Friday, June 27, 2008
The TBG must confess, we're in love with the JLC. This is in fact the second post devoted to her, though first with video. In addition to being one of the better and most quoted movies of our youth, "Trading Places" was kind enough to feature two budding young starlets in the peak of their prime. And if all of Jamie Lee's splendor above the waist wasn't titillating enough, there was always the fascinating speculation of what lay below.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
With the mind of an elephant and the firm grasp of its tusk, Arturo B. of Los Angeles never forgot his first trip to D.C. or his first tug. He writes:
In 4th grade we took a field trip to D.C. all the way from Texas. I'd never been out of the state, much less to such a "cosmopolitan" city. Our class did the usual round of sightseeing, but it was a particular stop at the Washington Monument that I'll never forget. As the rest of my prepubescent pals stared up at the long white shaft, it was there in the grass that I found a dog-eared and soggy copy of Jugs. My feet reacted before my brain and I soon found myself racing towards the nearest public restroom. For the next hour I examined, studied, and contemplated every square inch of that magazine. My teachers, meanwhile, had put out an APB on my horny ass and when I was finally found they threatened to lock me in my hotel room for the rest of the trip. Which would have been just fine by me!
Friday, May 9, 2008
That mischievous smile, those winning dimples, that perfectly feathered hair... Alas, diagnosed with bi-polar disorder in 1992 young Kristy's career was cut short. As were the self-love sessions of thousands of disappointed teenage boys across the country. We miss you, Kristy, hope you're getting the help you need, and pray that scientists will one day create a time machine and send you back to 1980 so you can do a nude scene.
Friday, May 2, 2008
For those of you who thought the ultimate battle of the 70's was Steelers Vs. Cowboys, think again. The hit TV show The Facts of Life graciously gave us Jo (Nancy McKeon) and Blair (Lisa Whelchel), two polar opposite young ingenues that truly represented the most important confrontation of our adolescent lives. Who to make love to first? As the following video illustrates, it truly was a toss up.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Thanks to John for reminding us of this naughty young Pawnee princess. In these recession conscious times, you've also given us reason to reconsider butter as a very economical and accessible lubricant.
Stumbled across your site when I Googled "Sears catalogue"! Wow, you've nailed life as a horny kid in the 70's!
I did not see the infamous do-it-yourself porn kit for every enterprising kid with a box of butter in the fridge. The LOL nymph could be carried in your pocket or wallet, and was good for hours of dreaming of being Chief Boob Inspector of your own Indian maiden tribe.
Just cut out the box of butter on one side, remove the maiden's knees on the other, and tape together for this delightful result.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Huge thanks to Phil G. for sending in not one, but two stories in the span of a week! He writes:
This cautionary tale took place the summer between fifth and sixth grade (again in Bedford, MA). My friends Tom Mulligan, Mike Lehan, Kevin Hartwell and I were upstairs in the bedroom of a fourth friend, Mike McGrath, looking at his older brother's stash of Playboys. I had never seen one before, and was enjoying it immensely. We were all minding our business, gaping silently, when Mike Lehan, totally out of the blue, calls out "Phil has a boner!" He had no way of knowing this, as the magazine in my lap covered everything up. However, I knew two things: 1) I definitely had a boner and 2) there was no way I was going to admit it. So right away I said "I do not!" knowing that when compelled to remove the magazine, if I was lucky, it would be hidden. "Do too!" Lehan screamed. Not wanting to prolong the inevitable, I pulled the Playboy away, revealing an undeniable pup tent to the right of my zipper. They all laughed their asses off and I did my best to forget about until later that evening, when I'm standing at the plate during our little league game. From third base, Mike McGrath yells "LUMP IN THE LEVI'S!" Everyone who'd already heard about the incident cracked up and everyone who hadn't soon heard about it. It was a long summer.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
At TBG we've seen it all. However, we clearly haven't HEARD it all as "Porn For the Blind," an ingenious new website so poetically reminds us. Featuring spoken word performances of pornographic classics like, "Big Tits Round Asses: Gianna's Big Tittie Tune Up," and "Eighth Street Latinas," this site will surely go down as a seminal piece in the newly created canon of 21st Century Self Pleasuring for the visually impaired.
