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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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?

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.

Camp Tamawack

Art Krugel of Southfield Michigan writes:

It wasn't real. It couldn't be. There we were, huddled around the floor of our wooden cabin, waiting with raised flashlights and baited breath as the greatest competition of our young lives unfolded: who could come the fastest.

The contest always began the same way. Each warrior would take to his bunk and enter his respective sleeping bag. Lubricants and magazines were permitted but were hardly ever called upon. Silence was requested, but not mandatory and rarely achieved. On the count of three the tugging would begin. And then, like crazed butterflies trying to break free of their cocoons, we would witness the cartoonish outline of this epic struggle. Within minutes, sometimes seconds, a winner would grunt out his victory and a triumphant hand would protrude from their sleeping bag, Whoever said the proof is in the pudding wasn't kidding.

But I still couldn't believe it. Late to the game of self-love, I laughed heartily at these alleged victories. Come on, there's no way that's what you say it is! That's hand lotion! Or vaseline. You guys wouldn't really? Would you?

They would. And they did. Later that year, back at home, I finally discovered the joys of me, a pleasure tempered only by the dark realization that what had occurred that summer was only too real. The following year at camp these competitions were not repeated. Nor spoken of.

Twitchin' Beaver

Horatio writes: Thanks to Eddy from suburban Detroit for this moving story.

I believe the case has been made on this website that the world is divided into two kinds of people -- men who read porno for the photographs, and those who love it for the stories. I would suggest that the reality is more complex than that. While I had no time for the stories -- the photographic spreads never did it for me either, unless they were in Hustler's Beaver Hunt feature -- a piece of visionary thinking from the devious mind of one Mr. L. Flynnt, in which he foresaw the explosion of amateur porn which would occur two decades later on the internets and persuaded seemingly everyday damsels from middle America to rip off their undies and show us their down belows. I was the proud owner of six copies of Hustler and the Beaver pages were the only ones I ever turned to in my hour -- more accurately, fifteen minutes -- of need. These were average girls trying their damnedest to look supersexy. Secretaries from Appleton, WS, factory workers from Portland, ME, and best of all, the occasional Mom from Brick Township, NJ -- all were driven by the forces of lust, and desires that only I could satisfy to put themselves on display. Back in those days I had no appreciation of such issues as misogyny, insecurity, or the numbness of repeated dull relationships. The feature served to insert a simple truth in my adolescent head. Beaver Hunt was the female mind laid bare. They wanted it all day and all night -- and that goes for all women. And as soon as I could learn to drive, I could service their desires. Until then, I went about my daily life wearing a pair of Beaver Hunt fueled goggles, imagining that every woman I encountered -- my teachers, dinner ladies, school bus driver -- were just a camera and a tripod away from the pages of Hustler. On weekends, there was nothing finer than to hang out in mall parking lots, approaching girls as they returned to their automobiles and asking them "haven't I seen you before...?" The girl's would look both flattered and confused. And then we would deliver the killer line which never got tired. "... in Beaver Hunt!"

Great Works of Literature: The Happy Hooker

Horatio writes: Thanks to Dan from Ontario for this tall tale. If you had some classic material which fired your imagination and was pivotal in your physical emotional development, we would love to hear about it.

My family bought a cottage by the lake as a summer home with visions of opening my eyes to the glories of the Great Outdoors. Fresh water, mountains, the works. The summers I spent there were lifechanging in a way my parents never imagined. Especially since, in all of my time there, I barely left my own room. This is my story.

I was twelve when my parents bought the place. The the first thing I did upon arriving was to act on the curiosity of youth and sniff around the place, checking out every room, rummaging through all of the odds and ends the previous owners had left behind them. My parent’s room, the biggest in the house, was spartanly furnished. It had one medium sized formica chest of drawers in front of a bed. The chest was mundane on the outside. But its looks were deceptive for when I opened it, I was astonished to discover a veritable treasure trove of pornography – magazines and books. The magazines were mostly Penthouses, and my father who walked into the room seconds after my discovery made them vanish pretty sharpish. But thankfully, he was a picture person, and he left behind a couple of books that were also there. I quickly gave them the under the shirt treatment and whisked them back to my room for closer inspection.

One of the tomes was The Happy Hooker by a woman called Xaveria Hollander. A graphic autobiography by a woman who loved doing it so much that she became a prostitute. In the same way some Major League baseball players can’t believe they get paid to play the game he loves, Xaveria loves her work, hence the book’s title. I devoured the book from start to finish in one sitting in the way I imagine Tom Cruise felt as he read the work of E. Ron Hubbard for the first time. I delighted at the graphic positions, the dirty physicality, and the unbridled bliss, more than that, I loved the way the pleasure described in the pages mirrored the throbbing feeling it stimulated in my sweat pants.

I spent more time alone with Ms. Hollander that summer than I did with the rest of my family combined. I kept the book in a blue envelope at the back of my closet but it was rarely there. It was more often in my hands. I quickly identified the dozen parts of the book I liked best, and after turning down the corner of the page, would rotate through them. On those magical days I was able to use the book seven or eight times I would mix in a couple of B-level scenes to keep things fresh. I estimate that I knocked one of to the Happy Hooker close to ten thousand times over the next ten years which, fittingly enough, is as many women as Wilt Chamberlain estimates he had slept with in his lifetime. Just writing this makes me hard.

I just googled Xaveria. She now has a motel you can stay at in Holland. I would like to propose a Beat Generation Road trip on which we can discuss the literature that defined our generation.

