Second semester freshman year suddenly I had no friends, a single room, and I discovered internet porn. This was back in the day when you actually had to download your porn, and download a lot because there were no thumbnails and previews. My school had some lame duck policy whereby there was a downloading limit to avoid clogging the server, and if you exceeded the downloading limit you would temporarily get kicked off the server. It was somewhat unclear what the downloading limit meant in terms of songs or videos and whether over-downloading was calculated per instant or over a frame of time. It seemed reasonable enough that if you were clogging the server with excessive downloads, you would be kicked off the server to avoid taxing the system. A punishment directly addressing the crime, but not addressing the criminal. Anyone who spent enough time downloading figured out how to game the system. You were allowed back on the server at certain points in time: 8pm, 12am, etc. I would begin downloading, go to class, and by the time I got back, I was allowed back on the server. I became a pro at downloading just under the limit, or going slightly over the limit at a time that was close enough to the reinstatement time, so that by the time I was allowed back on the server those with whom I was sharing hadn’t signed off yet. Downloading became a game, and an around-the-clock one at that. It was an activity that necessitated constant monitoring because of their unenforceable restrictions. I measured the progress of my day according to number of videos downloaded to successful completion. It’s not that I’m a really huge pervert; it’s just that I’m picky, so there was a heavy sifting process. Porn triage, as my friend calls it. Most of my videos didn’t even make it to downloading completion and it isn’t because I was constantly kicked of the school server.
The problem with their downloading policy was obviously that there were no repercussions. I got the occasional notice in my mailbox and tossed it in the recycle bin along with invitations to events I was too cool to attend because I was busy downloading porn. A mere annoyance, a trifle, more rubbish to sift through along with my ever-increasing collection of internet files. I did not heed the notices because I took them as guidelines, rather than warnings. They were written in a non-accusatory and naive manner assuming that the student was unaware of his/her over-downloading. A clever and coercive tactic, in my opinion. It seemed as if they were trying to garner our sympathy; “You may be unaware of your situation. We are sorry to have to bring this to your attention. It can be easily fixed, if you just work with us.” My download settings were intentional. The way file sharing programs work is, if you don’t share your files, other users don’t share with you. Sharing your files doubles the server traffic coming from your computer at any given point when you yourself are downloading. This does not even take into account the uploading when you are inactive. Notice number one went something like, “You have been kicked off the school server 346 times. Please come to CMS to inquire about your internet settings.” Notice number two went something like, “You have been kicked off the school server 758 times. Please come to CMS to inquire about your internet settings.” I’m not sure if the notices were numbered, but they never included anything to the effect of, “This is your final notice.” I was unmoved.
Until one day there was a knock knock knock at my door. I was surprised that anyone would knock on my door because I had no friends. I wasn’t playing my music too loudly. Enter boy. Let’s call him Ryan. My school was only about 400 students, and about a third of them were upperclassmen who lived off-campus, so I instantly recognized him as someone whom I had seen around. He introduced himself and told me that he was sent by CMS (computer maintenance services) to check on my internet settings. At my school we had CAs (computer assistants) who were made available, by way of a pager, to students who had late-night printer emergencies. Up until then, I had assumed that any type of repair service was on a per-request basis. I thought they were on-call only; I didn’t know they were given agendas of their own. He was on official business and I couldn’t say no. What did I have to conceal? What could possibly be my excuse? It was an inconvenient time? As if I could get rid of all that porn if he just came back later.
I passed Ryan my computer and he sat on one side of my bed in my closet single, as I sat on the other side pretending to be read a book, feigning disinterest. He gave me a step-by-step play of what he was doing to my computer, as if I was at a gynecologist’s office; “Closer, closer, touching.” Until he opened up my Kazaa. Bingo. The culprit. Never have I ever seen, out of the corner of my eye, over my book, someone trying so hard to look professional. Porn-aplenty. Not exactly what you would expect to find on a girl’s computer. Especially since it wasn’t just any ol’ porn, not something I could have “accidentally” downloaded; it was gay porn! As in, men fucking, men sucking. Cock. So much of it. Cum. Everything. Well, not everything. No rimming, please. No fisting either. I’m not sure why this is–unfortunately, I don’t have any creative input in the porn I watch–but for some reason, it seems as if the names of gay pornos are more ridiculous than those of straight ones. Like gay anything has to be more over-the-top, glitzy, and glam. Videos of men at dinner banquets that devolve into daisy-chaining orgies are entitled “You got served… up the ass.” I mean, not really, but you get the point. Okay, so as we speak I am looking through my porno folder and here are some of my favorites: “Inch By Inch,” “Winner Takes All,” “Hung Bunch.” Some are dramatic: “Hazed,” “Deception,” “Convictions.” I’m pretty sure he got that it was gay porno. He “fixed” my settings,” humiliation over. We saw each other in the dining hall daily and pretended it never happend. We averted our eyes over the pasta sauce. I might as well have gotten sex out of it.
Ryan graduates and I forget about his existence. Two and a half years later–yes, two and a half years later–I am wandering around the East Village with my mother and I bump into Ryan unavoidably. Finally there is acknowledgment, and, to tell you the truth, when you go to a school with only four hundred students, spotting someone in public is an exciting and unexpected event. My mom disappears to allow me to talk to him more privately, as if that is what I want. He just moved to New York for grad school; he is living with two guy whom of course I know because when you go to school with four hundred people, you know everyone. See: reasons to never have sex, ever. I was so bored with my life at the time that I gave him my number so he could invite me to their impending house warming party. I was insulted when he didn’t call. I called him.