Thanks to Craig M. of Cole Valley for alerting us to this little gem of a site.
Monday, April 7, 2008
When Phil G first sent us this story we rejected it out of hand. It couldn't be true. Sounded like a bad joke. Phil, however, insisted the tale was not only true, but to this day was still making its way around the Eastern Seaboard. Phil, as you know, the TBG takes these matters very seriously. And if we ever find out that you fabricated all or part of this tale you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Either that or we'll just take away all your lube.
Phil writes: Growing up in Bedford, MA, I was probably 9 when I heard about these two 6-year-old kids that got a hold of a Playboy. The kids had no idea what gold they held and could only stare at it for hours on end, hoping for something to happen. After some time, one of the kids yelled to the other, "Oh my God! It's stiff! Feel it, it's stiff!" Needless to say, everyone in the town loved this story and never let those two kids forget it.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
Michael from Brooklyn had a different problem. At fourteen years of age, he uncovered his Dad's Beta video stash -- four movies -- when his mother and father were away for an anniversary weekend and spent two days in a kind of 18 rated version of Home Alone rewinding and fast forwarding through the footage. He remembered it this way, "I spent the first day getting familiar with the story lines and the peculiar rhythms of porno films, and the second 24 just rubbing my penis raw. I absolutely pummeled my crotch. I was unfettered and free. My parents were away. The only challenge I faced was that the video player was really old school... one of those huge top loading clunkers with a remote control that was attached to the actual machine by a thin plastic pipe. And I would sit there frantically fast-forwarding through to my favorite scenes, beating off with one hand whilst trying not to get my hard-on caught in the
wire emerging from the remote control I held in the other. "
Brave explorers. Please send in your stories today. We would love to hear them.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The female porcupine, for example, will use a stick as a vibrator, holding one end of a stick between her paws and walk around, straddling the stick as it bumps against the ground and vibrates against her genitalia. Strong work, porky, strong work.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Horatio writes: We are on the lookout for tales of aspirational length. And we are not talking about your manhood. Rather, we are interested in hearing about those memorable times when you have exploded out of the blocks and shot your stuff across the room. If you know what we are talking about (and we think you do) please email us now.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
We'd say we don't deserve it but, well, we kind of do. Huge thanks to Cold River of Brooklyn, NYC who wrote, created, and recorded a song, "She's Always There," based on our stories! A terrific song in its own right it's also the first song dedicated to a masturbation blog. Go figure.
Free TBG t-shirt to the first reader who can successfully pleasure himself to it.
Listen to the song here!
Monday, March 17, 2008
When I had the opportunity to take part in this very scientific self love study I knew I would be a great subject. I take a quiet pride in the fact that one of my greatest achievements in life is the extent to which I have taken "beating it" to an art form. From the age of 13, whether I was single, involved with a girlfriend, or even now as a married man, I have always made sure I have had quality time to love myself. Daisy Duke, Susan Somers from Threes Company, the chick from Weird Science, Big haired girls in glam rock videos, Olivia Newton John (I am sure I was not alone in wanting to Get Physical with that naughty Aussie), my 8th grade bio teacher etc etc. The girls who have starred in my mind as my lubriderm coated shlong danced in my hand is as long as the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
My formative beating years were late '80's and early '90's. As a result, I was not afforded the technology enhanced luxuries of todays youth. Easy access to hardcore porn was just a dream of mine back in '87. Yeah I had access to my dad's BETA porn collection but the pressure to make sure the tape was at the exact spot my dad left it was psychologically too much for me to bear. Even with the BETA numerical counter I still thought my father would eventually confront me about his beloved "Inside Seka" tape not being at the scene he left it at. I was forced to rely on the interactions between my fertile imagination and the periodicals of the day. Obviously Sports Illustrated Swim Suit was a beating gold mine and so I should have been the perfect guinea pig for this True Beat test. But when I heard about it, I was originally skeptical about getting back into the game and picking up a 1987 SI Swimsuit Edition now that we are in 2008. Full disclosure: I have an extremely carefully curated DVD collection that really never fails me. Once the wife and kids are asleep I know all I have to do is press play and 30-45 seconds later I can wipe up and go to sleep. Wouldn't using an '87 SI be like turning off my computer and going back to a typewriter? Should I turn my back on all the self loving progress 2 decades have afforded me?
