Non-Exploitation material; swimming, playing.
Nudist or semi-naked; all non-sexual and non-explicit.
Mutual masturbation, self-masturbation; either semi-clothed or fully naked.
Penetrative sex, either orally, vaginally or anally; again, not specific as to how much clothing.
Sadism; bondage, bestiality, torture.
From these, they break down in to categories; age, gender, specific act. About the only category that didn’t exist was “consensual”, but that didn’t matter; if it was anything other than torture, people could pretend it was agreed to; they even liked to think the kids had made the first move, and there was a category for that too. Not only were they organized by level of severity, they could be done alphabetically; “Anal”, “Bondage”, “Bestiality”, “Clothes”, “Exhibitionism”, “Fallatio” and so on. These could be broken down even further into various sub-categories; for example, “Bestiality” had a number of sub-categories such as “Cat”, “Dog”, “Horse”, which were all arranged alphabetically. These other categories served like keywords for whatever particular fetish or fantasy one wanted. Before all this, they were organized into groups as broad as “Photos” and “Videos”, and from here they were broken down. Most of the time, I could begin to categorize them as they were being downloaded, but I would have to wait until I could see them before I could organize them any further than the description that was given. Even this brief moment of un-characterisation bothered me, and I couldn’t get excited about it until it was in a folder; in its place.
I had the room set up as if it was a video rental store, with two shelves on either side of the room, one for pictures; one for DVDs. On each shelf were markers reading “A”, “B”, “C” and so on; each category was marked with a number, then into another letter. “B-1-ii-M” for example, was a group of clips featuring dogs and boys. “B” for “Bestiality”; a number “1” because it was the first category in “B”; a “ii” because “Dog” was the second sub-category of “Bestiality”, after “Cat”, and finally an “M” for male.
I put more time into this than I did for my job, or keeping myself roomed. My record collection paled in comparison, as did my book shelves and my DVD stand. But I didn’t like to distinguish too much between my various collections; I enjoyed them all. I loved the musical experimentations of Pink Floyd, with the magnificent vocals of Roger Waters gliding over his groovy bass line, and David Gilmour’s hypnotic guitar twanging along with a psychedelic piano solo. I found the works of authors such as Don DeLillo, or Thomas Pinchon the most stimulating; I loved the writing styles of older writers such as Daniel Dafoe, I adored the work of Heinrich Böll, and even the dystopic landscapes created by writers such as George Orwell. His novels, though simple, and often short, were wonderfully written and hit the point, without needless description of environments and characters; they almost became obsolete under Orwell’s pen. I enjoyed a good film; the classic comedies by Charlie Chaplin, The Gold Rush and City Lights being my favourites, or newer films by directed Scorsese, Polanski, Almodóvar and Von Trier. The last film I had enjoyed was The White Ribbon; one of my favourite directors was Michael Haneke, I was bitterly disappointed when he had remade his original German film, Funny Games in America, for American audiences, and I had almost given up hope, but then he released The White Ribbon, reaffirming my trust. It was classic Haneke, and yet was a new direction for him, it was a beautiful accomplishment. And I loved the look on a girl’s face; the sunken mouth with small white teeth, the worried but curious expression as she stared down the barrel of the lens, one hand twirling a pre-pubescent nipple against a flat, undefined chest. I loved the awkward zooms and edits of the videos, they added to the realism; the sense of being there. It was true that my sense of voyeurism was highest when I was watching the videos. I would have loved to have been a rock star, or an author, but I also wanted to experience the soft, delicate skin of a child, that was all mine, to do with as I pleased.
My newest files were finishing up, and to occupy myself for the moment, I was playing along to Country Death Song by the Violent Femmes, which was playing on the record player in the next room. I had left the door open. For me, The Violent Femmes were of the founders of, not only punk music, but the alternative movement in general, at least in the United States. What they achieved with the self-titled debut was astonishing. But, in my opinion, Country Death Song was the band’s most mature and developed song, lyrically, if not musically. It was a disappointment to me that, for the most part, The Violent Femmes would be remembered as the band who wrote Blister In The Sun. While there was no denying this song’s brilliance, I was saddened to think that most of their other works would be forgotten, despite, in my mind, having a more patient, calculated and developed theme.
The videos were ready.
I sat my guitar down next to my desk. I left the record on though, the song was finishing and it wouldn’t bother me. I clicked on the first of the two videos; I could already see on the thumbnail that it was a brunette girl, about 12, who appeared to be alone. There was the moment of suspense as the video screen went from a still image, to a loading icon, and then straight into the video. The girl on the couch, the camera sitting on a coffee table, I could see the shadow of at least two other people being cast against the wall next to the couch. Her little blue eyes moved from one side of the screen to the other, gazing behind the camera at things I couldn’t see. I heard a mumble, and saw her concentrate on one spot just to the left of the shot. The mumbling continued and I saw her nod as the camera did an amateur zoom in on her face. She had the classic, sunken expression. The mumbling continued but all I could hear was the fucking banjo in the next room. I pushed my chair back with my legs as I stood up, and walked out to rip the needle of the record sitting by the door. The room fell silent and I could hear the dialogue on my computer, even from out here.
