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.