adult side of the MUDs that I played in and, for the first time, actually enjoyed my time in an erotic context.
I'm an (insecure) cis male, but I found that I always got more attention when playing as a female character. When pried about my identity I fabricated a cis female identity that I was comfortable with, and I never actually fessed up to some of the people I played with until very recently. It's been almost a decade.
In those spaces I was, in a way that I never really understood, unjudged, sexy, and free, and admitting who I was felt like the claws of reality attempting to drag me back tonot a mundane reality, but to a distinctly Othered identity. A place where my bisexuality, odd gender understanding, and penchant for thick, fat, chubby, and cute body types was going to be under constant scrutiny.
It's not so much that I was drawn to those spaces, like an immoral pervert who crossed over some sort of slippery Astroglide event horizon; I was pushed there because there was nowhere else I could feel myself and safe at the same time. "Normal" pornography didn't help or entice me because, in some way, I needed an online experience that didn't just give me agency, but acknowledged who I was in a welcoming way.
In some ways, maybe my experiences made me a little more weird, but in a lot of ways, it made me feel a little bit better about being weird.

I was about 14 or fi fteen. Spending the night at my friends house to play maplestory on my really big desktop I dragged over. After we drank some slurpees and watched some youtube poop his brother comes down with a copy of bittorent open on his laptop. He was telling us about how in normal porn sometimes girls are not perfect looking, he mentioned that sometimes their nose is strange. While I knew of porn at the time I never really, or even now, care that much about it since I am a hideous slime creature. Things like that don't interest me. However, my brothers friend was always saying stupid things. I like to listen to people say things and try not to stop them with laughter. This whole time he was explaining why hentai was superior to normal porn. As he finishes up talking about this he goes into the closet to jerk it to some hentai he torrented. I really hope he seeded it

