If big boy had been raised in the Jewish tradition like his maternal grandfather he would by now have celebrated his transition to manhood with a bar mitzvah. Instead, he had to make do with that other well-known rite of passage, the acquisition of his first porno mag. In time-honoured tradition, I found it under his bed amidst a pile of odd socks, dirty tissues (don’t ask), and abandoned toys. I had a good look at it of course, but then I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I put it back and pretend that I hadn’t seen it? Should I get rid of it and deny all knowledge of it if big boy asked?

The thing is that though it wasn’t exactly hardcore, it was still fairly horrid and an affront to my old-fashioned feminist sensibilities. There they were, page after page of naked or near-naked women with silicone breasts and hairless pudenda, expressions of orgasmic delight on their heavily made-up faces – and all assuming poses which seemed to scream submission. I put the mag back where I’d found it but decided that the best thing to do was to talk to big boy about it and explain why I found it offensive.

Meanwhile, news of the acquisition had begun to spread round the ‘hood and the posse were soon gathering in big boy’s bedroom for viewing sessions where from behind closed doors, much giggling and sniggering could be heard.

“I found your magazine,” I told him one evening as we were finishing dinner.

“Yeah,” said big boy nonchalantly. “I bought it off Dave for 50p.”

“Listen darling, I would like you to get rid of it. It’s not very nice you know and I don’t think the other boys’ parents would like it if they knew that I was allowing you all to read porno mags. I mean, even your brother and his friends were at it the other day.”

“Woss wrong wiv it?” asked big boy. “It’s just naked bodies.”

“Yeah, bare ladies, big boobs,” chipped in bro who had wandered into the kitchen.

“Well, its just cheap and nasty and I don’t like the way it portrays women,” I said. “Real women aren’t like that you know.”

“Well I know you’re not!” retorted big boy.

“Yeah,” said bro. “Your boobs don’t stand up. They hang down.”

By now both boys were laughing hard.

“Those boobs don’t hang down because they’re stuffed with silicone implants,” I said indignantly. But I was struggling and the kids knew it.

A couple of nights later, over dinner with friends, I explained my dilemma.

“Oh let him keep it,” said Ben. “I learned loads about women through reading those mags when I was a kid.”

“But it’s horrible,” I moaned. “It’s just gynaecology!”

“Exactly!” said Ben.

And so I relented. Not long after that, I was cleaning big boy’s room and noticed that the magazine had gone. I asked him casually what he’d done with it.

“Sold it to Pete for free quid,” he said.

I quietly sighed with relief but then I realised that big boy didn’t need a magazine when he could access all the porn he wanted on the Internet. I caught him a couple of times with his mates looking at some fairly graphic and unpleasant stuff, usually variations on a theme of oral sex. Each time I found him looking at it I would march in and give him a lecture about how the sex industry exploited women, how these pictures gave an unrealistic view of sex and so on and so on.

“What do you mean?” asked big boy.

“Well lots of women do that stuff because they’re desperate.”

“They look like they’re enjoying it to me,” quipped big boy.

“They’re not, I can assure you! And I mean that they do it because they’re desperate for money.”

For a while I debated getting one of those gizmos to stop big boy accessing any more Internet porn but then I realised one day that the viewing sessions had stopped. I wondered what had happened until I realised that he and bro had discovered an alternative source of entertainment – re-runs of “Sex and the City” on cable TV. They really love the programme and make a point of calling out to each other whenever it comes on. I must admit that I’m amazed and rather pleased.

“What do you like about it so much?” I asked big boy one night.

“The views of New York,” he said.

Ask a silly question…

Rebecca Misell lives in London with her two sons aged 11 & 13.

NEXT INSTALMENT: THURSDAY 27 JUNE