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Johnson Robert Moore Marion Woodman. As a young boy, I was always roaming the streets of Lyon, my hometown in France. The red light district was only a few miles from my house, right in the center of the city. Prostitution was legal there, and whores on sidewalks awaited customers, displaying as much of their flesh as allowed by law.
To me, they all looked beautiful and erotic. At twelve, my groin was already steaming at the sight of these luscious ladies. Regularly, I would swing by the district to have a look.
I was fascinated. I would often pretend to be window-shopping in order to have a longer stare at them. As I walked by them, I would often say, "Hi. Even their smell I can still remember. Their world to me was something I wanted, their legs I longed to touch, and their breasts lookedso warm and open. Their mysterious and ritualistic world was something I wanted to fathom.
One time- I was probably fourteen-I went inside one of the dark buildings where I knew some prostitutes worked, climbing four or five floors listening at every door for sounds.
With all my innocence, I was searching for clues about sex in that somber world. At home, there was never any talk about sex, except when my older brother, then in his early twenties, would tell me privately about his kinky sexual prowess. Sex was still a mystery. My attempts to conquer girls at school were quite unsuccessful. Then at the age of fifteen, at a friend's party, I was introduced to a hard-core porn magazine from Sweden.