Not long after we bought the hot tub, I walked in on my older sister and her boyfriend Phil having sex in it. My parents had left us for the evening, with my sister as babysitter. When I came downstairs—to ask about dinner, to intrude—I saw Phil’s broad, lumpy back through the steam, my sister’s limbs poking out from behind him. They moved in a way I didn’t understand, for reasons I didn’t understand.

I left in time to avoid ending up with a sister fetish, but, in concert with my broadening fantasies about real-life women, my masturbation took a more sexualized turn soon after. I began to consider not just the mechanical delight of the act I was engaged in, and not just women’s bodies sitting there on a page or in a room, passively attractive to me or to unseen strangers, but also the possible roles of women’s bodies in my physical pleasure. It was a selfish point of view, but I forgive myself for it, since the tween years in men are not often marked by what you might call sexual empathy.

(Excerpt from Janes Fondas I have Known by Devan Goldstein)