Friday, December 21, 2007

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Nastassja Kinski


Horatio writes: Wakey! Wakey! Here comes... When photographer Richard Avedon used his powers of persuasion to make Nastassja Kinski pose naked wearing only a python and a bangle, he single-handedly inspired a generation of teenage boys to become avid consumers of amateur photography magazines. The iconic photograph originally appeared on the front cover of American Photographer. Its' beauty, biblical imagery, and mise en scene was lost on all of us. Here was a nearly naked woman on a magazine we could buy without shame for godssakes. The pretense of photographic appreciation went as far that if you could keep a straight face while you told your mother that you admired the image "for artistic reasons", you could buy the poster and hang it over your bed. The poster was in 87% of the bunks on boys side of summer camps in 1983. (If you are overwhelmed by nostalgia right now, the poster is still available here)

Kinski was sexy for so many reasons. Her agent had a prediction for ensuring she played roles in movies destined to become cult flicks... Cat People, Tess, and Paris, Texas come to mind. These were movies that conferred a halo of cool around Nastassja in the eyes of the average fourteen year old. None of us had actually seen these films but we would never dare disclose that fact and lose face to our friends. Put it this way. If the number of boys who claimed to have seen Paris, Texas, had seen Paris, Texas, it would have posted E.T. like numbers at le box office.

Number two. She looked like jail bait on film. A fact reinforced by her Roland Polanski fling. If one forgets that he was 25 years her senior (and that she was just 16), but the dude was about four foot eleven. And so were we. She had a thing for small guys which most of us were. Small, kinky guys to be precise. And perhaps we qualified for the latter trait if depositing our junk over a poster of a woman posing naked with a snake qualified as kinky.

Relive the good old days with this clip. Kinski in Cat People, Paul Schrader's "erotic fanatasy for the animal in all of us." We beg you, please make it last more than a weekend. We are taking a break over the holidays and will be back in 2008.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Only Six Shopping Days Until Christmas

Horatio writes: Jerry Hall once famously said that the perfect wife "must be a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom." Penthouse took this very seriously when they partnered with jeweler Viva in 1978 to create the perfect present for the man who had everything. A bracelet for his wife with his two favorite things on it - her name and the title of his favorite porn magazine. What better way to identify himself as a chronic masturbator in polite society? The bracelets, produced in an era before irony was invented, came in either leather or jean fabric. Thanks to the eagle-eyed Daniel Bracey on the Lower East Side of Manhattan for clipping this and emailing it in. Click pic to enlarge.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Evidently, Honey Wasn't The Only Thing Pooh Couldn't Keep His Hands Off


A.A. Milne, beloved children's author, respected citizen, poet, and wordsmith of the first order is best known for his classic tales of Pooh and the Gang. Like most of my generation, I grew up to his stories and have vivid memories of their hijinks and shenanigans (oh, whatever will that wacky Tigger do next!). Thus, I was stunned, and of course grateful, when when my brother e-mailed me a copy of his poem, "Vespers."

The text of this innocent little ditty goes like this:

Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.

God bless Mummy. I know that's right.
Wasn't it fun in the bath to-night?
The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot.
Oh! God bless Daddy - I quite forgot.

If I open my fingers a little bit more,
I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door.
It's a beautiful blue, but it hasn't a hood.
Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good.

Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed,
And pull the hood right over my head,
And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small,
And nobody knows that I'm there at all.

Oh! Thank you, God, for a lovely day.
And what was the other I had to say?
I said "Bless Daddy," so what can it be?
Oh! Now I remember it. God bless Me.

Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.


If that's not suggestive enough, dozens of Internet poets have taken it upon themselves to subtly rework Mr. Milne's words. To wit:

Little boy kneels at the foot of his bed
Little blue eyes in a little gold head
Hush! Hush! Don't say a word.
Christopher Robin is bashing his bird.

Two with the left, two with the right,
Wasn't it fun in the bath tonight?
The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot...
I locked the door, so I wasn't caught.

Little boy kneels at the end of his nap
Little hands busy in dear little lap.
Hush! Hush! Keep it discreet.
Christopher Robin is beating his meat.


A.A. Milne-- you filthy bastard. Thank you.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Scouts Honor

Horatio writes: The modern scout movement is all about inculcating a generation of American youths with what is referred to as "character development." Thanks to Theo Katz from Los Angeles for providing the insight into how this is done.

Scouting was my everything. I loved the feeling of being a member of a collective. Growing up in LA, I guess the need for community is pretty self-evident. I was 13 when we left for an overnight trip out into the country. It was 1983. On the way out of the city, our bus stopped in Pasadena which provided a bunch of us with just enough time to drop into one of those head shop/porn stores where I was able to procure a pack of nude playing cards which featured an array of naked Mexican ladies. The Scout Movement was all about respecting the group and helping others, so although I cannot remember my precise motivations, I am pretty sure that without thinking, I felt duty bound to share the joy by giving out the cards on the bus so that every member of my pack could experience the thrill of holding a butt nekkid senorita in their sweaty little palms. The cards progressed around the bus, but I realized my error before they had made it almost half way round. The energy level on the bus surged to electric all the while the noise level dropped to almost nothing. Two tell tale signs which even the most distracted and incompetent Scout Master knows spells one thing and one thing only. Porn on the bus. I was quickly turned in, busted, and sent home.

My parents were mortified. Both about the fact that their son was a petty thief ("You are worse than a murder!") and that the object of my affection were cheap Mexicans in maid outfits. I should add that my father considered himself to be a proper gentleman in the My Fair Lady mode. So this was one of the greatest ethical dilemmas he faced as a parent. Had I stolen a record, he would have taught me a lesson by marching me me right back to Tower Records and forcing me to face the justice of the authorities. But this was cheap and dirty porn and he was too embarrassed to actually go to the store and ally himself with the owner, a purveyor of smut. Even Dr. Benjamin Spock neglected to cover this parenting challenge. A manila envelope was found. An anonymous note of apology was written and mailed unsigned back to the sore o'porn. And I was never allowed to attend a scouting affair, or make the scout salute, again.

Friday, December 14, 2007

A Little Something for The Weekend, Sir? Apollonia


Horatio writes: Lingerie may have been invented in France, but when one Ms. Apollonia Kotero used all of her musical talent to found Apollonia 6, the racy, lacey garments were firmly ensconced in the minds of thirteen and fourteen year olds across the nation. Apollonia was Prince's protege. And he was a man who knew that image trumped ability every day of the week. Hence Apollonia's special talent -- she and her band only performed in their undies. Clothing, and talent were never much of a priority. They were not needed. Deaf male teens were the only ones not to purchase their 1984 smash hit, Sex Shooter with its lyrics "I need you to get me off, I'm your bomb getting ready to explode, I need you to get me off, Be your slave do anything I'm told" But it was Apollonia's appearance in Purple Rain that cemented her legend. The scene where Prince, as The Kid, rubs her crotch over her pants was one to be rewound over and over and over. Josh David of Los Angeles who nominated this thespian tells us that he first watched the movie with his father at home in their den on the proto-cable system On TV. The moment the scene came on, father and son went silent. A quiet which was only broken by his mother using the intercom from her office upstairs to suggest to his old man that is was time for Josh's bed. She may have been out of sight but Josh's mother did not miss a trick. The damage, however, was done, and the image was tattooed at the front of his mind whenever it was business time. A simple story, but a powerful one. I see London, I see France... I used to think about Apollonia in her underpants. A lot. Reignite those memories this weekend by locking eyes on Apollonia one more time and re-summoning those memories which lie deep within.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Busted! A Public Service Announcement

This masturbation PSA from the 70's is hilarious! I'd say "anti" masturbation PSA, but it's unclear if it's pro or con. I'd like to believe they're for it. After all, what mother doesn't want her son to pleasure himself in the privacy of his own room? Soundtrack available on K-Tel Intimate Moments, Volume 4.


Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Donor With a Boner


Like most college kids, I was broke. Whatever extra money I had went to beer and it usually wasn't much. Unfortunately, the girls I dated didn't always want just beer. Sometimes they wanted food, too. And they wanted me to pay for it.

Waiting tables for tips at the local greasy spoon didn't provide much extra income. Neither did proctoring the occasional test. If I was going to get some I was going to have to make some first.

One day as I sat bemoaning my fate and flipping through the college paper, I chanced upon an ad. An ad for a service I knew existed but generally only thought about as a punch line for a joke. "Sperm Donors Needed." Wow, I thought. Had I sunk so low? Was I really willing to donate my sperm to the collective goo pool for the few measly dollars necessary to take a girl on a date and receive, perhaps, a few measly kisses? Yes, I was. Absolutely.

After completing more paperwork than it took to get into college, I was admitted to give a sample specimen. After not smoking pot or beating off for 3 to 5 days (definitely 3 in my case) I arrived at the nameless door of the windowless building. A serious woman in a lab coat ushered me to my room and gave me a vial for my deposit. She told me there was "material" in there if I needed it.

Holy shit! Was there ever material! The small room contained exactly one black pleather couch, a TV, a bottle of baby oil, a VCR, and a drawer of countless magazines and VHS porns and absolute! Eureka! I spent the next half hour just fantasizing about what "material" I would pleasure myself to!

Ultimately deciding upon a lesbian tale of frisky co-eds, I quickly went to work. I deposited my sample in the vial and sheepishly walked it back over to the lab. A week later I received the call. I was in! From now on, and up to three times a week, I would be able to donate the love of my loins for $75 a pop! It was a godsend! Not quite finished with the curious co-eds I went right back over that afternoon and finished viewing their tale of sapphic hijinks and shenanigans.

Not wishing to disappoint the eager would-be-mothers of the world, I returned twice that week, each time excited by the thought of a new tape or magazine. For the next year I was a regular. I once joked with the nurse in charge that I should bring my own mug, maybe leave it there and re-use it like in a bar or something. She didn't laugh. I didn't care. I was getting paid to do what I was already doing!

Ironically, all this self-coitus left me tired and depleted and the money I had so eagerly hoped to raise to entertain the ladies became an afterthought. I wasn't in it for the money anymore. I was in it for the porn!

Now in my late 30's, I returned to my college campus for a football game a few weeks ago. I know I'm being paranoid, but I can swear at least a dozen kids had my eyes. I considered hugging them and telling them they were loved, but quickly thought otherwise.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Great Inventions of Our Time

Horatio writes: Fire. The printing press. The Interwebs. Inventions that have changed the world. We are proud to add two to the pantheon today. Few gave have arguably done more to change the way the average American male thinks, speaks, and acts.

The first was sent in response to to Brad from New Jersey's technical angst over how one should keep track of the exact spot to rewind one's parent's porno videos to after a stealth viewing in their room. Perhaps this information is coming twenty years too late for Brad, but we believe that Ian from Brooklyn's wisdom is still worth presenting anyway. "The answer," he suggests, "is called a numerical tape counter and its' invention changed my life. I could watch whilst pounding away at my pants, calm in the knowledge that after mopping up I was left with the simple task of winding that video right back to 4937."

A semi-connected invention related to the videos Ian used to watch. Rockin' with Seka in which Seka, the legendary porno Platinum Princess, played a role that was a stretch for her... a flight attendant who explained her sexploits to entertain her fellow hostesses and break up the boredom of a lay over. Ian wrote: "Seka was the Jenna Jameson of her day, so suffice it to say, the story line was scant but I did not need one. This was pulse pounding stuff. I was 14. I only needed to watch it for 35 seconds and that was enough for me three times a day." Seka was also an inventor, neigh a visionary, as an early adopter of the shaven haven some twenty years before it became standard practice. Think about that next time you admire her work while playing the one stringed bass. She was not just a pretty face but a genius upstairs. And if we need to tell you even more to put you over the top, while researching this, we were fascinated to find out that she is a huge fan of both the Cub and the Whitseox and owns a remarkable collection of Major league baseball caps. She truly is the perfect woman. Start the week off right by enjoying some Seka in action.

Friday, December 7, 2007

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Nancy from Oliver


Horatio writes: The first time I ever saw a prostitute I was eight and I fell in love with her at first sight. It was Nancy from the movie, Oliver, and she was a magnficent being in her scarlet velvet, purple petticoats, strawberry blond fringe and a stupendous rack of breasts that stole every scene they were in by consistently threatening to topple out of the top of her saucy serving wench attirer. This was a lady to lust after. Yes, she loved danger in the form of her main squeeze, Bill Sykes but what really made her stand out was the soft spot she had for Oliver himself, who was roughly my age. I loved every scene the two of them were in together. I would watch I'd Do Anything, her duet with Oliver and squint when he was in close-up, so I could imagine it was me by her side in those grubby East London surrounds where we had nothing to lose by being together and were afraid of noone judging us. Shani Wallis was the actress who defined the hooker with a heart of gold, while one Ms. Julia Roberts was still in diapers. The role was strangely the only major one of her career. Enjoy those fleshy orbs in action one more time with this classic clip. Those mounds are still fabulous after all these years. And if you want something more contemporary, here is her daughter, designer Rebecca Rich.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Quick Draw McGraw


Elliot from Westwood, California turned what could have been traumatic and debilitating adolescent episodes into the experience of a lifetime. Literally.

My secret was my shame. And vice versa, although isn't it always? I was fast. So fast that the first touch of a woman's lips upon my own would send my underwear straight to the goo factory. I couldn't help it. Try as I might (my friend suggested I think about wet leaves and puppies) I couldn't hold out for more than a few minutes. The problem persisted right up until my first complete sexual encounter at the age of 16. Barely had my purple mushroom entered the forest when, SPLOOGE, it was over. From then on, apologies and excuses became an art unto themselves. "I didn't get enough sleep." "It's hereditary." "I eat too much eggs."

Eventually, it reached the point where I didn't even want to have intercourse. I couldn't bear the shame and humiliation. And so, after much trial and error I found my threshold: heavy kissing, boob fondling and up to, but not to exceed, 7 minutes of dry humping. For the aforementioned I was a virtual Cassanova, but let me grow arrogant and stray anywhere past the magic minute 7 and KABLOOM!, it was all quickly over.

And so, girl after girl, right up until senior year of college, I abstained. The excuses were no easier to come by, but the shame I now felt paled in comparison to the excruciating feelings of inadequacy I felt before. And now, best of all, I was free to go home and mentally finish the encounter at my own pace! In what became a ritual of self-love, I would rush to my room, drop my pants, and now, finally, have my way with myself. Oh what a lover I was! Slowly undressing, teasing, sometimes even frolicking, these erotic sessions lasted hours, sometimes more!