That being said it is really hard to describe the feelings I had when the February 9th 1987 Elle Macpherson SI arrived in my mailbox. Now that I am a family man I could not just run to the bathroom and go to work on myself. In fact before I had a chance to test drive it, I had many nights where I would just thumb through the pages as my wife read her Us Weekly on the couch beside me as I waited for her to go to sleep. I saw so many ads and articles that transported me back to my childhood that I almost forgot what this project was about. An ad for "Mannequin" starring Andrew Mccarthy and Kim Catrall as well as those ugly black Reebok hightops that were famous in those glory days almost brought a tear to my eyes. I was entranced as I thumbed through the pages feeling transported to back to the days of Aiwa Walkmans, Gordon Gecko cell phones, and basketball shorts that ended just below the pubic hairs. I was actually suffering from some sort of masturbatory a.d.d as I was seriously getting way off topic. Finally my wife and kids went to my in-laws on a Thursday evening and I could get back to the project at hand before joining them the next day. The million dollar question in my mind was "Can Elle, Kathy Ireland and the chocolatey Karen Alexander still get my huevos in a tizzy. Well I am glad to report that some things are timeless. I am a nostalgic guy and I seriously don't know if it was the ads, the typeface, or the bad aqua netted hair in the pages of the mag but something clicked. Elle and the girls helped me bag a hat trick in approx 20 minutes. Here I am a 35 year old man with my suit pants pulled to my ankles enjoying masturbatory bliss I have not felt since those lazy days of my past. I felt like the skinny geek of my past using an SI in the bathroom when I should be practicing my haftorah. The fact that you can only see a hint of nipple just works for me. These kids today never had to use their imaginations to project what lurked behind that soaking wet white bikini top or experience the giddy bliss on the rare occasion we got lucky and could actually see the outline of the nipple. But it was magic nonetheless. I sat in my bathroom exhausted yet content and as I looked down and saw my i-Phone sitting on the floor next to Ms McPherson circa 1987, appreciating that despite the technological revolution that we have lived through, some truths have never changed.
Friday, March 14, 2008
When I was done, I will admit I felt a mix of guilt and confusion. Partially because I was beating off to a pig. And partly because I was beating off to a puppet. With a voice accented by a dude.
But I know I am not alone in having these "feelings." And here is the proof. Someone took their time to carefully create this. And this. It is time those of us who feel this way stand up and be counted or create a facebook group or something. Please be in touch via this site.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
A quick Google search of "Porn and Bathrooms" reveals no less than 233,000 entries. A number that, while not quite astonishing, is ample enough to warrant an inquiry into the relationship.
As a kid growing up in the 70's and 80's, bathrooms were the de facto location for beating off. It was where you went when you needed a little "me" time. Whether the material in hand was dad's Playboys stashed beneath the sink, or pleasant thoughts of inadvertent elbow titty, bathrooms were as essential to beating off as phone booths were to the boy from Krypton.
From hour long showers to stealthy midnight trips, from Portnoy to Brad Hamilton, from innocence to experience, thanks to this symbiotic relationship a generation of boys became men.
Today, thanks to WiFi, the teens of today need never leave the warm confines of their bed to experience digitally what we had to scavenge for, or conjure up mentally. Lucky, spoiled bastards.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Buy two, get one free. What shopper of VHS and then DVD porn in the 80's and 90's doesn't remember this ingenius selling tactic? Behind the blacked out windows and usually near the register was almost always a bookshelf, crate, or cardboard box full of the worst selling, most amateur, lowest production quality videos in the store. From three toothed interracial meth addicts to first time lesbians with Cesarian scar fetishes, this bargain bin of filth was truly the bottom of the bucket. Depraved, disgusting, base and vile, this was the worst the industry had to offer. The red headed step children of an otherwise respectable and long-standing profession.
And yet, buy one, get two free...
