Broken at Eleven
I was eleven when a friend sent me a link. A woman getting used by fifty men, one after another. Slapped, thrown, broken. She was crying. They were laughing. The whole thing is burned into my head in a way that sunshine and first crushes never were.
After that, nothing else worked. Everything in real life was too small, too slow, too dependent on another person’s actual cooperation. So I get why the internet generation gave up on trying. Why seduce someone, navigate their needs, deal with actual vulnerability, when you can type any derangement into a search bar and get exactly what you want, alone? The internet handed us infinite customized sexual content and we all became strangers to each other. Depression and sexual deadness are basically the same disease now.
Pokémon is perfect for this. Everyone has that childhood link to it, that one thing that made sense before everything got complicated. So of course someone figured out how to kill it. Ash and Misty and Nurse Joy, all rendered with enormous breasts and zero boundaries, fucked in every permutation. The hentai community keeps growing because people are downloading these images to jerk off to their own sadness—turning the last thing they loved into proof they can still feel something.
I don’t know if it’s worse than what happened to me at eleven. It’s the same broken thing with better graphics.