Horatio writes: Over the past couple of weeks we have collected a slew of "first encounter with porno video" recollections from pee-wee Christopher Columbuses across the country. Hard to believe from the perspective of our Youporn era in which video is so easily accessible, but our generation's first encounters with moving images of the sex act variety were often more terrifying than erotic. T. from Brooklyn told us how he first watched a friends video at aged 13. It was a piece of Swedish erotica featuring a gent in white pants being orally pleasured by a nurse. "I looked on aghast, amazed by the special effects that were being employed in a movie that had an otherwise shoddy aesthetic. At first I thought she was faking it. Employing that trick we all did with a plastic sword -- you know the one where you mime swallowing it whilst actually sliding it down the side of your cheek. But then they cut to a frontal angle where it became clear that no, this was actually going right down her mouth like some kind of David Copperfield illusion. And I sat there horror struck at this act of sheer violence."
Horatio writes: Regular readers know we are in the midst of some important research in the name of science, reuniting a cadre of plucky volunteers across the country with the formative material that used to catalyze their fantasies in the days before the internet. A long way of saying, we have invited 25 friends to toss one off to a vintage copy of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit edition to see if it was as arousing an experience as we remember it to be. This just in from the amazing Mike of the Upper East Side of New York:
Horatio writes: In a departure this week, no video. But to be fair. No real woman either. But a beauty nonetheless. The St. Pauli Girl. Fewer ladies aroused more boys earlier, more often. If you catch my drift. Blonde. With arms wide open. And did we mention that chest, with wardrobe malfunction just a shoelace away? So if you once found nothing out of the ordinary in pleasuring yourself with abandon in front of your father's six-pack in an open fridge, we salute you. What the heck. Here's a video.
Horatio writes: In our continuing scientific experiment to reunite middle aged America with the nostalgic material that used to make the masturbatory magic happen (or in the words of our latest lab rat, the mighty P from Mississippi, our "SIscience project") we provide the following in depth report. P, we salute you for taking this assignment so seriously. In his words "To create exactly the right mood, I prepared by stealing some clove cigarettes, playing Cult of Personality on my ghettoblaster, and watching that brave-assed Chinaman standing in front of a tank muted on the TV. "February 9, 1987. That’s the date on the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue I just beat off to. Page 117 to be exact. It shows the lower half of Elle McPherson’s body clad in a wet white bikini bottom that hugs her mons pubis and hints at that contours of what’s underneath. Coincidentally I probably jacked it to this very image 21 years ago to the day; This issue took pride of place in my stash alongside a Penthouse, a Hustler, two issues of High Society, a Club International, a Cheri (where the same girl with a rat nest of pubic hair was in three different pictorials sporting a different name in each - Kellye Works on a Dairy Farm! Orsola Enjoys Being a Vice Cop! Gloria is a Promising Young Architect!), a Girls of the SEC Playboy that I stole from my Dad who bought it because one of my sister’s Ole Miss sorority sisters was in it (Yes, I am aware just how creepy that sounds right now), and a couple of really nasty little cumrags that I shoplifted from Sydney’s News on Decatur Street during some family trip down to New Orleans.
It was a lot easier climaxing in 1987, and that’s not just because 21 years ago I was a twelve year old boy who could orgasm on account of the mere thought of getting off later in the day to the girls booty-shaking on WGN’s Soul Train rerun. But now, trying to find my groove staring at women with big hair and hideous swimwear was difficult. First off, even back in the day I detested the ever-prominently-featured Kathy Ireland (even before she did Necessary Roughness). Time has not soothed the hatred I harbor for her blank stare and her holier-than-thou attitude. Just looking at that picture of her in pinstripes makes me want to punch something, and I long ago promised myself to be a non-violent masturbator. But this issue does have Elle, and Elle and I had had our share of magic days. So I was working it, transporting myself to another place and time where I’m a knock-kneed 12-year-old boy (who is on this revisit holding a man-sized penis), and a swimsuit issue is considered not only suitable but rabidly sought-after masturbatory material.