Aqua Man

Art Dvorak of Lansing, Michigan writes:

My younger brother's showers were legendary. From the time he hit middle school until he left for college, no one took longer showers than he. Not to mention his frequency. Sometimes showering four times a day, he spent a good portion of his youth under the hose.

It wasn't until college that I figured out what was going on. Chalk it up to incredible naivety, but I just didn't put the two together. No stranger to touching myself, I preferred the privacy of my own room and a clean tissue. For whatever reason, the aqua beat never crossed my mind. Even more perplexing is why my parents never spoke up. Surely they must have realized their son was wanking away in there costing both them and the good tax payers of Lansing hundreds of extra dollars in municipal water charges.

My brother, now 35, denies these allegations. He contends the combination of mild eczema and a dry Michigan clime necessitated he moisturize in such a fashion.

Golden Toilets

Frederick Goldensnapple of Texas writes:

Hands down, from ages 12 to 18, my house was the most popular place to shit in the neighborhood. It wasn't the toilet paper, although it was 2-ply. It wasn't the lighting, although my mom always did have the eye of a true Texas aesthete. And it wasn't the location-- my house was a good half mile by foot further away than anyone else's. It was the sink. Or rather, what lie hidden beneath it.

My friends discovered it before I did. And for weeks, could it have been years?, I couldn't figure out why all my childhood pals insisted on making my house the location for their afterschool dump du jour. In hopes of unravelling this mystery, one day after everyone had left, I secluded myself in the commode, determined to figure this thing out once and for all.

Other than mom's impressive collection of lotions and potions and dad's harsh-smelling aftershaves there was nothing out of the ordinary in here. Was I missing something? I counted the tiles on the floor. And recounted them. I then proceeded to catalogue everything in the room with a zeal to rival missieurs Coopers and Lybrand themselves. Still nothing.

In desperation, I flopped on the floor and landed face to face with the cabinet beneath the sink. But what was this? A false bottom? There, in the two or three inches between the cabinet and floor was porn, glorious porn! Hot Bottoms and Playboy! Elated, I flipped over on my back and poured through every magazine then and there.

To this day, my mom still tells her friends about the Civil War-esque case of dysentery I came down with between the ages of 12 and 18. Until, of course, I switched to soy milk in college and everything cleared up.

HALL OF FAME: THE RISE AND FALL OF JOHN BOX

Horatio writes: This heart-wrenching ballad was told to us by Dan from Ontario:

John Box became a legend in my school for all of four weeks. He was a quiet kid who generally kept himself to himself. And then porn came into our lives, in a trickle of magazines and videos that were passed surreptitiously locker to locker. Out of nowhere, John Box piped up that he had a mound of porn at home he had been given by his Dad -- a Kareem-sized stack of Playboys that by his telling could keep the sailors of the Sixth Fleet busy for an entire shore leave. John Box quickly became one of the most popular kids in school. To sit at his table at lunch was an education as he held us entranced with tales of both pictorials and articles. Rapt, we begged him to ignore the bell that signaled the start of afternoon classes and tell us one more story. Throw us a bone here John Box! After two weeks of wining and dining on his stories, and metamorphosing into one of the most confident, ney a little bit arrogant, boys in our year, things were going rather fantastically for John Box until one lunch time when Jason Corran had the tenacity to pipe up at the end of a marathon virtuoso porn recital and ask Box if for once, he could bring in a couple of the magazines so we could feast our eyes on their splendor. Box laughed a nervous laugh and promised he would on Monday. Frankly, many of us were so devoted to John Box and his story telling that we shouted down Jason Corran and tsk-tsked his rudeness as inappropriate... but the Corran faction were proved to have a point when Monday came around and Jason Box came to us empty handed, citing that his grandmother's moving in for the week as a defense. Yes, we all continued to sit with him at lunch times. We were addicted to his stories. But something in the air had changed. The exchange was functional. There was less laughter, awe, and respect. Things came to a head the following Saturday when after three broken promises to bring in some booty, I went with Jason Corran and two other boys from my year as we invited ourselves round to Box's house for a sleepover. To Box's credit, he dealt with our unannounced arrival with aplomb, using his Pong as what must have been a last desperate attempt to make us forget the real reason we had come round to his house. And it almost worked. That game is crazy catchy. But after what must have been five or six hours, we remembered why we were there. Jason Corran calmly stated "You know why we have come. Lead us to your stack." To Box these words must have sounded like the phrase "you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead." Nowehre to run, nowhere to hide. He stood there and grinned a lob-sided grin. We watched the life drain out of his face. He knew the game was up. And as Corran stepped forward to deliver the knuckle punch to the eye on all of our behalf, I realized that the pain of that was nothing, compared to the realization that for 12 year old John Box, the high point of his life -- those four glorious weeks when he was the toast of our town -- were now behind him.

Rock Beats Scissors, Porn Beats Hornets

JAMES T. of Venice Beach writes:

When you're the youngest of three brothers stuff magically appears. Beers in the basement. Bongs in the back of your closet. And last but certainly not least, a stack of porn in the hornet infested attic. To say stack is an injustice. This was Alexandria: a vast, catalogued, collection of every major porn publication from the 70's and 80's. Playboy, check. Oui, check. Knockers, check. Penthouse, Penthouse Letters, Penthouse Forum, check check check. And oh yeah, the hornets. Did I mention them? It's funny how much a teenage boy with raging hormones can weather in the face of pornography. The stings and welts I received over the years pale in comparison to the joy I received from many hours spent reading in this fine library of the libido.