Damn you, Marketing Genius God of Porn! You're irresistible!
Monday, March 3, 2008
Horatio writes: We spend a lot of time on this website talking about the creative art of using inanimate objects such as Wheaties boxes, LP covers, and pairs of your neighbors knick-knicks blowin' in the wind, to fire up the imagination in a lusty direction. But until we encountered this video of a bloke making sweet love to a wall, we had no way of conveying exactly what this looks like. Thank you Mr.Strawberry and to reader, Billy H. who sent this our way.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Odd, isn't it? From best actor to best cinematography, last week's lengthy (tedious?) Academy Awards ceremony honored the best of film. Or did it?
From 1972 to the present, we at TBG have compiled a list of some of the most overlooked movies and snubbed scenes in the history of cinema (thanks to About.com). What follows is by no means exhaustive, but only serves to illuminate the dark fringes of cinema that we hope The Academy will one day deem worthy of its highest recognition.
Last Tango in Paris (1972)
Masturbation is just one of the many sexual places Maria Schneider and Marlon Brando visit in this classic buttery film.
The sexual frustrations of boyhood are played out humorously in a group masturbation scene where the boys shout out the names of their desired fantasy girlfriends.
Being There (1979)
Apparently many actors refused the role played so brilliantly by Shirley Maclaine because of this lengthy and sincere masturbation scene.
Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982)
It’s impossible not to cringe with some recognition during the pirate costume, Phoebe Cates inspired and ended bathroom masturbation scene.
The Right Stuff (1983)
From a reader: Two astronauts are required to provide semen samples to a very stuffy nurse, and masturbate while singing patriotically.
The opening scene uses unexpected masturbation to set the tone of the entire film about sex and death.
A boyhood masturbation scene involving liver (and a less successful one involving chicken) won’t be crowd pleasers among vegetarians or vegans.
Single White Female (1992)
An intentionally creepy scene where the SWF is getting off and “interrupted” by her unwitting and disturbed victim to be.
Spanking the Monkey (1994)
In some ways a movie all about masturbation (and other things) and the frustration a lack of privacy (both physical and psychological) can create.
This beautiful masturbation scene should be required viewing for anyone who wonders about the power of sex.
The Slums of Beverly Hills (1998)
Natasha Lyonne (the only actor who is in two movies on this list) tries out her cousin’s vibrator.
There’s Something About Mary (1998)
Ben Stiller’s masturbation scene is a perfect example of how far you can go in a movie if you just don’t talk about what’s really on people’s minds (or in their hair).
American Pie (1999)
Probably the most frequently referenced modern teen movie about four guys trying to lose their virginity, featuring a masturbation scene with apple pie, the eponymous dessert of the film.
But I’m a Cheerleader (1999)
They had to cut a masturbation scene to get an R rating, but what’s left in is still brilliant and the film overall is great.
Coming Soon (1999)
A surprisingly realistic performance of hot tub masturbation in this teen comedy about sex from a young women’s perspective.
American Beauty (1999)
Another frequently spoofed fantasy/masturbation scene complete with cheerleading, rose petals, and a very hot shower.
Mulholland Drive (2001)
Does anyone do spooky, disturbing, confusing and sexy like David Lynch? Naomi Watts masturbation scene is only one of the many real and implied sexual hot points in this film.
Greg Kinnear (playing Bob Crane of Hogan’s Heroes “fame”) and Willem Dafoe totally commit to this masturbation scene.
If there were an Academy Award for best masturbation portrayal, Maggie Gyllenhaal deserves a lifetime achievement statute for her masturbatory turn in a bathroom stall.
40 Year Old Virgin (2005)
Masturbation the way Betty Dodson recommends, complete with mood music, candle light, and laughs.
Nine Songs (2005)
From a reader: Both male and female masturbation, and authentic. This was the first explicitly sexual movie to be approved for showing in Ireland, for some reason... The music is the best part!
A brief masturbation scene featuring a young Moroccan boy who had been spying on his sister.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Is there another name for them? The small, black, crinkly, ubiquitous plastic bags that every porn store on the face of the planet provides for carryout purchases? The YKK of the zipper world, no porn store is complete without them. As if shopping for porn rentals among other pervs wasn't humiliating enough, someone, somewhere decided to brand us all upon our departure.
