Part 1

It was a sin. I knew that. I knew that it is and I fought it and I was afraid. But it was a terribly strong temptation, too; unending, coming from somewhere else or from inside of me. And I fell. Again and again. I felt guilt, anger and despair, and vowed that I will resist countless times, and I took my vows seriously and really fought the sinful urge. But there always came a point when that other voice got to me—and after struggling and fighting and wrestling with myself, I always surrendered.

I was raised in a religious family. The real, devout, hard-line kind of religious: we didn't only go to church on Sundays, but were also in prayer groups, services, had the right kind of books at home and quotes on the wall, and could cite the right verse when needed. Of course, I went to a religious school, too. My parents, I can honestly say, weren't half-hearted about this: they honestly lived their faith, even if in a rigid way.

So no surprise that there weren't really any talks about sex. It wasn't really mentioned at home, and usually, when it was, I was reminded to steer clear of it. It has its place in marriage. But other than the warnings against lust and impurity, I wasn't really given much information.

Not that I lacked that information for long. At first, when some of the other boys in class started spreading the news ("you have to move the skin on it until it gets good") I went into denial. Then rejection—no matter what sinful things they are doing, I will stay pure. And even though I often felt that certain heat in my stomach when I saw a girl I had a crush on, I was sure that that has nothing to do with anything impure. Not that I – if ever had the chance or the guts to—would have done anything else than looking in a girl's eyes and having a conversation with her about life or movies or music or books.

Then one summer afternoon, something very different happened. We were visiting some friends of my mother from the congregation. They were an older couple, soft spoken and nice, their children already out in the world. I went to the bathroom, which was quite far from the balcony where my parents and they have been talking for hours at that point. When I closed the door, I felt like everyone probably forgot about me.

And there was, on top of a pile of clothes, a fashion magazine. As I looked at the cheerful brunette in a swimsuit on the cover, something quietly started boiling in me. "Interview, page 31."

I slowly reached out and turned the first page. There were hairdos, dresses, travel tips, a story from someone famous, even some recipes in the magazine. And of course, attractive women in all kinds of clothes—giving opinion, being gossiped about or just illustrating a new summer look.

Why am I looking at this? I asked myself, as I turned the pages. 

I'm bored. I'm interested in who she is on the cover. I'd like to read the interview. I was probably negotiating with myself like this. I kept turning the pages deliberately slowly, so that it didn't feel like I only wanted to look at the woman from the cover. But I was also feeling that kind of excitement down in my stomach, which, if it had a voice, could have said: No. You know exactly why you're looking at it. Keep going. 

Then, a few moments later, I arrived at the swimsuit pictures. There were the beach photos of the hot brunette from the cover; I glanced at her story, skimmed through a few lines of the interview, and should've continued turning the pages, but I stopped. I just looked. I looked, and an undeniable hotness was building in my stomach, radiating downwards.

There was no hide-and-seek anymore. I looked at her bikinied photo and my head was getting dizzy. I was sitting in this quiet bathroom far from home, looking at photos of a woman in swimsuit in a magazine. There was a slight pulsating feeling in my crotch, and I knew what this was all about.

I'm sure I hesitated. Then my hand, which just a few seconds earlier turned the pages, touched my member, and pulled back the skin on it. I don't remember much else, only that at first I bartered with myself: I'll only try, then stop. I'll only do a few strokes. Then I didn't stop at a few strokes. And although it mustn't have been a huge orgasm, this was how it started. 

From then on, I felt like I'm leading a double life. Most of the time I was still a well-mannered teenager: following the rules, respectful and friendly, aiming to be a good student, going to church and following the teachings. Lustful urges are impure, I guard myself against them, they are to be rejected. But I was hiding another part of my life. Time to time I stopped resisting and stepped into that dark, secret territory—sometimes literally—and I pleasured myself. 

I wanted to resist. Most of the time I did. But there was always a moment when that other force in me proved stronger. Time went on, and I kept going deeper and deeper into that territory, which became the secret of my teenage life. I masturbated in my room, in the bathroom, in the shower; then in a hotel, at a friend's house, in a hidden spot in the woods, once even in the car parked at an abandoned place. It always felt more and more wrong, yet I kept going. At first I did it on my own. Then I started using various kinds of magazines—lifestyle, travel, sports, and one time, even a cooking magazine. The pictures in them would've been perfectly innocent otherwise, but they showed women who looked good. I tried looking at anatomy books and learning to draw the female body. I checked one out from the library and copied a figure from it. 

Then one February I did what I thought I'll never dare to do—I bought a porn mag. I went to a shabby, abandoned-looking little store in a different part of town, gathered a couple of random newspapers, slid in the middle a Penthouse or Playboy, and put the stack on the counter with shaking hands. The old guy looked at me for a second, but said nothing other than the price. I went home with the magazine in my backpack. My heart was beating rapidly the whole way.

