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.


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 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.

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.