Binge The Tyler Oakley Book

Dial-Up Delight

My carnal thirst has always been unquenchable, but I when I was growing up, it was out of control-and with no cute boys ready and willing at my disposal, I turned to man's other best friend: porn. I vividly remember my first glimpse of adult content. I was in my single digits, at my Grandma Oakley's place-a shabby trailer home occupies by my grandma, my uncle, my older cousin, and their dog, Peanut. My cousin was in either a goth or a Juggalo phase; my uncle had a mustache and often asked family members to pull his finger whenever he had to fart; Peanut was a balding poodle; and my grandma spend all day on her new computer sending e-cards to distand relative. You can't pick your family-but if I could, I'd still pick this motley crew. The day I saw the first erect penis that wasn't attached to me, I was wasting time playing Battletoads on Nintendo with my cousin. In between levels, he looked at me and asked the question that turns a boy into a man: "Wanna see some boobs?" My time had come. He closed the doorway beads that separated his carpeted room from the linoleum kitchen, to give u a little more privacy. Quietly, he fished out a magazine from the laundry basket. Sitting on the edge of his bed, we opened up this holy scripture, and I sat in awe. In between pages of articles and advertisements, I saw it all-big breasted women in lace outfits, spread-eagled and grinning. We flipped through the pages in silence untill one particular picture, small and in the corner, caught my eye. There she was, a literal goddness-naked, poised, and perfect. The picture was taken from above, she was on her back, just her face showing, making smolding eye contact with the camera. Her entire aura communicated one clear and unified message to eight-year-old Tyler Oakley: envy me, you closeted, little gay boy languishing in small-town Michigan-for I have everything you could ever desire. It was undeniable true, she had it all. I most admired this woman not due to her flawless complexion or flowing hair though both looked amazing-but because he had literally a dozen dicks coming at her from every angle. It was as though she were beet by a school of inquisitive lampreys. (google it, I once had to dissect one.) If that's to horrifying, you could imagine she was a baby sun in Teletubbies, but her normally lumionous rays were now engorged and veiny. Now don't get me wrong, I don't normally measure a woman's worth by the number of erections currently on her face. That said, I can't pretend I wasn't jealous. I gawked at the picture of the unforgiving selfish dick hoarder, and I held firm to the page while my cousin tried to flip to the next page. She was in heaven , and I was high on just her fumes. I knew, then and there, with Battletoads music droning in the background, what my dreams were for this life and who I was meant to be. With an abrupt clattering, the door beads divided and my grandma shuffled in-as  both of us scrambled to hide the goods. Grandma Oakley knew what was up, demanded the contraband, and began screaming in exasperation. I sat dazed, thinking about the indeffable, otherwordly Goddness of Dick. I could not unsee what I had seen. My time with the magazine may have been short, but it left a permanent impression: I needed to see more penis. Another pre-Internet porn experience was during a family visit to Canada. Side note: when I was younger Canada was the most mythica place in the world to me because they sold mil in bags instead of jugs or cartons. Seriously, so fucked up. Anyway, back to porn. I was visiting family and friends, and having a slumber party with one of their kid. He was impossibly cool-he skateboarded and downloaded music illegally with Napster. I was in awe of how much of a badass he was.For some reason, I thought I could impress him by claiming that I had the power to tell if a girl was a slut. To call my bluff, he busted out a Hustler magazine filled with solo shots of dozens of girls. He made me go page by page, labeling each girl as either a slut or not a slut-for what like hundreads of pages. My heart was pounding because I was sure that this page-by-page test would not only prove my claim fake, but also expose me as gay. By the end of it, he got bored and went back to playing Tony Hawk's Pro Skater, and I was left exhausted all shaken. The day, I learned that with slut-shaming comes instant karma. Back then, we didn't have fiber optics or even cable Internet. Dail-up Internet was the norm-and for those who don't know what that was, it was a fucking mess: you used your landline (which apparently nobody even had nowadays) and a modem. While you were online, nobody could use the phone. Not very dicreet for private browsing, and far from fast-so video clips were out of the question. If you wanted to see dick, you litearlly searched penis, and that was about as good as it got. Thus, I discoverd erotic fiction. I found a website with tons of storied, ranging from embellihed nonfiction to outright fantasy, detailing sexcapades with words like throbbing and turgid, in which every person was six feet three inches, muscular, and blessed with a chiseled jaw. You could sort by tons of categories such as "colloge" and "athletic," and like I let my mind run wild. All stories were user submitted, and at the age of twelve, I felt accomplished enough in my English classes to submit my own fantasy. So I guess this book is technically my second time getting published. I don't but I do remember it had to do with a hot guy I knew in midsession. I remember the one story I read repeatedly growing up was called something along the lines of "Fratguys Whip Out a Ruler." It was a tale for a simpler time, chronicling four college bros who wrestle in their dorm room untill they get understandably curious about who is packing the most heat. One of their names was Blake, and ever since I've longed for Blake of my own. After reading that masterpiece, twelve-year-old Tyler Oakley began furiously studying for the Act and was getting accepted to college no matter the cost. Even though I had only limited hours to use the dial-up Internet. I managed to save dozens of stories to my computer, expertly disguised as homework files-easily accessible, yet undetectable. Mom and Dad, if you ever saw me working on something labeled "Science Essay"-now you know, sorry. When my Internet connection got a bit better, I moved on to browsing official porn websites. I'd go hog wild and click on everything, something I didn't realize would come back to haunt me. One day, I was hanging out in the office while my mom was on my computer and, out of nowhere, screams from the desk chair. I jolted in her direction, horrified to see a pop-up ad flashing a huge, veiny dick wiggling all over the screen, jumping from corner to corner, impossible to close amid my mom's shrieks. Worse, my brother ran into the room, cackling, as my mom frantically attempted to shield us from the oversize meat tube terrorizing our peaceful home. "Why is this happening to us?!" As last resort, my mom frantically unplugged the computer. I hurriedly assured her that viruses and hacker plagues the Internet, thriving off the havoc they wreak on wholesome families like ours. They live to force pop-up ads on us, the dirtier , the better. She sighed and at least acted as if she believed me, but my flustered demeanor and flop sweat must have been obvious and telling: that veiny monster was all my fault, and we all knew it. Years later, I now have fast Internet and know how to delete my browsing history-but something was thrilling about the days of spending hours of my time online, downloading one fifteen-second clip and never knowing whether I would be able to get rid of the virus it left on our computer. Nowadays, your private sexual perversions are safe and sound, known only by you and, well, the government. Sigh, we had it I good back then, and we didn't even know it.