Warning: the following piece deals with dysphoria, transphobia, and cybersexual assault.
When you're a teen and trans the primary problem with your sex life is your body. The primary problem with your life is your body. That's why most of my teen sex life happened on IRC. Cyberspace was the great trans frontier in that it doesn't require you to have a body.
Or maybe: your body online is Choose Your Own Adventure. Presentation is entirely self-selected. So is the way your body reacts to anything your partner does, one of the prime reasons cybersex is way emotionally safer than sex in the Terrordome (AKA the off line world, the "real" world, irl). Cybersex becomes a curation of those details you wish to share with your partner, or - when you're a trans teen blob without much experience of sexuality outside the internet - anxiety over whether you're narrating the right ones.
IRC is magic word chat on the internet. In its text-only world you reveal only what you choose to. It was regular practice to idle in a channel for hours - just leave your computer on with the chat program logged in. Your name appears in the channel list - a name you've chosen, of course, not one Facebook chose for you - but otherwise folks don't know whether you're out of the room or sitting in front of your computer, quietly watching, or even recording. No one knows how many private conversations you're in with how many people - you could be cybering with one person and not know that they were in another private chat, cybering with someone else. Disclosure, here, is a deliberate act - and to a young trans kid it was very liberating not to have to disclose the fact.
My first hookups weren't on dedicated sex and kink servers, they were on servers and channels where I interacted with other people who were nominally my own age. I had cybersex with a boy for the first time after meeting him in a channel that was probably about videogames and music or something.
We were in private chat (and also, of course, still in the channel we had met in, idling). I had him tied down and was tickling him, VIRTUALLY, which is kind of a challenge to role-play because normally being tickled is a situation where you have almost no control over how your body responds. He told me, "I know where a guy is REALLY ticklish," which at the time was the hottest thing anyone had ever said to me. (Spoilers: it was his dick! Hell yeah.)
After not hearing from the dude for years, he sent me an email out of the blue that said "I love you," and sort of blossomed into a stalker when I didn't tell him I loved him back.
As a young adult I started exploring the IRC channels, which were somehow associated with, which was a BDSM site that was, if you can believe it, worse than FetLife. This was back when we called it "BDSM" instead of "kink" - picture the letters in black on black, gold-bordered, with steel studs popping from the letters. Wow.
I ended up in a channel called #domfemsub, or #domsubfem, or some other combination of the three half-words. It was a woman-only channel, and what their definition of "woman" meant for me as a baby trans lady was a little slippery.
They had a rule: when you entered the channel, you had to disclose your age, "sex" and location. A/S/L or die. The mods would hassle you until you declared your "F" gender, at which point I guess they could breathe easy, knowing the sanctity of the woman-only space had not been breached. If you didn't declare, they'd eventually kick you from the channel.
Of course, anyone could say they were an F. A great subject of discussion in the channel was who was Secretly A Man, trying to get his rocks off to Secret Lesbian Cyber Kink. They were always the people who were too aggressive, too loud, too eager to find cyber partners. Anyone who violated etiquette in any way could be Really A Man, and it was in this environment that I totally absolutely kept my status as a trans woman to myself.
The owner of the channel - who very rarely showed up to #femsubdom in person, though her name sat in a place of honor at the top of the idle list - at some point instituted a policy about trans women, or already had and the moderators finally decided to try and enforce it. Trans women (probably they used the word "transsexual" or "transvestite," probably they used any word starting with "trans-" interchangeably) were allowed in the channel, though they had to add a T to the end of their online name, so everyone knew they weren't a woman, they were a Trans-. The scarlet T - but in lesbian cyberspace having sex isn't a crime, having a penis is.
I chose not to take up that particular cross, of course. This was a place where I didn't have to have a penis, and I exulted, a little guiltily, in listening to partners describe what they'd do with my cunt. Who could say what my body looked like, in cyberspace? I had become a regular of the channel, folks knew me, I was welcome there. I cybered with a lot of people.
There was one other member of the channel I developed a big crush on. I wanted very badly for her to top me - when it finally happened, it was a Very Big Thing for me. I remember describing my tears to her, in text chat, while she virtually caned me, slowly allowing my composure to crumble as the scene escalated, until the scene passed into aftercare and then into fucking. I really really had it for this woman.
After playing together regularly for a while, seeing her on IRC almost every day (I remember she was maybe a bus driver and there were some days I didn't know whether she would show up in channel or not and then she WOULD and my heart would flutter all nervous-excited), it became really hard to keep from telling her, like I declined to tell the rest of the channel, that I was trans. My body had begun intruding into my cybersphere.
I told her.
She was very supportive and reassuring, promised not to tell anyone else in channel, and the next time I privately shared a fantasy of mine with her, she said: "That's a male fantasy if I've ever heard one!" She couldn't understand why I was so upset. She had a male partner off line, so there was no reason - she must have thought - for me to think she couldn't tolerate the half-man half-woman hybrid it was clear she had started seeing me as.
During cybersex once, without asking, she climbed on top of me and started riding my penis. I disassociated completely. I didn't even respond. Part of my brain tried to convince me that the Right Thing To Do would be to tell her why, to patiently explain that what she had done was not okay, why it made me so uncomfortable that her conception of me and my body had changed since I confided in her that I was trans.
I didn't listen to that part of my brain. Instead I stared at the screen, not responding, and she didn't try to make me respond, the moment frozen in the chat window. Neither of us said anything. Eventually she logged off , but I had already checked out.
Entitlement to other people's bodies is violence, and that kind of violence happens all too often, in different ways, online. I had thought that on IRC I was fi nally safe from my body, but I wasn't safe from people's assumptions about it. Some of the regulars in #femsubdom started protesting the mandatory disclosures, the branding of trans women. Some of the people who protested were AFAB trans people - they certainly were louder about it than any of the few trans women who frequented the channel, marked or unmarked, but I was grateful to have allies. Eventually we went off and founded our own channel, which, while less busy, was still pretty hoppin' at the beginning.
I'd kind of stopped caring. I had a body again and cyberspace was no longer an escape from it. Instead, I began the long, slow task of learning to love my body, or at least to exist in it. Modding your body - with hormones and with hair dye, with drugs and with dresses - is way more cyberpunk than fucking in cyberspace, I've decided. But cyberspace let me reframe my body in a way that was compatible with "lover" and "beautiful" and "object of desire," and that changed life in the Terrordome forever.

When I was 14 and first came across a hyperlink to "facials," I clicked it because I thought it would be close-up shots of the ladies' faces while they were enjoying themselves.

Recently Visited:…f&q=am+i+still+a+lesbian+if+i+like+penises…shemale_ass_slammed…ff &q=shemale+huge+cock…hung_guy_gets_fucked…ff &q=gay+huge+cock
https://…ff &q=Huge+cock+anal