Today, as a married man and father, if not for the occasional surprise of my wife's thumb in my can, it's safe to say I could last all day. Lovely as she is, the excitement that fueled, and cut short, my adolescent encounters just isn't there. Which is not to say the post game beat sessions are not. They, my friends, will never go away.

Monday, December 3, 2007

A Trip Down Mammory Lane

Horatio writes: Regular readers will be aware, we are knee-deep in an important scientific research project in the name of adding to the storehouse of knowledge. We have scattered over two dozen copies of Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition from the years 1970-1990 across the country, back in to the hands of those who once used them thrice daily to thrill their pants. As one of our masturbatory guinea pigs said upon opening their brown envelope, "Thank you for reuniting me with 1983's edition. I loved this magazine more than any real woman I have dated since. Including my wife."

Our quest was to discover what it felt like to be reunited with your lost love. Did it still do the trick in the way it once did? Or would it feel like watching Ferris Bueller again -- faintly amusing but not as emotionally satisfying as you remembered it to be? Our first results are in, and readers, we caution that this is a marathon not a sprint, but here are comments from Martin from Brooklyn who test-drove the 1989 25th anniversary edition (for lovers of trivia, the best-selling ever):

"Come again? Well, I tried to come again, I tried so hard. I wanted the magic to happen so badly. But the issue itself is a stinker, way too concerned with chronicling the SI legacy than catalyzing the lust-in-me. I was left baffled by the power that issue once held over my adolescent self. What was I thinking back then? None of the famous supermodels had any sex appeal except perhaps Rachel Hunter but maybe that is because I know for sure that she still loves to do it. I forced what I could but it yielded nothing but a flaccid feeling and a sense of curiosity about how long to keep trying before giving up. What a sham. I huffed and I puffed, but then had to shuffle off from the bathroom to my office with my pants round my ankles to the loving embrace and the targeted efficiency of my 15 second clips on Tiava.com. I am so pathetically, predictably digital."

We have four copies left, so if any readers want to participate in this important medical experiment, drop us a line. We would love to hear from you.

Friday, November 30, 2007

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Mark Twain

Horatio writes: This is the weekly feature in which we normally serve up a nostalgic beauty straight from the wank bank as something to get you through the weekend. This week's offering is a little different in several days. First we have reached a little further back in time, all the way to 1879. (Yes, we had no idea sex had been invented then either) But we are also presenting something a little more literate than our usual youtube clip of the likes of Beverly D'Angelo or Samantha Fox. Thanks to the cerebral Michael of Florida, we are proud to present, the words of Mark Twain, in a speech called SOME THOUGHTS ON THE SCIENCE OF ONANISM delivered at the wonderfully named Stomach Club in Paris (if anyone knows how we join, please let us know.) Read the below. We promise it will have exactly the same power as this because it will allow you to spend the weekend attacking your crotch with a certain literary self-confidence.

Some Thoughts on the Science of Onanism by Mark Twain [One evening in Paris in 1879, The Stomach Club, a society of American writers and artists, gathered to drink well, to eat a good dinner and hear an address by Mark Twain. He was among friends and, according to the custom of the club, he delivered a humorous talk on a subject hardly ever mentioned in public in that day and age. After the meeting, he preserved the manuscript among his papers. It was finally printed in a pamphlet limited to 50 copies 64 years later.] _________________________________________________________________ My gifted predecessor has warned you against the "social evil--adultery." In his able paper he exhausted that subject; he left absolutely nothing more to be said on it. But I will continue his good work in the cause of morality by cautioning you against that species of recreation called self-abuse to which I perceive you are much addicted. All great writers on health and morals, both ancient and modern, have struggled with this stately subject; this shows its dignity and importance. Some of these writers have taken one side, some the other. Homer, in the second book of the Iliad says with fine enthusiasm, "Give me masturbation or give me death." Caesar, in his Commentaries, says, "To the lonely it is company; to the forsaken it is a friend; to the aged and to the impotent it is a benefactor. They that are penniless are yet rich, in that they still have this majestic diversion." In another place this experienced observer has said, "There are times when I prefer it to sodomy." Robinson Crusoe says, "I cannot describe what I owe to this gentle art." Queen Elizabeth said, "It is the bulwark of virginity." Cetewayo, the Zulu hero, remarked, "A jerk in the hand is worth two in the bush." The immortal Franklin has said, "Masturbation is the best policy." Michelangelo and all of the other old masters--"old masters," I will remark, is an abbreviation, a contraction--have used similar language. Michelangelo said to Pope Julius II, "Self- negation is noble, self-culture beneficent, self-possession is manly, but to the truly great and inspiring soul they are poor and tame compared with self-abuse." Mr. Brown, here, in one of his latest and most graceful poems, refers to it in an eloquent line which is destined to live to the end of time--"None knows it but to love it; none name it but to praise." Such are the utterances of the most illustrious of the masters of this renowned science, and apologists for it. The name of those who decry it and oppose it is legion; they have made strong arguments and uttered bitter speeches against it--but there is not room to repeat them here in much detail. Brigham Young, an expert of incontestable authority, said, "As compared with the other thing, it is the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning." Solomon said, "There is nothing to recommend it but its cheapness." Galen said, "It is shameful to degrade to such bestial uses that grand limb, that formidable member, which we votaries of Science dub the Major Maxillary--when they dub it at all--which is seldom, It would be better to amputate the os frontis than to put it to such use." The great statistician Smith, in his report to Parliament, says, "In my opinion, more children have been wasted in this way than any other." It cannot be denied that the high antiquity of this art entitles it to our respect; but at the same time, I think its harmfulness demands our condemnation. Mr. Darwin was grieved to feel obliged to give up his theory that the monkey was the connecting link between man and the lower animals. I think he was too hasty. The monkey is the only animal, except man, that practices this science; hence, he is our brother; there is a bond of sympathy and relationship between us. Give this ingenuous animal an audience of the proper kind and he will straightway put aside his other affairs and take a whet; and you will see by his contortions and his ecstatic expression that he takes an intelligent and human interest in his performance. The signs of excessive indulgence in this destructive pastime are easily detectable. They are these: a disposition to eat, to drink, to smoke, to meet together convivially, to laugh, to joke and tell indelicate stories--and mainly, a yearning to paint pictures. The results of the habit are: loss of memory, loss of virility, loss of cheerfulness and loss of progeny. Of all the various kinds of sexual intercourse, this has the least to recommend it. As an amusement, it is too fleeting; as an occupation, it is too wearing; as a public exhibition, there is no money in it. It is unsuited to the drawing room, and in the most cultured society it has long been banished from the social board. It has at last, in our day of progress and improvement, been degraded to brotherhood with flatulence. Among the best bred, these two arts are now indulged in only private--though by consent of the whole company, when only males are present, it is still permissible, in good society, to remove the embargo on the fundamental sigh. My illustrious predecessor has taught you that all forms of the "social evil" are bad. I would teach you that some of these forms are more to be avoided than others. So, in concluding, I say, "If you must gamble your lives sexually, don't play a lone hand too much." When you feel a revolutionary uprising in your system, get your Vendome Column down some other way--don't jerk it down.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Wyclef: If someone has a porn collection, they have a porn collection

Horatio writes: Wyclef Jean. We have always loved you, ever since you named your only daughter Angelina after Angelina Jolie. But your interview in this week's New York Magazine has made us appreciate your all the more. Adam Moss and his whole team should be given Pullitzers for this quality shit:

And guilty pleasures?
I’m a great porn collector. The best porn ever is Sweetest Taboo. You ever seen it? That’s a good one. I probably have over 5,000 pornos.

