Once upon a time when I was 8, I was told to gather all the pictures together and the frames and we were going to clean them. We opened one small frame up and out poured six polaroids of my mother, very naked.
Yes, there really are naked pictures of my mom.
My mom snatched them up and I certainly didn’t want to see them but I was curious how such an abomination were made. She gave me what now sounds oddly like the birds and the bees speech- When two people love each other, they sometimes do stupid things for one another.
It’s really odd that I am not more fucked up than I am.
Years later, I’m a teenager raiding my step-father’s playboys and penthouses. I was devouring naked pictures as only a teenager could. Yet even as young and happy to see tits as I was, it wasn’t real. The pictures were too well lighted. They had make-up. Yes I was delighted to see Ms. April’s wonderful D cup, but even my teenage mind knew it was not quite real.
In my senior year of high school, I was walking and ran across a polaroid. I picked it up and there were a dozen topless women smiling at the camera. I didn’t think of my mother, but I did feel the real of connection. This was real. I don’t know what the fuck these gals were doing, but it was more real to me than Ms. May’s pet peeve of itchy men.
Years and years later, we have the Internet. We have hot amatuers. We have mpegs of people’s private bedroom fun. We have gigabytes of naked women in bad lighting and no make up. We have digital cameras. We have pictures of real women with that Just-fuckeded look on their faces.
We have blogs.
It’s a great time to be alive.