I’ve never been a stranger to porn.

I remember coming across magazines under friends’ parents’ bed and having a hard time pretending to know what the normal response should be.

I was no stranger to walking into the dark living room at night, his masturbation illuminated by the grainy VHS playing whatever he was interested in at the time.

It was usually the standard stuff. Sometimes the women were tied up.

I saw it, volume nearly at 0.

I wanted to watch because I was curious. The sights and sounds stirred something in me that was equal parts hot electricity buzzing at my core and hot embarrassment that heated my cheeks.

He always looked so hopeful.

He didn’t stop what he was doing, the sound of him working himself a whisper barely louder than the TV.

He’d look at me, hopeful. He wanted to watch me watching it. He rarely said anything, just a smirk as his eyes roved my face, my body.

I refused to give that to him.

I’d use the restroom or grab my water and walk back to my room, my eyes avoiding him and the scene at hand.

Usually I would rub myself to a quick, shameful orgasm before falling asleep.

One particular instance was different.

It was daytime. The house was empty besides him and me.

I can’t recall what I was doing before but I remember leaving my room and walking into the same ol’ thing: him, jerking off while lying on the sofa, porn playing on the TV.

This time the volume was louder. I could hear it all as I stood frozen, unable to peel my eyes away from the screen.

Sense finally caught up to me. I turned to him to play out the regular scenario before I’d glare at him and leave: his eyes greedily consuming my body, his dumb face making that dumb smile, his hand quickly beating himself off.

Glare delivered, I turned to leave but—

But—

On the TV, two women were grinding against each other. Both blonde with teased waves and fake nails. But the way they moved against one another—the video zoomed on them, clit rubbing against clit, and I was entranced.

I knew he was watching me. I could feel my face getting hot and red. But that jolt that bolted to my core gripped me in a way I’d never before experienced.

Like I was in a daze, I found myself walking back to the living room, the stuffed animal I loved to grind against in tow.

I knew he was thrilled by this. I knew it was what he wanted. I hated him for it but it was like I couldn’t stop.

I tossed the stuffed animal to the middle of the living room floor and quickly worked off my spandex shorts. I left my underwear on. I wanted to save myself that dignity, at least.

I sprawled myself over the stuffed animal, its woven nose quickly sliding to the place I loved.

I moved against it, head upturned to the TV.

The women were now sharing a dildo (I didn’t have a word for it at the time).

It was purple and they were still between each other’s thighs, pussies meeting and parting, the toy between them sliding in and out as they moved.

I was enthralled.

In just a few moments I’d hit my first orgasm.

I knew he was watching me, that sixth sense making the hair raise on the back of my neck. I hated him seeing me like this. I felt weak. Repulsed. I could still hear him jerking himself.

The shame burned me from the inside out but still I couldn’t stop. I felt the guilt eating me inside like flames eating up tinder but still. I couldn’t stop.

I moved myself, hips grinding in circles, over and over, until I was sore. It hurt.

My panties stuck to where I was wet. So wet. At the time I didn’t know if that was normal so I added that to the list of my shame.

At some point I’d glanced over my shoulder to look at him. I knew he’d cum, hand stilled on his cock, pants and underwear still shoved down. He just smiled at me, content to watch the way I moved instead of the film he’d chosen for himself.

There was a flicker of recognition—an acknowledgment that there was something enjoyable about being watched—that I quickly squashed down. Disgusting. Repugnant.

But not enough to stop me seeking my peak over and over again until I’d exhausted myself.

Out of breath, whole body tired from being tensed and worked so long, I carried myself to the kitchen for water. I dragged myself back to the living room, picking up my shorts and stuffed animal, eyes down.

I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want him to see me but it was too late for that.

I went back to my room, tossed the stuffed animal on my bed before pulling my shorts up over my cooled, sticky center, and curled up for a nap—a reprieve from the shame and embarrassment, however temporary.