Tinyself: Optimist

The budding beginning of TPH.

I have been throwing some ideas around about breaking everything down into a series. Since I don’t feel like my childhood has a lot of relevance in my current years, I still think there are some solid pieces of gold to be told. Therefore, I am starting up the first of many short series, Tinyself: Optimist.

Previously we read about Shortstack, my first true love, and we are going to fast-forward a little bit in time to after my parents officially split and just after my mother sold my childhood home and we moved a few blocks down into our first apartment.

Day 8,452.

I want to make sure you all know that even though I was out there, hustling and bustling with my lady-hormones on full-blast, I was still the girl who enjoyed playing with dolls and couldn’t seem to get rid of any single toy she had. Now whether or not she was also blasting Outkast out of her flower-boom-box while playing with her Polly Pocket toys, is a whoooole different story.

It was about this time that I was also playing a ton of Playstation games and kicking ass and taking names, so between my toys, school, friends, and my PS2, I was pretty busy. But here’s the thing, not busy enough. Especially when my mom finally got us hooked up with, dun dun dun, you guessed it…

THE INTERNET.

And not that fancy high-speed shit that we have now, no, not that luxury, we had that wonderful screetching AOL-‘YOUVE GOT MAIL’-dial-up that even now, when I close my eyes, I can still hear it…

Now, my mom wasn’t always super great at paying attention to what I was doing nor did she have a CLUE how to set up any parental controls. NOR did she know how to install ad-pop-up-blockers or any firewall protection whatsoever. So, our computer, at anytime, was flooded with ads of porn and any other virus styled pop-up you could imagine.

And sure, initially I used the internet for good… Cheat codes, game tutorials, Outkast lyrics, playing online games through sites like POGO. And for those who aren’t familiar, POGO is a relatively family-friendly game site but it does happen to have a nifty little chat feature, which… may or may not have gotten me into trouble. Sure, not actual trouble, nothing life threatening, and I mean, my mom didn’t even really know…

But I think I was of a pretty sound mind to know that if someone was saying “you should totally come stay with me and my family for a weekend” that they probably weren’t intending on letting me leave after the weekend ended, at least not alive. So yeah, there are predators, out there, kids.

I began a budding relationship with a boy in Florida who of course claimed to be 16 and promptly ended the relationship when he found out that I was like 10. But that didn’t stop my little heart from going out there and finding someone to replace him and in the land of chat rooms, god, was that ever too easy. But xXSkaterboyXx00 will have his own tale to be told later…

No, I want to talk about the horrors of the internet world back in the early 2000’s. The land was covered in perv’s, small children claiming to be older (yeah, I suck, moving on), and advertisements that should never grace the eyes of a young child. GOD BLESS THE PERSON WHO CREATED POP UP BLOCKERS. I don’t think anyone truly realizes how obnoxious those things were.

But I remember just letting them blow up in the background, and then closing them all out when I have stayed up well past my bedtime and my mother had long since fallen asleep.

I had learned a lot about sex that way, which I think ultimately did help me in the long run. I learned all too much about fetishes, some that I have to this day, and about things that I still have a hard time performing (even though it’s commonplace and most folks enjoy doing it). This is Tinyself’s first true childhood trauma,

The Money Shot

Seriously, THAT pop up, literally, killed the idea of ever giving head to someone. Seriously. Killed the idea. Because now all I see is the cum in the chick’s eye and me, desperately clicking all over the screen because god, I couldn’t bare to look at it. I couldn’t and I still can’t. Something about the idea of semen covering my eye because I went down on a dude and he couldn’t have the capacity to find another place to throw his white paste other than my fucking eye. That’s all I could see. That’s all I can see. So, yeah. My first childhood trauma that I can recall that didn’t turn into a fetish for me? The money shot.

And I would be lying if I said I never looked at any porn with that as a center-focus either. I mean, when you see something that deeply disturbs you, you fixate, right? Or at least I did. I fixated hard. And to this day, whenever I come across porn (because, pffft, I AM A SAINT THESE DAYS AND NEVER PURPOSELY LOOK UP PORN) and it has a scene in it where the gal gets freaking shot in the eye, I just power through it. One day I will be okay with this weird shit, one day.

You know, because like 12 years isn’t enough, I guess.

Between the ages of 8 and 10, I really started to hone in on the stuff that made my bits feel funny, I watched a shit ton of porn, read a shit ton of articles, and became extremely well versed in the world of BDSM, which… Later on, lead me to have a pretty smooth transition into the Leather-clad world in my adult years and even in my teen years with numerous relationships and online-virtual reality games I played.

Should my parents have paid more attention? Should I have had a timer? Should, would… could… You know, honestly, I probably wouldn’t be as on-top of my sexual health if my folks did breathe down my neck about this stuff.

Anyway, moral of this post? I started out young on my sexcapades, I learned all too much about the online world of sex, and well, I think that when I have kids, I won’t limit them in any regards because while I don’t totally condone my tinyself’s actions online, I also know that because my parents didn’t openly discuss sex, I found myself so curious and curiosity in the wrong hands can and will be destructive. It doesn’t always end so happily and I figure it’s best to be on the table about it and make it a non-taboo topic at the dinner table.

Maybe that’ll help my kids. Who knows, future-tinyself’s you may find yourself fucked up worse at the end of the day.

BUT YOU ARE STUCK WITH ME. HA. HA!

Cheers,

TPH