Knock, knock, knock.
I spun my head at the door. I never had visitors, and I hadn’t ordered food. I reached over and opened it; a small, brown haired girl in a girl scout’s uniform with a cardboard box sitting next to her and a folder in her hand. She looked up at my smiling. Immediately, a surge of possibilities erupted in my mind. I could nab her, or invite her in for some milk with the cookies she was selling. I could simply make a good impression and find out more about her, asking her to come by some other time, giving me an opportunity to formulate a plan.
“Um, hello.” She said gulping, and in no way helping me keep myself composed. “Um, I’m selling Girl Guide Biscuits to help raise money for our trip Camp Woodbridge later this month. Camp Woodbridge is going to be an opportunity for us Girl Scouts to exercise our leadership and teamwork skills, building a better community for the future. These skills we will carry for the rest of our lives, and it is important for us to be able to gain experience in these team building activities so as we can best serve the people. If you are interested in helping us achieve this, please purchase some Guide Biscuits. Your money is going to a good cause.”
Her speech was so scripted it could have been in a porn movie. I had to have her.
“Come in,” I said, opening my door a little wider and letting her blue eyes look around the place, “I’ll need to find some money first, but I would be glad to help you.”
She thought about it for a moment before walking in. As I closed the door behind me, the little girl looked over at my computer room, and I was suddenly very conscious of the fact I had a video running. I quickly got over and closed the door slightly.
“Go and sit down, I won’t be a moment.”
I watched her turn away before I went back in to my room. The girl on the screen was really going at it now, with the help of two of the men that were with her. It was a full body shot, still removing the top half of each man. All three were making a lot of noise now. I looked at the girl’s face; tears jolting down her face as she tried to stay steady. She looked at the camera, at me. I saw her eyes; blue. Her hair; brown. She had the face of…. Of the girl in my living room.
Fucking hell, I thought. It’s her!
An amateur, under-aged porn star is in my house! And somewhere, nearby, there is a group of guys who make this! What are the chances?!
I was even more excited now. I wanted her to know that I was watching her in a movie, I wanted to walk out naked and see her reaction, I wanted simply to call her in and watch herself, so that she knew what I wanted. She could make the first move. I wanted her to accommodate me like the little Lolita she is. I wa—
“Hello?” I heard her say.
She was getting impatient, and so was I. I had to think of something. I paused the video and went out to talk with her. I had my wallet in my hand, which was in my pocket the whole time.
I sat down on the opposite end of the couch as her, and looked as she sorted through other purchases she had recorded. It was her, no question. I had to make the most of this unprecedented opportunity, but I didn’t know how.
“So, um, do you have a boyfriend?” I said.
She shook her head and brought up the box of cookies that was sitting on the floor and put it between us.
“We have, coconut, wall nut, choc chip or…. Mint.”
I still had no idea what to say or do, other than to jump on her.
“Um,” I thought. “Do you want a drink?”
She shook her head again, and I was beginning to sweat.
“Do, do, do many of your clients ask you into their house?” I asked.
“No.” She said. “Clients?”
“I, I just mean people who buy cookies from you. Am I being nice by letting you in? Do you like it?”
“Um, not really. You’re being a little scary and you’re not answering my question.”
I stood up, I was going to strip and see what kind of reaction I got from her, it was all I could do. As soon as I went to drop my pants in front of her, I noticed how wet they were. She looked down my leg at the now dark denim. I had wet myself in anxiousness.
“I need to go.” She said, picking up her box.
“No, no, it’s okay. Perhaps you can help me clean it up?” I probed, getting desperate.
“No.” She walked past me and to the door.
She opened it and left. I couldn’t believe I had fucked it up. I’d never get another chance with her; or any of her friends again. I was the guy who wet his pants. I had ruined it.
I went to the shower and cried. I threw my pants in the wash, and sat under the running hot water and wept. I was nothing. I was a pathetic Office Supply Manager, I was a shitty want-to-be author, I had a terrible taste in music, books, movies, fucking anything. I hated myself. I beat my fist against the tiles in the shower, till my hand bled. And I was a bad paedophile. I couldn’t do anything right. Sitting in the shower, covered in blood, urine and water, I thought about what the hell I had to do. All I could think of was jumping out the window, it looked so easy. But if I failed, and the police found my collection, it would be worse than anything I had experienced up until now. My habit had stopped from even death.
I turned off the shower, got up, and walked back into my room. I hadn’t organized the new videos yet.