Really?! Where do you keep them all?
In my basement. I collected them through the years. I don’t lie about anything; I think if someone has a porn collection, they have a porn collection. I know people who say they don’t have a porn collection, but when they get up in hotels they run them bills wild! They might want to call me and I could rent them a few.

TOTAL RECALL


No where in our research has science intersected more clearly with art than in the fascinating case of Edgar Thomas. He writes:


My first pair of Nike shoes were the blue waffle trainers with the white undersoles and the yellow swoosh. My second grade math teacher's name was Mrs. Reese. She had gray, curly hair, lived with another woman "friend," and was a regular attendant at the annual Genessee County Renaissance Fair. The first tongue that ever came into contact with my own was that of Sarah R. I was in 7th grade; it was in her home, in her vestibule, at three in the afternoon. I remember it perfectly. I have total recall.

Every kiss, every fondle, every caress in my life I can still conjure up with the utmost clarity. It's as though there's an incorruptible hard drive in my brain capable of capturing every moment of my life, especially those sexual.

That first kiss with the lovely Ms. R was over twenty years ago. From then until the present I've slept with a fair share of women. And, when it comes to masturbation I have never had any need for magazines, DVD's, or the Internet. My memories of each of these glorious encounters is so perfect and intact, I merely have to close my eyes and the woman of my choosing appears at my side. And herein lies the difficulty.

As a man closer to forty than thirty, the age range of women both society and I find acceptable that I sleep with runs roughly from ages 21 to 45. However, many of my most cherished, vibrant conjugal memories are from my teenage years: elongated make-out sessions in the back of my '67 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Hasty hand jobs in the woods across from the high school track. My first blow job in my parents shower when they were away at a wedding in Maryland. What then, I ask you, am I to do? Is it immoral for a man of my age to draw upon this material? Is there a statue of limitations? Is what is illegal in the flesh to also be abhorred in the mind?

I have no answers to these questions and wrestle with them daily.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Hall of Fame: Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

Horatio writes: The truly remarkable Mike from New York City has nominated his fraternity brother David to the Hall of Fame. This was a man who, stay with me here, did not learn to masturbate until he reached the grand old age of 19. And so he enjoyed the subconscious secret pleasures of the nocturnal emission, twice a night until he went to college and got himself an education. "Exactly what century are we in here?" I hear you ask yourself. How does this happen? According to David, "It just never occurred to me. I don't think my folks ever spoke to about masturbation and the wet dreams began. My Mom never addressed the damage I was generating to my bed sheets and pajamas, I just kept at it. For the record, it had nothing to do with being lazy or preferring the wet dream, I just had no tips or motivation to begin to stroke it." Judd Apatow, please solve the writers strike now because right here is your prequel to 40 Year Old Virgin. Your Phantom Menace so to speak.

And, ladies and gentleman. Prepare to have your mental picture adjusted. David was no nerd. He was a five-sport letterman. Mike describes him as an amazing looking gent. "A lady killer" to the extent that "he was so knee-deep in pussy, we lived off his scraps at school." The trouble was, because he had not battle hardened his weapon, Mother Nature severely limited his ability to capitalize on his physical appeal. Mike remembers fondly that he would come home every morning perplexed that he got as far as having his lady rub up against him before he unloaded inside his Wranglers. David. You are a true American hero.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

This Thanksgiving, Think about how YOU can become a better man

Horatio writes: To be clear, we are not big lovers of Thanksgiving. A full house is not a house which is kind to the lover of self-pleasure. So we have always viewed the holiday as a cleansing period for self-assessment - a time to ask ourselves the question, How Can I Become A Better Man?

The answer to this question, as so many others, can be found in one of two places. The Mormon Bible, and the Porns of old. As ever, we seek inspiration in the second -- and the answer is clear thanks to these 1973 ads... Change is never on the inside. You are perfect just the way you are. And physical improvement is just a clip of a coupon away.

Our favorites: The Masculiner Co's Quick Change hairpiece set which automatically turn you into Murray from Flight of the Conchords. "Simply check the color you want or send a sample of your hair and leave the matching to our expert" ( Click to Enlarge Photos...)



Elevators by Brockton Footwear
"With Elevators you have a lot going for you. Two extra inches to help you measure up. With Elevators on your feet and that gleam in your eye she will know you're up to something."

How to Be Taller Booklet by NEW HEIGHT of Brampton, ON Canada, a mysterious booklet which will give you a few inches in height for those who are "Fed up with being called 'shorty,' 'Little Man' or even "Hey you down there."



Monday, November 19, 2007

Only 36 Shopping Days Left To Christmas

Horatio writes: We love all of our advertisers, but sometimes a product is so damn intriguing, we have to feature it for free. And this is the case for ManHood, the "undergarment for men" or put more literally, a substitute foreskin for men who have been circumcised and have worked their bell end to such an extent that they have lost all sensitivity as a result. ie. most readers of this web site. The inventor, Randy Tymkin is a modern American hero. How he has not yet received Nobel prize recognition yet is frankly beyond us. Overcoming the technological challenges of engineering these little cozy penis garments is a scientific work of genius, according to the ManHood web site:
"The most troublesome part was finding a seamstress who could fit our two layers together with all of the seams on the inside. ManHood's® are small, slippery and delicate."
Click here to see them in action. According to Jonathan who bought the ManHood to our attention, they are best bought in packs of four. He wears one down below, and one on his nose in extra cold weather.

Friday, November 16, 2007

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? The Monster Muppets from Sesame Street

Horatio writes: Those who like their video clips hairy will be delighted by this week's humble offering which was relayed to us by the remarkably funny Erik from Los Angeles. As with our Hanna Barbera tribute, we return to the world of children's programming for our deep dip into the wank bank. Erik reported signs of early and regular arousal in response to the work of our nation's preminent pre-school educational vehicle Sesame Street. Elmo and Big Bird may not be the stuff of fantasy. But young Erik became highly attuned to the recurring scenes in which puppets of the giant monster variety performed a song and dance number with a female guest star invited onto the show. The powers-that-be down at the Children's Television Workshop apparently had a predilection for young, nimble blond actresses -- think Cheryl Ladd, or Jane Curtin, preferably those who looked good in slight dresses or clingy clothing. The monsters and the talent would sing an innocent standard along the lines of "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" or "We've Got The Whole World In Our Hands" but the intense drama of the petite human being physically dominated by massive, ferocious, barely domesticated monsters was intoxicating. It was as if the educators at Sesame Street had decided that there was pedagogical value in letting us be privy to watching some kind of gang bang unfold. To this day, Erik is unclear whether the crackling sexuality of these clips was intentional admitting "Part of me wonders if it was designed to be sexual." As ever, we offer these clips for your weekend usage, and will leave you to be the judge.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Caballero Classics -- Our Brothers In Arms, If Not Hands


A shout out to the folks at Caballero Classics for their fine collection of "classic" adult videos. From Amber Lynn to Hypatia Lee, this site caters to those adult video aficionados from a more innocent era. A time when plots revolved around radio stations named KNUT, erotic stewardesses, and Central Park flashers in fedoras. Truly a golden age of cinema.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

