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!"