The legendary men who lurked in shadowy places were on my side, because they did what they liked, and I thought that when I grew up I too would be able to do what I liked. But I was thrilled by these glimpses of sex, which felt to me like promises. The people who populated this forbidden realm were exclusively men some of them wanted to have sex with children, we were told, and some of them wanted to have sex with each other. You weren’t supposed to accept gifts from strangers, wander too far off the path in the nature reserve, or go into the toilets in the park. Off the glossy page, there was a whole world of sex out there that adults coyly warned us about. This brief happy discovery was short-lived through my teens, as the gender machine redoubled its crushing work, my pleasure receded and was overshadowed by sexual duty. When I finally met a hard dick in person, I was astonished to discover that it was possible to work out what you wanted to do with it from your desire rather than from technical expertise.
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I had a working knowledge derived entirely from trashy magazines and hearsay of how to perform that ancient oblation, the blowjob, by the age of 12. Knowing what was expected of us, we learned sex as technique, as mechanics. I still vividly remember fragments from this patchwork self-achieved sex-ed: a letter to an advice column, for example, asking, “How many fingers does a boy use when he fingers you?” Well, girl, it depends. We bought them with pocket money, or borrowed them from our mothers and older sisters.
This is the first installment in TMI, a more or less regular column on sex, love, and gender written by Hannah Black.Īs tweens in the 1990s, before online porn and sex advice were as ubiquitous as they are now, we learned sex from magazines.