A Slip Down Memory Vein




Horatio writes: As you well know, we at True Beat Generation are big fans of the nostalgic experience – a return to the wonderful world of the Wank Bank where the stuff of adolescent fantasy is stored in a mental lock box. So it gives us untold delight to break the news that a stack of magazines recently arrived on the loading dock at True Beat Headquarters, the Gold Standard of self pleasure material themselves, a complete set of Sports Illustrated Swim Suit Edition spanning the years 1974 to 1986. The magazines are in mint condition and have been thoughtfully placed in plastic covers (whoever invented them would have made a fortune if they had marketed them to teenage boys in the eighties)

Here is the story. Flicking through them now is the equivalent of taking a 1983 Chevy Camaro for a spin. Paulina Porizkova. Christie Brinkley freshly married to a great looking Billy Joel, Snakes Alive! It’s Kim Alexis, Elle Macpherson in a suggestively sequined costume, and, our favorite, the homely Kathy Ireland, sitting alongside articles for college sports stars like Harvey (Oklahoma) and Horace Grant (Clemson) and ads for goods of the day such as Aiwa Walkmen and Spuds MacKenzie posters. We would like to spread the joy of our good fortune in receiving these magazines by inviting our readers to volunteer in an experiment in the name of science. If you used to use the swimsuit edition as a daily grist for the mill, email us at truebeat@aol.com and we will mail you the year of your choice – or as close to it as we have – so that you can report to us what it feels like to take a masturbatory trip down memory lane. Does the material still move you in the way it used to? Does muscle memory just kick in? Or did you use the annual treasure trove to such an extent back in the day that you are inured to its wily ways? You won’t know if you don’t try, and in the name of the storehouse of knowledge, we will try. Oh yes. We will try.

Monday, November 12, 2007

I Before E, Except After Oui


C. Ratnor of Long Island writes:

I was a slob. Strike that, I am a slob. Always have been, always will be. As a kid my room was terminally chaotic. I know there was carpet, but would be hard pressed to describe it as it was always covered with a 7-layer-dip of shoes, toys, clothes, marbles, video games, action figures, and comics. Like many kids, this was okay with me and the opposite of that with my mom. By the time I was old enough to go to summer camp, she was practically frothing with excitement, jonesing at the opportunity to restore order to my rat's nest.

Upon my return, everything was as I expected/dreaded. The carpet, now an obvious canary blue berber with a light yellow through line, was all too clearly visible. The bed was neatly made. The toys were perfectly arranged on the shelves. And, of course, all the clothing had been crisply starched, ironed, folded, and put away. It was perfect. Too perfect. A natural contrarian I searched the room for defects. There were none to be found. Oh well, I thought. If this is how it-- WAIT! WHAT ABOUT?...

Frantically, I ripped open the closet door. Wading through the neatly pressed oxfords and perfectly creased khakis, I breast stroked my way to the rear. And there they were: each and every single one of my precious magazines, arranged as neatly as the local convenience store. But more than that, they were categorized by title and date! Penthouse before Playboy, Knockers before Oui, each and every stack was organized in what was clearly the first, and perhaps only, dewey decimal system of smut. The only thing missing from this library of the libido was an index card tacked to the door. Sweet, dear mother, did you really think that organizing my filthy habit would make me cherish it any less? Quite the opposite! For the next five years, until I departed for college, I maintained her system of classification with a rigor that would make Linnaeus himself blush!

To this day, my magazines are arranged as such. A tradition, I hope, my wife will never learn of.

Zagats Guide to BOSTON


Horatio writes: Welcome to our new occasional feature. Now there is a Zagats for almost everything, we are proud to add to the range with our definitive guide to the best places to acquire porno mags in the 1970's and '80's. We start with The Puritan City, The City on a Hill, Beantown, Boston. Thanks to Adam of San Francisco for this review. Please send yours our way.

BOB'S CANDY STORE
used to be in Waban Square in Newton. It was run, fittingly, by Bob, the meanest guy who ever lived and who was totally bald aside from a fringe of white hair that he let shoot out of the front. Bob carried himself like a man whose biggest regret in life was opening a store populated only by twelve year olds, a target audience he clearly despised. One was left to wonder exactly what he was thinking when he went into the candy store business.

The store had a huge wooden counter, more befitting of a bar, running round two sides of the shop. Bob longed for adult custom so much, that he kept a mid-sized stock of porno mags - Playboys and Penthouses -- under the bar. His biggest mistake was positioning it right next to the small entry way which was cut into the bar so he could enter and exit. And so, here's how you got your porn at Bobs: Most important, you had to be tight with my friend, Eliahu who was a tubby kid who had been blessed with deceptive speed which made him great at two things: On the basketball court he had an explosive burst to the basket, which made him impossible to stop in the paint. In Bobs, he had all the skills necessary to become an experienced klepto. Eliahu would wait patiently for Bob to become distracted by a gaggle of kids purchasing jawbreakers down one end of the bar. This was his cue to launch himself under the bar, grab a handful of magazines and thrust them down the front of his pants in one practiced silky-smooth move. Watching him operate was almost as thrilling as using the magazines later back in my bedroom. Just knowing what was going to go down and then watching it happen was like being privy to watching Babe Ruth hit a "called shot" home run week in week out.

Small barrier to be able to frequent the store. Bob is now dead and his shop has now closed. But don't let that stop you.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Taffy from Captain Cavemen

Horatio writes: Hanna Barbera was our generation's Pinter. Everything they served up from "Scooby Doo," to the "Wacky Races" was a rollercoaster ride of truth and emotion. And then came Captain Caveman, a magnificent mash-up of "Josie & the Pussycats" and "Charlie's Angels." Caveman was a troglodyte who was really just one big giant ball of pubic hair, grasping a phallic club that had magic powers dedicated to solving crimes. This whole package was masculine enough to persuade three nubile young women -- The Teen Angels a brunette, an African American and a blond to follow him, groupie style, around the country. Captain Caveman was the kind of role model America's youth cried out for. My family were all lawyers and accountants. Nothing to want to emulate there. This was a man who knew what was important and lived the kind of life I aspired to when I was nine. And the more I watched, the more I realized that this was down to one thing and one thing only. Taffy. The blond. Dee Dee, the African-American was intelligent. Brenda, the brunette, to be honest was just kind of there...But Taffy was the perfect ten. A button of a nose, the slightest of mini-skirts, a divine pair of legs, and a voice that was teasing, playful, throaty and oh, so sexy. Her character had Captian Caveman wrapped around her finger, and before long, I too was besotted. When the show came on I would start off on the couch in the den. But with in minutes, like a sleepwalker, I would find myself involuntarily inching nearer to the television, ending up right in front of the screen, as close as was humanly possible, to see if I could get a glimpse up her skirt. I googled the voice actress who played her. Laurel Page. She has a web page with her agent's number, as well as her own email for her side businesses of making cakes out of photographs and art consultancy. Emailing her would be the equivalent of reaching out to Christie Brinkley or Kathy Ireland. I just flat out don't have the confidence. But if anyone needs a photo cake I am sure she would be pleased to hear from you. Until then, here is an episode of Taffy in action for your viewing pleasure in every sense of the word over the weekend.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

And what do you want to be when you grow up?