Conceptually, I get it. They're opaque, they're inexpensive, renters frequently return their porn in them so they're reusable, and yet the cruel irony is that others still know exactly what's in them!
In the pre-Internet boom of the early 90's, I moved to NYC just after college. Initially, I thought little of the knowing nods and smiles I'd get from fellow male passengers on the subway as they glanced at my bag. However, as I began to frequent various pornographic establishments and always left with the exact same bag, I quickly understood the unwanted attention I was attracting.
I wonder, do the youth of today realize the trail we've blazed for them? Have they ever felt the red hot shame of carrying said black bag through a crowded Central Park on a warm summer's day, gradually realizing with each step across the Sheep's Meadow that every man, woman, and child--Superman or not-- could see right through those thin, black plastic walls, and into the dark, depraved pornography within?
Monday, February 18, 2008
It seems like just yesterday that good old Bill was in the Oval Office and sweet, cherubic Monica was on her knees. And yet, here we are, almost ten years later and masturbation is no more accepted, and no less popular, today as it was then. According to Mr. Ken Starr's meticulous report:
25. Id. at 17. After the sexual encounter, she saw the President masturbate in the bathroom near the sink. Id. at 18.
Good for Bill! Why shouldn't one be allowed to masturbate in the bathroom of his or her choice? And yet, it wasn't too much later that Dr. Jocelyn Elders, then surgeon general, was fired by said William for stating that "masturbation is a part of human sexuality, and it's a part of something that perhaps should be taught."
Poor Jocelyn. Poor Bill. Can you imagine if Slick Willy had access to the same porn as the kids of today? Do you think for a second he would have been caught getting hummers from a plump yiddler from Beverly Hills, when he could have been wanking off to Bang Bus in the privacy of the Lincoln Bedroom?
Friday, February 15, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
As a young boy I was faced with many difficult choices, but none proved more daunting than choosing a favorite, Cheryl Tiegs or Cheryl Ladd.
For whatever reason, this mythical alliance of boy and goddess was the defining characteristic of my 5th grade class and literally split us in two. On one side you had those boys in favor of the gorgeous Ladd, who in 1977 replaced Farah Fawcett as the sexiest of Charlie's Angels. The opposition favored Ms. Tiegs, best known for her long-running affiliation with the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, which featured her on the cover in 1970, 1975, and 1983 and famously features the accidental translucent bathing suit incident.
Perhaps it was just the name that drew such intense comparisons. I recall one boy who drew up a chart of side by side statistics (boobs, butt, legs, etc.) in hopes of objectively choosing the superior Cheryl. I seem to remember even that was a draw.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
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.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Fast forward to 1978, Playboy tried and failed to run an official Cowboys cheerleader pictorial. Plan B was to run a spoof using a fictional ensemble called the "Texas Cowgirls." I was eight at the time and an only child so Mark, the fourteen year-old son of our family friends, the Jonases was like an older brother to me. When he turned me onto everything good in life. From trains to toy aircraft modeling. Imagine my surprise when he took me into his room during one routine visit, and after shutting the door, dove dramatically under his mattress and emerged with a copy of Playboy. I had never seen a porno mag before. And here was this one, stuffed full of Cheerleader rumpy pumpy. I popped a boner on the spot. But I was five or six years away -- an adolescent eternity really -- from being able to know what to do with it. I was left to stumble back into the lounge to sit silently numb with my parents and the Jonases, like a horny little caterpillar contemplating what it would feel like to become a beautiful butterfly some time in the distant future.
I experienced the same emotion every week for the next couple of years whenever the camera would caress the cheerleaders limbs to the background droning of Cosell and Meredith, and my mind would drift to the notion of doing something -- though the idea of exactly what was stiil unformed -- to these luscious, ripe, pert images. This year's Superbowl looks like a snooze. Devoted fans of this website may enjoy using this at half-time.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
In case you disagree and believe ours to be more of a silver or bronze age, here's a video of alleged pornography from the 40's. Thank Jeebus we didn't have to grow up wanking to this business!