Computers and masturbation both took up a signifi cant portion of my young life, but initially they did so separately. My family purchased a computer sometime in 1994, when I was in sixth grade. I spent most of my time on it writing school papers, playing Doom, and accidentally breaking applications while poking around. My first autoerotic experience happened around the same time, brought on by an article about anatomy inside an issue of Cosmo I stole from my mother. The article encouraged me to "squat over a mirror" and memorizethe latin names of my private parts, but I read between the lines and fucked myself with a hairbrush. A handheld mirror and numerous phallic household objects kept me busy for a summer, but there were schoolyard rumors of a vast well of sexual stimuli available to fuel my secret descent into total perversion. This sex well, of course, was The Internet, and we had an AOL subscription.
Unfortunately, the avalanche of dirty pictures and words that I craved were on the other side of some signifi cant logistical obstacles. My parents were not savvy enough to think of checking browser or download history, so I was safe on that front. However, the family computer was located in the living room, along a well-traversed route to the kitchen and without the privacy of a door. It was easy enough to mitigate this risk with simple, if inconvenient, scheduling - at 1AM, my parents and little brother were comfortably tucked into their beds upstairs, and none of them were late night snackers. The real problem lay in a now obsolete technology that, even now, stirs up feelings of extreme annoyance within me: the dial-up modem.
I am assuming I can depend on misplaced nostalgia to have exposed younger readers to the existence and general purpose of the dial up modem. It went "booooooooooooBopBopBeepBopBopBopBeepBeepBopBeepBeep…Dong,DEEE,Bwoaw,DEEE,Bwoaw… EEEEEEEEEEEBWOAWWWWW EEEE UR EEEE UR EEE PSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHBURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR". Before we built the infrastructure for broadband internet, we connected to the world wide web by co-opting the systems originally built for telephone calls. My 11 year old self did not know this, but the harsh noise set my computer regaled me with every time I signed on were complex conversations between the modem on my computer and the modem on a far away server. While I was preparing to probe my own body, these two modems were shamelessly probing each other for information about modulation modes, carrier frequencies, and data transfer speeds.
The "handshake" between modems was super fucking loud (and long). This was a real problem considering the covert nature of my mission to get off in the same room that my family watched Full House and played Scrabble in. My first attempt at ogling the adult side of the internet was foiled by the modem, whose hubbub immediately awoke my parents and elicited a stern "What are you doing? Go to bed!" from my groggy father. It was time to get creative.
Aside from the computer, the living room housed a soft, dingy sofa the color of stained cement and with a texture similar to worn out corduroy. My mother had contributed multiple silky Korean throw pillows to the arrangement, and between these, the couch cushions, and small velour blanket sourced from my bedroom, I had all the materials I needed for my very first acoustical treatment project. After some trial and error, I found that the optimal configuration was one big couch cushion shoved between the computer tower and the wall, four Korean pillows between the sides of the tower and the desk, and the blanket fi lling up any remaining space. My efforts ushered in a glorious era of dirty stories (my preferred medium for pornography at the time) read on a nightly basis, during which time my naive and curious mind was dazzled by stories of exhibitionist neighbors, gay cheerleaders, under-the-desk off ice shenanigans, loosy-goosy babysitters, punitive yet horny librarians, etc. I was in heaven, though it was a heaven tempered by the fact that my parents were still woken up by the modem a third of the time.
Of course, times have changed. Today I enjoy my pornography in the comfort of my own bed, on my own laptop. Now that I don't have the dial up modem to contend with, the only sounds betraying my lascivious behavior are my own, intermingled with the moans of adult performers if I'm too lazy to retrieve headphones from my desk. In my adulthood, I went on to dedicate four years of my life to studying audio, and many years after that I worked in studios and venues in deep consideration of the manipulation of sound. Though I doubt I was on a lifelong mission to tame the roar of the dial-up modem, which had long since been replaced by broadband, I wonder if this early analysis and interaction with sound played any part in my early move from simply being a musician to being an engineer as well.
More significantly, there is a part of me that misses the risky, Sword of Damacles-esque experience that was sex by dial up modem. Most of my sexual fantasies now involve the threat of my perverse nature being suddenly and lewdly exposed to others. Perhaps yet another sexual awakening awaits me in a return to this scenario by way of role play:
I am completely naked, leaning over the desk toward the monitor expectantly. I push a button on my stereo and play the dial up handshake at a deafening level. You barge in, alerted to some kind of mischief by the sound. "What are you doing young lady?" As you demand answers, I avert my eyes and struggle to cover up, experiencing an exciting mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. "And why is the computer wrapped in an entire Ikea bed set?"

My first exposure to the internet was not through direct access – I had a modem, and lived close enough to dial in to the LA Free-Net. Which meant that I logged in to a unix shell and worked from there. No graphics. But I could download things. Back then, newsgroups were the rage. Each day I would scroll through the list and choose a few to poke around. Most were weird, like alt dot conspiracies. Eventually I came across alt dot binaries dot pictures do … eroyitca? No, erotica. What's erotica? I downloaded a jpg. Cool! What are these other groups? alt dot binaries dot pictures dot erotica dot amateur? Cool!
All the subtopics were arranged in alphabetical order, and to this day, my fetishes range from Amateur to Gangbang.

