When my grandma caught me watching porn, it was one of the most embarrassing moments of my young life. I thought she was abroad. Turns out, she was supposed to fly, but the flight was canceled, and no one told me.
I was in sixth grade. Learning about sexuality from the only source that was willing to explain it to me without judgment. Every question I asked had an answer—clear, immediate, without a “shhhh,” “not appropriate,” or “you’ll understand when you’re older.”
I got to porn after one of the boys in class said something about an “orgasm.” I was too embarrassed to ask what it meant. He said it with such confidence, like you don’t even ask about that kind of thing. So I googled it. I remember the shock I felt sitting in front of the computer. It was a strange mixture of desire and disgust. Today, I understand it was too intense for me—too sudden, without any buildup, no preparation or maturity for what appeared on the screen. All I wanted was to understand what an orgasm was.
God, how I wish I could go back and explain to that younger version of myself what orgasm really means. There are so many healthy, beautiful ways today to explain to that little Yotam what it’s about. Even though I got a lot of “answers” from watching porn, none of them brought me peace. It was loud, aggressive and violent.
From then on, I watched regularly, and no one knew. And when I say no one, I mean not a soul. Not friends, not parents, not teachers, not relatives. It was my secret and mine alone. And it was a heavy secret. The shame, the guilt, the disgust I felt in those hidden days.
I won’t lie; the secret also had an exciting, cool, intimate corner that belonged only to me. A place where I could do whatever I wanted. I’d write every dirty word I knew. I was raw, primal, unfiltered.
For years, I watched porn—sometimes for an hour or two at a time. Without breathing, without any awareness of my body (who even knew what that meant back then?), but with a strong sense of thrill. I already felt the distress. A sense of lack of control. A cycle of desire and disgust that fed each other and swept me up, both in school and in daily life.
I’d come home from school, throw my backpack down, and head straight to watch what would later become a central and defining element in how I saw my sexuality—my body, men, women and sex itself.
And no one knew. No one imagined that that’s what I was doing in my room.
After many long months of watching, suddenly, my grandmother opened the door. I felt enormous shame and fear, but also, surprisingly, relief. Maybe someone would help me break out of this loop. Someone finally knew.
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Grandma told my parents, and a short conversation happened—one I appreciate to this day. My father told me that if I was curious or wanted to know something, I could just ask. But I didn’t ask. I was embarrassed. I shrugged and said, “It was by mistake. Everything’s fine.” I remember how much I wanted him to believe me, just as much as I wanted him not to. That he’d ask again, show interest, help me say what was playing in my head.
But the biggest question that hovered was—how do you even talk about it? How could I say all the strange and disturbing things I’d already seen? He’d think I was messed up. He’d be angry. Disgusted. He’d punish me. That moment could’ve been golden, but it passed. A few weeks later, still afraid of being caught again, I went back to the scene of the crime. I kept watching. For a long time. In silence. Without asking. What a shame.
What I remember most from that loop is the loneliness and exhaustion. Keeping a secret drains you. Hating yourself and what you’re watching, it’s hard. Growing up like that is not recommended. And on the outside? No one would’ve guessed. I was a sweet, polite little boy with freckles and a Bukharan kippah, smiling at every teacher and aunt. I swear to you, no one knew.
To every parent reading this, every teacher, counselor, youth guide, any adult—I want to tell you: you have power. With a little curiosity, empathy, caring and a real conversation, you can change someone’s life from end to end. Don’t hesitate to do it, because it’s one of the things I most hoped for, and didn’t get.
This story started 20 years ago. Back then, we didn’t have smartphones in our pockets, and culture hadn’t yet gone completely wild with extreme, commercialized sexuality.
Please, talk to kids before they become teens. During, and afterward too. Even the ones everyone says “aren’t like that.” I was one of those “not like that” kids. And I really was like that.