Horatio writes: This web site has fixated almost exclusively on how the random pieces of pornographic material we managed to get our hands on controlled our hearts and minds and defined the way we thought about ladies and the world of love. What it has failed to do is to examine the myriad of ways these magazines influenced our thinking in less obvious ways. Let's pretend for the sake of argument that reading porn magazines fail-safe guaranteed you would develop sufficient love-making skills to pleasure women both one-and-one, and in small groups. But what were the less obvious collateral benefits? In this instance, if you dedicated a vast proportion of your waking hours to reading porn as a teen, what career track were you setting yourself on? The answer to this question, and countless others, lay in the small ad section at the back of the magazines. Have a close look and ponder just how much majestic whoopee a professional meat cutter gets nowadays anyway? Enjoy this selection from a 1971 edition of Stud Magazine. (click on images to enlarge)


Monday, November 5, 2007

Hooked On A Feeling and a Futon


Jimmy O, now of suburban Chicago, sends in this tale of a collegiate bond stronger than Crazy Glue:

My freshman roommate was a handsome fellow. Well over 6 feet tall with a dong to match. He had a girlfriend. He fornicated. For all the aforementioned reasons and more, what I witnessed that cold, dreary Midwestern afternoon remains a mystery. But it did occur all the same.

And as far as roommates go, he was a pleasure. Amicable, amiable, and many other descriptive words that begin with a, he was as easygoing as they come. From pizza toppings to music, we had much in common. When it came to decorating our dorm room our tastes couldn't have been more simpatico and we quickly agreed upon a wool carpet remnant and a cherry red futon. For almost a year, we spent countless nights on that futon playing Tecmo Bowl, watching Sports Center, and pulling late night bingers from his home-made bong. Why he would chose to desecrate such hallowed ground is still beyond me. But he did. And it went a little something like this:

Poly Sci 101 class was cancelled. I grabbed a slice of pizza and headed back to the dorm. Room was double bolted. This was odd. I opened the door and-- even as I write this it doesn't sound real -- walked in on said roommate with his Girbuad jeans at his ankles, making love to the crease in our futon.

Alarmed, ashamed, and agitated I high-tailed it out of there. Too repulsed to return, I spent the night in a friend's room. The next morning I returned and, perhaps by way of an apology?, found the futon covered in a brand new tie-died tapestry.

Looking back, it's still difficult to ascertain what drove him to this act of man on couch love. Where had he learned it? Who had taught him the joys of the crease? I don't think I want to know.

Tree Hugger

Horatio writes: Thanks to J. Owen for this beauty. He was born and bred Upper West Side as the story attests:

My best friend growing up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan was a kid called Marcus Berg. We were the kind of friends who were joined at the hip up to about the age of 14 when playing Atari stopped being our number one priority and was replaced by pursuing girls in his case, and personal computing in mine. Looking back, I can pinpoint one exact moment when our friendship began to dissolve. We were throwing a football in Riverside Park one late winter afternoon as we often did on the way home from school. I gave the ball a little bit too much of the Dan Fouts treatment and it went over his head and into the bushes. Bergie ran in to retrieve it, and emerged with the ball in his right hand, and a copy of Penthouse Letters in his left. Our relationship was never the same again.

The questions such as whose was this magazine and what the hell was it doing in the bushes of Riverside Park were not asked. Even the ball was quickly forgotten as we flicked through this slightly-soiled discovery and the treasures that lay within. Darkness descended quickly as it does in winter in Manhattan. Riverside Park in the early eighties was not a place you wanted to be at night unless you intended to score some drugs or indulge in some man on man pleasuring and this created a problem for Marcus. His parents were English and extremely strict in a "spare the rod, spoil the child" way. So there was not a chance that magazine was returning with him to his 98th and West End boudoir. But for Marcus, the magazine was like a diamond, and to throw it away so soon after finding it would have been a sin akin to leaving left overs if you ever had dinner with Bob Geldof.

Under pressure, Bergie was quick of mind and quick of foot -- the closest analogy would be George Peppard in the A-Team. He shinned up a nearby tree, a spruce I think, and concealed the magazine in a crevice between two branches. And that is where the fun started for Berg. For the very next night, he put on his black champion sweatshirt and camo pants and penetrated the park at night -- an act which hithertofore had held a kind of Candyman stigma in our imaginations -- returned to his tree, climbed it, retrieved the magazine, knocked one out to its pages with a flashlight, restored it to its hiding place, and then ran like the wind back to the safety of West End Avenue. When he told me about this act of foolhardy bravery the next day in class I was aghast and agog. As I listened to the story and the risk of life and limb he was exposing himself to, it was like my friend had become a different person. "Yes, I was terrified" he admitted, ""But, tossing one off is like how i imagine drugs feel. You know what I mean, right?"

I was too embarrassed to admit that I did not. For the sake of our friendship, but just as much, for the sake of maintaining perceptions as much as I could about my not so well developed masculinity... I played along and tried to pretend that I was down with his daredevil Delta Force style park raids which occurred ritually in the same way every night for the next three months, a period in which the magazine stayed in the tree, the only difference being that it was now stored in a plastic bag (my idea) to protect it from the elements.

On the 93rd day of this ritual, the magazine mysteriously disappeared. I was relieved. But Bergie entered a state of depression and mourning after which he picked himself up, started running with a slightly faster crowd at school and our relationship, though still warm, was never really the same again. I think about this story being less about friendship, and more about the intoxicating power of the act of masturbation to an adolescent boy. That between life and death and knocking on out, they would choose death.

Odd Todd and his Hot Rod


Pound for pound, Todd Rosenberg is one of the funniest gents on the interweb. And now we, at True Beat, have another reason to love him, his lost days of porn innocence.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

A Little Something For the Weekend, Susanna Hoffs


Fewer bands were more underrated musically and erotically than the Bangles. Ok. Musically, they were mediocre, but it was their music that propelled them into the nation's consciousness, and into the stuff of my adolescent fantasy. The Bangles were living proof that the collective can be greater than the sum of the parts, because truth be told, there were some pretty ugly looking ladies in there -- but they were carried by their lead singer who was a feather of a girl, one Miss. Susanna Hoffs. Hoffs was tiny -- the Mugsy Bogues in a band full of Manute Bols. And she knew how to grab your attention and then keep you transfixed, taking the stage in a slip of dress, thigh-length boots and a strapping guitar lashing out from her crotch. When she sang, the angels in heaven stopped to listen. And when she gave the microphone up to one of her bandmates, she knew how to keep you staring with a wriggle of her tiny knees, a sashay of her hips, or a head toss of her shaggy mane. Hoffs drove me crazy. Pocket sized, she represented everything a thirteen year old boy could want in a woman. You can keep your Walk Like an Egyptian, which always seemed crassly commercial to me with its gimmicky dance and nonsensical meaning. When Hoffs sang, there was meaning a plenty -- Eternal Flame is a case in point. Many was the night I would dust off that record and give it a spin whist staring at the four individual headshots of Hoffs on the front cover of the LP Different Light. As the song climaxed, so would I, driven on by Susanna's urging me and me alone: "Close your eyes, Give me your hand, Can you feel my heart beating? Do you understand?" I understood. Oh yes. I understood.