Monday, January 28, 2008
Tanner of San Diego sent in this embarrassing little tale and wonders if anyone else has had a similar experience. No, Tanner. No.
Often referred to as "The Epic in Miami," the 1982 AFC championship between the San Diego Chargers and the Miami Dolphins is considered to be one of the greatest playoff games of all time. A game that went all the way to triple overtime, this win should have been a highpoint of my teenage years. Sadly, it is a memory that will be forever marred by a sloppy post-game move of my own.
The game was already in double overtime when the last of my family went to bed. It was over they thought. What's the use? The Chargers are going to blow it. A die-hard fan, I wouldn't hear it. There was no way my beloved Chargers were going to lose and I was going to cheer them on to the bitter end. Dan, Kellen, Charlie, Chuck, and Rolf were badly injured, exhausted, and dehydrated. It wasn't looking good. The Chargers called their last time out and I couldn't take it anymore; I had to turn the TV off if only briefly-- I was on the verge of a panic attack.
Thinking a quick beat would calm my nerves I rushed to the bathroom to do my business. Alas, the job at hand (in hand?) took longer than expected and I could hear the game resume in the other room. Still half mast and too hurried to zip up my pants, I rushed in just in time to see the last play of the game -- the glorious, Rolf Joachim Benirschke putting it through the uprights. As the ball sailed through the air, I jumped up and down in joy, forgetting that my pants were still undone. A ruckus that my mother, a light sleeper, was awoken by and she came down to investigate. Not thinking twice, I jumped into her arms and hugged her, emulating the jubilant celebrations of the players on the field.
Almost twenty years later, I still cannot delve too deeply into the details of that moment. Let it suffice to say, neither my mom or I have ever, EVER spoken of it since and I hope to god we never will.
We headed upstairs to find out who was right, creeping like Ninjas on tippy toe on the off chance Scott was. The bathroom was our first stop. Scott counted down silently with his fingers as if we were a SWAT team breaking down a door on a perilous drugs bust. We kicked the door open and burst in. And there was our lifelong friend Jay. Squatting in the corner, with his pants round his ankles and three copies of Hustler carefully arranged around him on the floor. As a piece de resistance, he was covered from thigh to knee in shaving cream, banging his schlong with a fury that could not be stopped, even by the surprise of our dramatic entry. We froze in horror and regret. Noone wants to catch their friend like this. I am not sure how we summoned the strength to remove ourselves. But we somehow made it back to the safety of the wicker chairs and the breakfast table, sitting there in silence, dreading Jay's arrival. His second coming so to speak. After what seemed an eternity, our friend materialized. His arrival all the more unsettling for the preternatural calmness he exuded. Never one to beat around the bush, he addressed the issue head on. "Guys. If I am to beat off.... And I Will... it is my business, and my business alone. As lifelong friends, and brothers-in-arms, I would appreciate it if what you have witnessed stays between the three of us and goes no further." Appreciating the solemnity of the moment, and the courage of our dear friend we both nodded and mumbled the requisite "of course." But we did not mean a word of it. The story spread round school like a good Klingon joke at a Star Trek Convention. It was everywhere by lunchtime. Was this just us, or do other people have similar tall tales?
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
"Back in the day, I was sent home from Hebrew School after being busted for reading the swim suit edition at the back of the class with a kid named Fatty Rosenbloom. My excuse that these texts were just as sacred as the bible passages we were meant to be studying fell on deaf ears. I returned home in disgrace, prepared to be disciplined by my parents. But to my surprise, although my mother gave me a cursory telling off, she seemed to be almost giddy. I realized retrospectively that she was internally delighted. Here, at last, was ireffutable proof that I was not gay. At the risk of straying to another topic, I feel this is an appropriate time to raise a glass to the Mothers of America. Among the greatest enablers of adolescent masturbation this nation has ever seen.