Now I was looking at actually naked women. They were so painfully and unrealistically hot—yet they were real – I felt like I'm being swept away by a new force. My eyes devoured all the details of those pictures, all the parts of their body I was never ever supposed to be seeing. You're looking at pornography, you're polluting your body, said a desperate voice in me, but there was no way I could stop at that point. What I saw turned my blood on fire. My hand was shaking when I pulled down my zip and pulled out my member, as I finally got my hungry eyes on all the forbidden details of women's naked bodies. Their lush curves, their full breasts, their teasing looks and poses, and then, what was between their legs.

Look at them. Look at her breasts. Look, said that other voice, and I did. My hand was heavily shaking. I jerked off twice in a row without getting out of my room, and the second time I came stronger than ever before.

It seemed like my parents had no idea. Later they got me a computer. It was old, slow and had no internet on it, only meant for doing homework (this was the post-dial-up but pre-Wifi era.) At some point I figured out how to put internet on it without them knowing. I sat in front of it and jerked off to the pictures of naked girls downloaded at an extremely slow pace. Later I started downloading videos.

Yet I wrestled with myself and did try to end this. I made a resolution more than once to end it, and there were periods when I went on for a long time. I was 17 when after a particularly convincing sermon I decided that it's over. "Stay pure," said the preacher. "Do not let the filth in your mind and body." I will stay pure, I decided. And I kept my word. Weeks and months passed, I've been going to church as always, and I haven't done it. I knew what is in that dark territory, but I decided not to go there.

One day I was going to a church youth event – there were workshops, talks, movie screenings, music—and I was late. I parked the car in a rush and quickly went up to the door. Before I could've opened it, a girl one or two years my senior pulled it open from the other side.

I looked at her apologetically. 

"I'm sorry," I panted, "I think I'm late."

She smiled. 

"It's okay," she said in a friendly and kind of warm voice. "Welcome. You're not very late; you can join the others on the first floor either in room 2 or room 4."

As it turned out, she was standing at the door to greet people and let them in. She had blonde hair tied back, friendly brown eyes, and she was wearing a peach-colored sweater, which, as I suddenly noticed, she was kind of filling out.

"And if you choose the group in room 2, I'll meet you there too," she added. "I'm Linda, by the way."

"Hi. Uh. I'm Dave."

I said thanks, and hurried on, but as I looked back at her, it felt like something hit me. 

I did go to room 2, and the girl later joined us and smiled at me once. We didn't talk more though, and then I was paying attention to the conversation going on. But after the workshop ended and I got in the car I realised my thoughts keep returning to her, and that feeling which hit me when we met kept getting stronger. I didn't talk more than three sentences to her, didn't even know her name, still, it felt as if something about her eyes, her hair, her voice or her figure in the peach-colored sweater got a hold over me. Her image never left my mind on the way home. 

Soon I found myself in the bathroom at home, recognizing that familiar ache down there. I was arguing with myself, standing there, holding my dick between my fingers, having finished what I went in there for; but that slight throb didn't pass. No, instead I was getting slowly semi-erect. And I didn't leave the bathroom either.

Why am I thinking of her?, I thought to myself. But I knew the answer. I must stop these thoughts. She is a virtuous girl from the congregation, like a sister. She's pure. She's angelic.

But the other voice, that seductive, voiceless voice replied. Yes, like an angel. And under her sweater...

I struggled.

Just start stroking it. You know how it will feel.

I haven't done it for months, almost half a year now. I must not lose now, I said to myself, but I couldn't deny that I knew exactly how good it would feel to start stroking while thinking about the girl. Still, I managed to pull up my pants, splash cold water in my face and get out. I left the house and went for a walk. But my virtuous side was rapidly losing the argument. As I passed house after house, I started to fantasize about taking off the girl's sweater, kissing her, undressing her, massaging her breasts—only to arrive back home in a few minutes, go to my room and jerk off right away.

I knew it's a sin. I knew what I'm doing is wrong, and I still struggled; but, honestly, it slowly started to become a routine. With the guilt, the self-restraint, the periods of self-denial, then those moments of hiding away in my room and beating off to a newly acquired mag, or edging myself at night to videos of amateur porn or Brittney Skye fucked so hard on a couch she's screaming and her tits are swinging.

I knew this can't go on forever, and I was getting in a crisis. What kind of person am I, leading a double life? Or what would happen if people learnt this about me? What would my parents say? Or my uncle, or my cousins, Derek and Sue, with whom we grew up together? Or my friends from church or from school?

(Well, scratch that last one. Many of them weren't making a secret of using porn.)

I saw no way out, yet somehow I had already become used to it. Deep down, I thought something would happen.

Well, something did happen.