One of my earliest memory is this: I was three or four years old, and I had pneumonia. They took me to a day-care center in the hospital, gave me a disposable cotton sheet, turned on Cartoon Network and told me to press the button next to my bed if I started to panic or if I couldn't breathe. There was an easel set up next to the window; I drew on it for a while, trying to ignore the sound of my own wheezing. Around 3pm a nurse stopped by and told me to go to sleep. Once she left, I unfolded the cotton sheet over the best, laid down on the far right side, and rolled over to the left so I was wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon, or like a body being mummifi ed. Tomorrow I would come out of it transformed, repaired.
I repeated same act day after day for years on end. Sometimes, as an adult, it's still hard for me to fall asleep if I'm not bound in this way.
"Jessa. She thinks her period comes out of her nipples. Imagine that!"
We were playing flash games on Neopets when my best friend said this. I paused and thought. I didn't know where a period came out of either. But I laughed, because clearly, it didn't come out of your nipples. How could it? That doesn't make any sense.
A few days later I was taking a shower after swimming with my friend. The shower had both a liner and a curtain proper. The liner was transparent. I leaned out to tell my friend a joke, and she remarked:
"Ooh, you've only got the liner!"
I looked down and realized that my chest was squashed flat against a sheet of clear plastic. I didn't understand why it was a problem - I saw boys go shirtless all the time. But my friend was clearly uncomfortable, so I drew up the curtain and hid my chest from her vision.
Fifth grade. They gave us diagrams of dicks and uteri to label. I called out sick. I couldn't stand it.
I remember thinking that the diagram of the uterus looked like a praying mantis. Like something foreign and probing. The ovaries were two bulbous eyes; the vaginal canal was a proboscis, sucking up fluids like butterflies drink nectar in the garden. The fallopian tubes reached out towards me, grinning as they said: "This is normal. You shouldn't feel weird about this." My dreams focused on strangulation, on insects swarming out of nests and inhabiting my body. A day later, I faked laryngitis so I wouldn't have turn in the sheets of labeled sex organs. I hid the worksheets in the bottom drawer of a Formica desk set, and hoped that my parents wouldn't find them. I missed the sex ed test, but luckily, I was good enough at math that my teacher didn't care. She read over my sick pass, looked at me sympathetically, and posted me an A.
In the mirror wall, during ballet class, I saw my tits poke through my shirt. Small drawn points on the surface of an otherwise flat red sweater vest. Where had they come from? I thought I heard everyone laugh.
After fifth grade I got into an accelerated academics program. They didn't make the nerds take gym, so I never had to collectively shower. Thank god for that. I gained more and more access to the family computer and spent the majority of time browsing Internet forums. Forgetting my body and becoming a formless ego was my goal. I mostly played free online MMOs, private servers with tight communities and gendered sprites. Male sprite, female sprite - that, to be honest, was irrelevant to me, because either way everyone assumed I was a man. The destructiveness of this stereotype (AKA "There are no girls on the internet!") is now plain to me, but as a young trans man, that latent prejudice was paradoxically empowering.
Two things happened simultaneously.
The first was set off by a Google search. I've forgotten its exact syntax, but I can only assume it was close to:
"why don't I like my boobs I want them to be gone"
Which led me to Hudson's FTM Guide. I had never even heard the term "transgender". My closest cultural stereotype was drag queens. I did more research. But it still didn't seem right. Most narratives of sex change I stumbled across had as their unstated premise that the subject was heterosexual afterwards. I am AFAB and attracted mostly to men. I remember being fourteen, looking at myself and becoming terribly dejected. I thought, "But I'm straight, so I can't be trans."
The second thing was my newfound obsession with Withnail & I. It's a low-budget film with a huge cult reputation. The main characters are two out of work, alcoholic actors, living in London at the end of the 60s. There's lots of swearing. Everyone's strung out. Everyone overacts; it's tragedy-farce. I watched this movie every day for months. I had the script memorized. After a while I sought to expand my obsession, and dug up a LiveJournal community dedicated to the film. And what was it filled with? Slash. Of course.
Pairings of every character. Gentle romance, kissing in the rain, reworking the tragic parting at the end to triumphant union. Or else rape scenes, blowjobs, artless descriptions of gay trysts that lacked any realism or relationship to the plot at large. But the fact is, the film occupied so much of my imagination that, for me, the characters were real. And since they were real, since I could inhabit this universe through the words of other horny fans, my sexuality and gender were real in those moments as well. I felt arousal for the first time. In fact, I was so turned on and bothered that I asked my virtual friends from Neopets to explain how masturbation works. They did. And am I ever glad.
tl;dr: I got my rocks off as a young, closeted trans man by reading arthouse film slash.
The rest was just me verbally masturbating.