All of this is to explain my mental condition when I received the copy of SI Swimsuit, 1992 edition two weeks ago. I cancelled my evening plans immediately and settled in for a night of solo excess. And I am happy to report that I was not dissapointed. Although I was alone, the evening was like a scene out of Caligula. Indeed, I lost count of the number of times Sports Illustrated and I had that magic connection. However, there was nothing nostaligic about the experience. I did not emotionally summon up deeply buried adolescent fantasies. Far from it. The thing I found arousing was however sexy these women were back then, in today's licentious times, they felt more frumpy-sexy -- and I loved that -- because they felt, like middle-aged Jewish mothers ready to have an affair. Kathy Ireland, case in point. Look at this picture below and tell me that she does not look like the treasurer of the Temple Sisterhood, living out her fantasy life and letting herself go wild."
Friday, January 18, 2008
If you were lucky enough to own the video to this masterful piece of Hollywood magic, we would wager there was only one scene you ever watched. The love scene where Sarah and Kyle make doomed, frantic, yet sweet love, and in which, to our great relief (in every sense of the word) Linda Hamilton revealed the soft and vulnerable side that lies behind every all-female action hero. Two technical points must be made about this four minute and twenty-two second clip from a frenetic teen masturbators perspective. First. It was the perfect length of time to accompany the adolescent art of self-pleasuring. And second, one had to be extremely precise in execution. Because at 4:22 exactly, after a lingering seven second shot on the lovers' sweaty hands intertwined, post-coital, if you had not climaxed yourself, you were never going to. The next scene you cut to was this...
Thanks to Erik in San Francisco for this magic memory.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Ripped from the pages of the Brothers Grimm, this is the cautionary tale of a farsighted teenage boy, forced to move across the country to live with his stern father and evil stepmother, and the thin walls that separated him from his aloof step-sister.
The year was 1981 and young John was but a wee lad of 15. His parents had recently divorced and he was made to pack his bags and move to the proud, albeit perpetually decaying, kingdom of Metuchen. John's father, a caterer, took a new woman and remarried, and both families moved into a home to begin their new lives together (a home, it should be noted, that was previously inhabited by the teenage actor Robert Hegyes, aka Juan Epstein, and an attic that featured a life size poster of Robert in his high school football uniform, smiling and striking a straight arm pose). Despite the gleeful, can do, presence of Mr. Hegyes to comfort him, young John was still lonely. He missed his friends, his school, and the familiarity of the young girls in his class who had just begun to transition from pigtails to push-up bras.
As the season was summer and school was not yet in session, John had no one to play with save his step-sister, Ramona. A bookish girl of 14, Ramona occupied the room directly next to John's, separated only by one thin wall. Unwittingly cruel, beautiful Ramona wanted nothing to do with John, and preferred to spend her time in the company of Messrs. Dickens, Nabakov, and Flaubert. And so, poor John spent many hours alone in his room, contemplating his sad fate. One night, as he turned the lights off in anticipation of yet another sleepless night, John noticed something most peculiar-- a thin ray of light streaming out of his wall. Most curious, he walked towards it and, putting on his thick coke-bottle glasses, pushed his eye against the wall. And there she was-- wearing her pink, frilly nightie and curled up in bed with that affable Mr. Twain, she was a vision of purity and lust!
From this night forth, John was lonely no more. As Ramona's mind wandered across the English countryside in flights of romantic fancy, John let his eyes wander up and down her body, pushing his eyes ever harder against the wall. And so it continued for quite some time.
Years passed and John's parents decided it was time to redecorate the home. From the cottage cheese ceilings to the sagging Robert Hegyes poster to the conspicuously eyeglass-smudged hole in young John's room that was never spoken of before or since, everything was updated, retrofitted, and in the case of the hole, spackled, painted, and sealed forever more.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Feast your eyes on the below. Something for everyone. Whether you liked the straight bra shot or the more avant garde fashion forward, "Combination Bra and Dickie" (like a Greek god that is half shirt, half bra.) Perhaps you favored leaving a little something to the imagination and so were partial to the T-shirts that say it all or with Plaid pants, or your tastes were more towards the Pete Townsend end of the spectrum and so you hung out in the Her First Bra section. We present them all, along with a page from the mens section that appears to be a subliminal reminder that real Sears Men are curiously flat in the crotch region.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Many of us then staggered home from movie theaters across the country with hormones abuzz, only to make the joyous discovery, back in our father's record collection, among the Perry Comos and Jonny Mathises, there she was. Little Barb, feigning vulnerability and innocence, clad in tighty-whities topped off with a delicious pair of tube socks, like an American Apparel wet dream. Scientists have declared the cover of Streisand's Superman the most whacked off-to record cover of all time. Helen of Troy may have had a face that launched a thousand ships. Barb's launched hundreds of thousands of grunting young Hebrew school drop-outs into a state of masturbatory ecstasy. We would beat away alongside your father's record players whilst her song "Love Comes From Unexpected Places" purred softly in the background. To mix things up, the album Wet offered a different experience, though retrospectively the only thing arousing about that classic was its name.
