I came of age twice: once as a young teenager first using the Internet, and again in my early twenties when I began watching pornography.

In “Vanilla Ice,” I laid beneath two blocks of ice for three hours. A lacy black bra and pair of panties were frozen inside. Lying naked in a growing pool of water, my physical pain was distracted by the strangers swirling around me. I noticed men, especially the ones who returned for a second, third, even fourth viewing. They stared, dead-eyed, moving around me to see different angles. Though in pain, I was aware of what I was exposing at all times. Safety dictated needing to switch between having my upper chest covered, and having my lower stomach and hips covered but having my breasts fully exposed was the worse option. Every few minutes my legs and arms trembled, my breathing quickened, and I felt nothing when I pressed the skin covering my stomach and ribs.