Horatio writes: Thanks to Joss David of New Jersey for this poignant piece of masturbatory nostalgia.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Able Seaman Peter North

Horatio writes: Thanks to Andrew Diamond of New York City for this video reminiscence:

Here's how I got my hands on the one video I watched pretty much every night bar Yom Kippurs between the ages of 14 and seventeen. My best friend was sent to boarding school freshman year of high school. He called all of us round to his house to solemnly dispense his "effects" like a soldier going off to war. These effects consisted solely of a dozen VHS porno videos he most could neither take with him not leave behind, knowing as he did that his mother would be giving his room a meticulous once over the second he was out the door. He had thoughtfully thumbed through his collection and selected one for each of us personally. Mine featured a virgin visiting her licentious cousin in the big city for the weekend. The slut took it upon herself to give her innocent relative an education by banging everyone that they encountered in the next 48 hours from the cable guy to the pizza delivery boy. The video climaxed with the appearance of porn-flick thesbian, Peter North, whom I later discovered, is known as The Master of Huge Loads. He made a dramatic late entrance in this particular movie, doing it with slutty cousin, for reasons that only occur in films such as this one, in a boat in a garage, before moments later, deflowering innocent cousin on a white leather couch in the adjoining lounge. Cue threesome. Such was the quality and the believability of Mr. North's performance, combined, perhaps with how impressionable I was back then (and still am today really) that the lesson that stayed with me after I had polished my pud to the final scenes for the umpteenth time was the learning curve -- that if I too could just loose my cherry it would be a gateway drug to finding myself in a threesome within the next half hour or so.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Tussling With Tuffy


P. Mersky of Edina, MN writes:

As a senior in college I shared a house with six friends. We were all in the same fraternity and knew each other very well. From favorite pizza toppings to customs of the colon, there wasn't much we couldn't tell you about each other. But there is one thing I think we all wish we could forget.

It was November 6th, 1993. The night Evander Holyfield fought and beat Riddick Bowe in a 12 round decision. The bout was only available on HBO, which we had on a big screen in our downstairs living room. We offered to have a party for our friends and with the addition of buffalo wings and a keg of beer we were soon expecting over 50 people.

As fight time neared, people began to migrate towards our house. Those invited and not. By the time the punches began we were standing room only. It was so crowded that spectators gathered outside on the front lawn and watched through the window.

One of our roommates, Jeffrey X, lived in a room on the bottom floor. An unusually sound sleeper, Jeffrey could snore his way through anything. Thus it came as no surprise to find him sleeping through all the commotion of this big fight. Jeffrey's window was also in the front of the house, but even the noise from the rowdy spectators outside couldn't rouse him from his slumber.

Eventually the fight ended and Jeffrey coincidentally woke up. As expected, people stuck around to polish off the keg. As unexpected, Jeffrey decided now was a good time to catch a beat. A bit sloppy with his venetian blinds management, he had failed to secure the venue before beginning his unscheduled 3 round bout. As it was already dark outside, the light from the porn on his TV attracted unnoticed fans and the crowd quickly shuffled over to his window for the unexpected bonus fight. And there Jeffrey was, tussling with Tuffy before a live crowd of over 100 drunken suporters. Odds were taken, bets were made. How long could he last? It took everything we had to control the urge to burst out laughing and knock down his door and window. Luckily, it was a short fight and after 3 quick rounds Tuffy gave out and fell depleted to the canvas. It was a victory for everyone! We then, of course, charged into Jeffrey's room to help him celebrate the hard won victory and KO.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Home Alone!

Horatio writes: Brad from New Jersey raises a fascinating philosophical question.

My parents were pioneers. They got a video recorder early on and kept it in the bedroom. It was a Betamax and they held onto it long after the VHS format got the upper hand. One day I broke into their room with my brother and some of his friends in search of something better to do. To our delight we discovered that although my parents only had seven videos, six of which unedited tapes from our Bar Mitzvahs, the seventh was a porno video with a through line about some aliens who land on earth and become sidetracked from their original invade and destroy mission once they discover the human vagina. We watched the alien lovemaking in total silence before replacing the tapes exactly as we had found them. So was born my addiction to porn. From that day onwards, I manufactured every opportunity I could to be left in the Home Alone scenario. The second the front door slammed shut I would rush upstairs, into my parents room and slam in that tape in for some UFO humpy pumpy. And here was the the thing. Every time I put the tape in, it started at a different place -- which meant that this video gem was an active part of their love life. And because I had to pay witness to the exact second they were stopping it, I had a front row glimpse of their sexual peccadilloes (They loved the women on women scenes, especially the one with lead alien watching in the corner whilst pleasuring his terrestrial penis), something which sounds funny now, but that I would wish on no other twelve year old. I wonder if any of your other readers experienced this kind of scenario because if they did, I want to know the following. To rewind back to the exact place you found the tape originally or not to rewind? At first, I always used to, with a great degree of accuracy, driven by both a respect for, and fear of, my elders. But after a while I stopped doing that because it injected such a stress level and a technical dimension to what should be a quintessentially relaxing and pleasurable experience that it seemed counterproductive. Would be fascinated, and relieved to know what others make of this human dilemma.

Friday, October 26, 2007

A Little Something for the Weekend, Sir? Charlene Tilton


Horatio writes: Thanks to Jamie Isherwood of London, England for this week's nostalgic trip back to the wank bank of our youth.

Coronation Street was the biggest soap opera in England when I grew up offering twice weekly doses of working class life in Manchester. The characters' lives were designed to be extremely bleak so as to make viewers feel better about their own wretched existences. And then came Dallas. I had never seen such a televisual concept before featuring lives so glamorous, dripping in opulence, wealth, champagne, lust and glorious, glorious skulduggery. It was as if my life had been lived in black and white to that point and could now be lived in color. Aspirational television that made my spine tingle. And then Charlene Tilton appeared on the screen as Lucy. Blonde. Ripe. Licentious. And dirty-mouthed. All of the ladies on Dallas were exquisite. Even Barbara Bel Geddes was arousing in an experienced and forgiving tutor kind of way. (OK, I would have taken a pass on that drunky sloppy one, Sue Ellen.) But there was something above and beyond about Miss. Tilton. It was as if someone had pumped everything that made America great into her four foot, eleven inches. Charlene did little of note in the wake of Dallas, bar infomercials for the abdominal exercise machine (of which I own two, sigh). Enjoy this clip of her oiled up and wearing her typical wardrobe, an inky-dinky bikini. Squint during the parts with JR in them and just pretend it is you she is talking to, et voila.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Things that go Lump in the night

Put your celebrity fixations aside for a minute. Don't get me wrong, I whacked off to sordid thoughts about Princess Leah as much as the next boy, but it is nigh time you raised a glass on this website to the "first girl in class to develop breasts," perhaps our generation's equivalent of the Tomb of The Unknown Soldier. I did some scientific research by broaching the subject amongst my male friends last night and can report that two phenomena were constant. First all swore to a man that the breasts appeared almost overnight. And second, they were, without exception, magnificently large. The girl in question would normally flout them as a ripe mark of pride -- the only thing in the class room that money could not buy. (In a couple of situations it should be noted that the girl in question carried them as a curse, trying to smother them in baggy clothing Ally Sheedy style.) This moment was spectacularly transformative because it marked the exact second that breasts stopped being two-dimensional expressions on the pages of a soggy worn-out magazine and became theoretically available to the touch. Conspiracy theorists have even debated as to whether Bar Mitzvahs were invented for the sole reason that the parties that followed them gave a legion of boys the opportunity to take giant leaps to manhood by literally grabbing their opportunity to get to second base. Irrespective, the appearance of the ripe orbs like the first swallow of summer, gave legions of boys something local -- something within their grasp -- to add to their mental repertoire as they pleasured themselves nightly.


