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Musings of a Derilect Poet: On Porn Goblins

Damian Rucci

 On Porn Goblins

by Damian Rucci

Let’s get something straight. I used to be a porn goblin.

Not necessarily a pervert or one of those dudes who beat to unforgivable shit (depends on how many beers I’ve had) but a real salt of the Earth porn goblin. See the problem is now porn is EVERYWHERE! It’s on every smartphone, on every computer screen, hell; it’s even on Facebook where that one weird friend of yours keeps sharing tits.gif on your newsfeed. When I was growing up porn was a coming of age ritual that you had to earn out on the trails in the woods or sprinting from your local 7-11 with a stolen magazine in tow.

I’m not sure exactly when porn became something to fiend for but it was there long before drugs, alcohol, or fighting was. It was whispered about on the playground and in the cafeteria at school— a few kids had, had older brothers or fathers who hid the occasional hustler behind their toilets at home. Every now and then one of those kids would swipe that copy and bring it to school to show the kids in the locker room about the female anatomy. Sure they’d catch a beating at home but in that moment those kids were gods.

High-speed Internet just wasn’t a thing back then and if you were lucky enough to find a porn site that wasn’t blocked by AOL’s Nazi parental blocks it would take you forty-five minutes to render a nipple. Men are bullt from trying to download a picture of Pamela Anderson topless and having your parents walk through the door with groceries or worse your siblings and friends or worse an entire fucking family reunion slash marching band complete with instruments. Hell, the Emo teenage years didn’t come without merit.

For some reason back then, the best place to find porn was in the woods. It had been a real tradition at least for a generation or two to rip pages out of any porn magazine and bury them in the woods. It was known if you went prowling around in any wooded section in town you were bound to uncover some porn treasure. It didn’t even matter what it was: Hustler, Playboy, porn advertisements, or even weird German fetish shit. As the years went by the magazine pages would be stained and crinkled and be bleached out by the sun but during their prime they were literal treasure.

My pre-teen years were filled with adventures to hunt down porn. There were nightly crusades to find out what a vagina looks like. We would prowl the neighborhoods day in and day out to get some porn and just for a minute fantasize about getting laid. Those days are gone. Once the internet got its shit together, the younger generation after us stopped foraging for porn in the woods and started streaming videos on PornHub.

Sometimes if I’m going on a walk I’ll still peak around the floor hoping to see a ripped up nipple to remember my youth.