We scheduled a time to get drinks. This was an event within itself because most of the people I went to school with were still too young to drink. Think sixteen. When I got to his house, he was in a wife-beater and mesh shorts. Did he just come from a basketball game? Post-collegiate intramurals? Needless to say, I was not amused by his lack of appropriate attire. I thought he must have been giving me some sort of message. Perhaps in response to whatever message I sent unintentionally by surrendering the contents of my computer to his virgin eyes. I’m not sure exactly he thought would happen. After all, my computer was fraught with gay porn. Did he expect to end the night (or to begin it), with my fingers up his ass!?!
He told me he wasn’t really in a “going out” mood. I told him too bad. I made him get dressed. He told me he wasn’t modest and asked if it was okay if he changed in front of me. He didn’t ask me if it was okay to be in a wife beater in my presence. As long as we were being so open, I thought we might as well clear the air, get the awkward out of the way before we got wasted. In true Genie confessional style, I asked him what he remembered about me. I told him to be entirely honest. His response was not what I expected. I could have handled the porn mention. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know what was on my computer. But instead he went into some story about how he was sitting at a lunch table with a bunch of his male friends, including the heroin-addict rock star with whom I and every other girl with any taste was in love, and I asked him if he thought it would be a manly thing to smack a girl with his cock. Cock smacking, obviously. I didn’t recall this precise instance, but I’m sure he wasn’t making it up. After all, it is something I would ask, especially to an unsuspecting table of boys. Just derisive and emasculating enough, yet just absurd enough.
I asked Ryan, “Don’t you remember the porn?” He said unfazed, as if it was really his profession to meddle with sketchy girls’ internet settings, “Yeah, I remember it.” That’s it? According to him, he has an ex-girlfriend, now a lesbian, who watches gay porn. And besides, he doesn’t care what I get off to–that’s my prerogative. I love this guy already. This almost makes me want to tell him what I get off to. I mean, he already knows. I vow not to hook up with him. I am only getting drinks with him because I have nothing better to do with my life. He is short and squat, he used to be fat, he is shaped like a square. He is Sponge Bob Square Pants only not yellow and porous, and I suppose he does not live in the sea. He is great in bed.
After a night of conversation and reminiscence we go back to his place to “talk.” This is seriously my intention at this point. I am not stupid, but resolute. He asks if I will kiss him. I tell him I do not kiss. I give blow jobs, magical ones. Okay, so maybe I left the second part out until I did it. But I let him know that I hated his stupid guy line and wasn’t falling for it, and when he replied that kissing was seriously all he was looking for, I made it clear that I wanted more. We made out and I gave him the best blow job a drunk girl could give. I was getting my period, so he could only finger me, but I knew right then that he was a gem.
Our second date was to see Deep Throat on the big screen. Not in a sleazy way; in a hipster-theatre way. I didn’t hook up with him. He made a fuss. Our third date, well I don’t remember it. I remember only that we went down on each other and it was a beautiful, beautiful thing. I wrote-off normally-shaped guys. I exclusively blow squares, and not the kind that wear glasses!
One day I invite myself over to his place because I am horny. I make it seem like this ‘I just happen to be in your area, should I stop by?’ kind of thing. And I did sort of believe it; to us East Siders the West Side is this remote and amorphous place like Brooklyn, and once you are there you think you are “in the neighborhood.” But let’s just say I had to go out of my way to get there. I don’t even know how to ride a bus crosstown. Ryan explains he has this grad school lecture he is going to with a friend. I can stick around until his friend calls. If his friend doesn’t call by a certain time, he isn’t going and I can stay. He puts on Eternal Sunshine and I try to watch but I can’t because I’m too horny. I don’t have the capacity for focus in my current state and once you lose the plot, all you have left is Jim Carrey being obnoxious and Kate Winslet trying to look like I did when I was sixteen. I count down the minutes until it is the time at which it is too late for him to go to his trivial grad school lecture. I manage to suffer through half of the movie. His friend never calls, 9:00, 9:02–I mount him on his couch. I make out with his stupid square face, unzip him, get on my knees, he stands up, his five-foot-five commanding presence towering over me. His dick is small, but perfectly crafted; it is made for my throat. I slide it down my throat over and over and swallow around him as he contracts. I pull him out just in time, make a split-second decision as to what to do with his cum, and collect every last drop in a sheet of loose leaf inscribed with a state senator’s phone number (he is an aspiring politician).
He zips up and walks into the next room to regain composure. Okay, I would need to regain composure after a blow job like that. I mean, I am discombobulated and I am only the giver. But things are taking too long and it appears that he is dressing for outside. He lurks over me as if he is waiting for something, and I inquire as to what is going on. He states plainly that it is time for his lecture. Clearly it is too late for his lecture. I ask, what about me? He says he doesn’t have time. I ask how he could have possibly had time to get blown but not have time for me. The blow job commenced after his pre-stated leaving time, that time by which he said if he didn’t receive a phone call, he was staying in with me. I can tell time. I waited painfully for this particular time. I suffered through a movie to have his dick bestowed upon me. If the lecture started at 9:30 and it is already 10:00, he has already missed it–what is fifteen minutes? He is beyond reason but I am not beyond begging. I plead with him. I explain that I am already so far along that it will only take five minutes; surely we will argue for longer than five minutes. He says he is sorry; he will get me back. Two minutes! If I don’t get off within two minutes, you can leave! In one last desperate attempt, I ask if I can just stay at his place and get myself off. Denied. I am in a state of utter disbelief and discomposure. I dress and he ushers me out.
He apologizes. As if that could ever repair the situation. I call another guy.
For a month or so he tries to make good. He doesn’t understand that I don’t want to be repaid later. Why would I ever let myself get that aroused in his presence again? I wanted to get off then. End of story.