Thanks to Kevin Bracey of Northbrook, Illinois for this statement.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Reunited And It Feels So Good


We all grew up with a favorite piece of porn. For me it was a softcore version of The Old Lady Who Lived In The Shoe. At least I think that's what it was called. There was definitely an orgy that took place in a giant shoe but I seem to also remember a prince who was a virgin and needed to get laid before his father, the king, would give him the kingdom. And a scene of a woman kissing herself in the mirror which always freaked me out and turned me on. Not sure why I was so enthralled with this not particularly arousing or well done piece of cinematography, but it definitely stuck in my head over the years.

We at True Beat Generation want to hear about your favorite blasts from the past and, if possible, reunite you with them. No request is too big or too small. From a vintage copy of Oui to a videotape of Al Goldstein on Channel 35, we'll do our best to bring these gems home. It's our gift to you.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Not In My Back Yard

Horatio writes: Mitchell Andrews read our thought piece about the art of navigating the newsstand and contributed this classic vignette which could only occur on the Upper East Side of New York:

I grew up on the hallowed turf of 79th and Madison, which for those of you who are unfamiliar, is one of the most affluent zip codes in the city, rife with more well-moisturized ladies who lunch, small dogs, and busy, busy plastic surgeons per acre than anywhere else in the nation. You would think that I would have had more than enough pocket money to procure a collection of porn that could rival quantity-wise, the collection of art at the nearby Met. I was eleven and horny as hell. But the honest truth was, a silver spoon only gets you so far. The barrier between me and mountains of nudie mags was that even the newsstand proprietors need to keep up appearances on the Upper East Side and so noone would dream of selling porn to minors with so many eyes on the street. I came up empty in my quest for Penthouse until I came to the newsstand on 86th and Lexington where the guy behind the counter announced loudly with relish that he could not possibly fulfill my request as it was against the law to sell pornography to minors. He then leaned forward, winked and whispered into my ear the magic words "Go to the newsstand on 79th and 2nd and tell them Abdul sent you." As I soon discovered, the foot traffic at that corner was virtually non-existent and Abdul had a well-rehearsed revenue share with the owner there who became my weekly dealer. Thank you Abdul, for giving me a moral education, at a critical age in my development that the means justify the ends, where there is a will there is a way, and whatever that phrase is about the worth of walking a mile in someones shoes.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Rockin' Bhavin


As a freshman in college, your dorm and roommate were mainly luck of the draw. Dorm, I won. Roommate, not so much.

As an 18-year-old on his own for the first time, I was not immediately prepared for Bhavin, the Indian national by way of Kenya who preferred the witty society of engineering students to cold beer. For the entire first semester I don't think I ever saw him leave the dorm except for classes. He had no interest in drinking, women, or much of anything except studying and hanging out in our tiny 10 by 10 cell, made even more cramped by the U-shaped loft we installed overhead.

In a school full of kids from exotic locales like Great Neck and Bloomfield Hills, I bemoaned my fate daily. Where was my beer guzzling, late-night pizza ordering, partner in crime? Woe was me. Little did I know, everything was about to change as I would make the discovery of a lifetime. Or at least of freshman year.

Bhavin, you see, was the son of a successful 7/11 owner and operator. Where I came to college with a duffel bag brimming with Girbaud jeans and pastel-colored Ralph Lauren oxfords, he came with a chest stocked full of beef jerky, Coca Cola, and the most glorious collection of hardcore convenience store porn I'd ever seen in my life!

A bit sloppy with his post-game cleanup one night, Bhavin left a mag sticking out of his chest of goodies. It all became instantly clear. No wonder that son of a bitch never left the room! For the next semester, neither would I. From Jugs to Oui to Knockers, the more I beat the less I left! In what became a ritual of don't ask don't tell, I would go out each night, wait for Bhavin to finish his business and fall asleep, then sneak back in and tend to myself in the semi-privacy beneath the loft.

After Freshman year, Bhavin and I rarely spoke although we were always cordial when we ran into each other. Why wouldn't we be? We were beat brothers!

Friday, October 19, 2007

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Sheena Easton in Miami Vice

Sheena Easton's 1987 appearance as singer Caitlin Davies in Miami Vice was an emotional highpoint for adolescent boys across the nation. Her sexual charisma was so intoxicating that she tamed ace-swordsman and generational role model, Sonny Crockett, marrying him within one episode of their meeting. The five episodes she starred in before her brutal murder marked the apex of a six year journey from squeaky clean virgin to dirty whore under Prince's tutelage. She exploded into our consciousness as a fresh faced perky pert performer in 1981. Her debut single, Morning Train (9 to 5) stormed to the top of the charts, driven no doubt, by the purchases of youths across the country eager to relieve themselves to her video on MTV. We offer it up here so you can relive the stuff of your adolescent fantasies this weekend. The way she handles the signal box with both arms and a rag in hand at 1:58 is powerful, powerful stuff -- enough to make the likes of Ron Jeremy explode in their undies. Sheena, we salute you for the six years of self-pleasure you brought into our lives. And for making a video with an avantgarde concept which has influenced even the likes of Bat for Lashes (same color shirt, same bike)

Thanks to Andrew of the Upper East Side for this nomination.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Wakey, Wakey! Here Comes Snakey...

Horatio writes: Byrd is back, thanks to Kris Cooper of New York City for this beauty:

Great to read about Robin Byrd again. Been far too long since I thought about that lady and the way she used to make me feel. But am wondering if anyone else had the same problem as we did. It was not that we were forbidden to watch it. And I did not lack for a TV to watch her performance solo as we had five televisions in my house. The only thing that stood between me and nightly ecstasy was that the Robin Byrd Show started at Eleven Thirty p.m. and it was just too damn late. Every afternoon I would bid my sixth grade school mates adieu in the same way -- we would laugh like little James Earl Jones' at the prospect of watching us some titty on Robin's show that night. Cut to our homes... a spot of homework, dinner with the family, watching some TV, some Fresh Prince perhaps, or a spot of Atari. Anything to kill the time till that magic hour when Robin would appear before us. Same story every night. I would wake up, two or three in the morning, fast asleep on the couch, with Robin having quietly come and gone, and the only stains I had created coming from the pool of saliva that had emerged from my mouth. I would love to know if I was the only New York narcoleptic or was this a commonly experienced technical challenge?

Friday, October 12, 2007

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Kelly Le Brock

Horatio writes: In a new feature, we will empty the vaults of the wank bank every Friday to offer you blasts from the past -- strands of masturbatory DNA from the seventies, eighties and nineties -- for you to test drive over the weekend. Look at it as our weekly gift to you, a chance to jerk off nostalgically. We start with some classic action from one Mrs. Kelly LeBrock who thrilled us twice, by baring her chest twice in Lady in Red and the strangely under-rated Weird Science. Both unveilings happen towards the end of the movie which was fine in the latter film but excruciating in the former as it meant sitting through an interminable hour and a half of Gene Wilder at his sun bed crisped worst, not to mention the harrowing Chris De Burgh theme song. But once Kelly took over in the climactic bed room scene, she gave a performance that teenage fantasies are made of. Let's face it, if she would do it with Gene Wilder,she would do it with anyone, right? A fact she proved at true by going on to marry Steven Seagal. Enjoy this clip over the weekend. WARNING: Learn to time your self pleasuring so you are not paddling your pickle when Gene Wilder is in frame. If you can't manage to do this, here's a bonus gift.