I am proud to be able to report: It still works. Everything was coming along swimmingly until my fiancée’s dogs started fighting in the back yard. I was immediately snapped back to the present in which I found myself standing up and banging on a window with some sweatpants around my ankles while sporting a near-capacity hard on. The dogs were really going at it. Fuck, OK. So I pull up my pants and go out the back door to separate them. At the same time my neighbor comes out of her back door to see what all the ruckus is about. Picture this. Her: a septuagenerian spinster who enjoys gardening and who works nights at the VA hospital. Me: a 33 year-old with thinning hair who at 2:00 in the afternoon on a weekday comes running out of his house in sweatpants that not only do a very bad job concealing his hard on, but, if you will allow me to boast, a very good one accentuating it.
With the dogs and my boner pacified I was beginning to think that this whole project might have to be postponed. But there was Elle, calling my name on the floor of the bathroom in her white bikini. My cock woke up. Immediately. And I dutifully polished myself off. I then pulled up my pants and emailed my fiancee that one of her dogs was bleeding.
Horatio writes: Our grandparents had V-Day. Our parents had JFK's Assassination. Everyone can tell you where they were on these days on which history turned. After which nothing was the same again. For our generation, the dateline was September, 1985. When Playboy published a series of black and white candids of Madonna, unlike a Virgin, laying around oh so casually in the nude. More older brothers than ever before were press-ganged into purchasing this magazine in the quintessential historic moment when candy pop music culture collided with fiendish-teen-hormones-a- buzzing-in-ways-you don't-quite- understand. But what did we really learn from this historic hour? If Tom Brokaw were writing a book about it, what would he uncover? We , for one, remember being far more confused as opposed to aroused by these photos with their copious amounts of under arm hair. Exactly how many vaginas did a woman have? And how were we exactly meant to make them all work at once? Send us your tales now.
Horatio writes: Jem from New York City submitted this joyous question: Did anyone reading this blog ever get caught in the act? All the tales here are of perfect, or near perfect execution. I was never busted while busting a move. But one of the incidents that has cropped up most in my therapy sessions over the past decade is of the afternoon I went with my friend Scott to pick up out mutual buddy, Jay, on the way to school one morning. This was a daily routine. We normally stopped by his house to find him finishing off his Fruit Loops. On occasion we would even join him in downing a quick bowl of cereal when we had the time. But when we arrived this particular morning, the kitchen was strangely empty. We sat in the large wicker chairs that were arranged around his breakfast table for long enough for boredom to set in. I asked Scott whether he thought Jay was oversleeping. Scott joked that it was more likely that Jay was tossing one off.
Horatio writes: Mothers have many well chronicled virtues. Gatherers, protectors, nurturers. But among the things we are most thankful for at this humble blog is the extent to which every mother is complicit in their son's voyage of self discovery. Simply put, mothers are great enablers. They turn a blind eye to our vast increases in rate of tissue usage. The toilet being blocked for for four years straight. The crusty duvet and/or T-shirt that now lives under the bed used, used solely for mopping up duties. The requisitioning of every bottle of Nivea Body Cream purchased, tantamount to abduction. And of course, social scientists have proven that seven out of ten mothers were wise to that secret place we kept our porn collections -- they tidied the pile, even dusted it on occasion. But never removed it. If you have a story of this ilk, involving your mother and your greatest of pleasures, we would love to hear it.
Horatio writes: Regular readers know we are in the midst of some important research in the name of science, reuniting a cadre of plucky volunteers across the country with the formative material that used to catalyze their fantasies in the days before the internet. A long way of saying, we have invited 25 friends to toss one off to a vintage copy of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit edition to see if it was as arousing an exprience as we remember it to be. This just in from Jonni of Brooklyn, New York:
Horatio writes: As promised, this is what Santa gave us for Xmas. Thanks to reader Jeremy K. from Manhattan, this Sears Catalogue arrived in a thick manila envelope befitting of its content. Over 1,300 pages of what passed, back in the day, as hard core porn. And by this we mean the brassiere section. We present a selection for your viewing delight so you can take a trip down mammary lane. If you used to fire up your imagination by flipping through pages like these, we would love to hear from you.