So this weekend, let us celebrate Barbara one more time. And if Yentl does not do the trick, try yourself some good, old-fashioned Ultra-Orthodox pornography. Among our favorite lines: "She pulled down my slacks with my underwear and rubbed my hairy mokom milah. My tzitzis were in the way so I unbuttoned my shirt and took them off." And if, for some inhuman reason that does not get the job then. Use this more recent photograph.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Over the holidays I was fortunate enough to spend some quality time with family in the cultural epicenter of the U.S., aka Boca Raton. In between all the gallery openings and poetry readings, I managed to sit down with my dad and brothers and talk about the good old days. I mentioned this blog, and although my dad did a fairly convincing job feigning mortification, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and it wasn't long before he was giving up a TBG story of his own. It seems that back in 1972, a good friend of my father's, Nate Schwartz, was the owner and operator of Cinema Blue (now Deja Vu) in Flint, Michigan. As it was, Deep Throat had just come out and was an instant classic. My father, evidently above watching this fine piece of filmmaking with the masses, asked his good friend, Nate, if he could borrow and bring home the reel. And, after a balmy, boozy mid-summers night Shabbat dinner, he decided it was the perfect time for a screening.
Looking back, I can imagine a father much like myself: a mischeivious rascal who delighted in shocking his friends. Without a true screen to show the movie on, he hung a sheet on the window and set up the projector right in front of it. Then he, my mother, my uncles, aunts, and even the rabbi and his wife settled in for what must have been a very uncomfortable, but hopefully humurous, viewing.
So caught up in the moment, my dad didn't realize that not only were he and his friends being treated to the wonders of a clitoris-laden throat, but so were all the neighbors and passerbys on the sidewalk! Needless to say, the rabbi's sermons never had quite the same impact.
Strong work, dad. I'm proud of you.
Monday, January 7, 2008
But to get us back into the swing of things, we present a festive story sent in by Mike of Long Island who asked us the following riddle: what says Yuletide even more than Santa in the grotto, and Barbara Streisand's Christmas Album? The annual pilgrimage to visit grandparents in the sun belt of course. Mike tells the tale of a trip in 1986 when he was fifteen. The apex of his years as a frantic and passionate advocate of self-love. Mike put it slightly less delicately:
"Back then, I lived and breathed masturbation. We are talking five or six times a day, every day. If there would have been an X-Games back then, and endurance masturbation was a sport, I would have been on Sports Center. So the notion of traveling en famille for four days and sharing a room in a Howard Johnson right outside of Tucson was the equivalent for me of giving up heroin cold turkey.
On the flight there, I listened to the Beastie Boys Licensed To Ill on my Aiwa. This was an album which normally cracked me up no matter how many times I played it. Even more than the Diceman. But this time, it was as if I was listening to songs of the partisans of the Holocaust. I felt alone. Desperate. And borderline suicidal.
After check in to the HoJo, things became bleaker. The room was the size of a ping pong table, the bathroom had no door, and my parents introduced me to the collapsible cot that was to be my bed, squeezed parallel between their queen and the window. Desperately working the angles, I knew immediately that there was no kill zone in which I could work my crotch magic in room 216. My body ached, I had chills, cold sweats. So when my Mom suggested I cool myself down with a visit to the courtyard pool, I slapped on my JAMS, and ran downstairs lickety split.
The pool area was quiet. The fact that it was 120 degrees meant that there was only one other person there, hanging out in the deep end. After diving in and surfacing, my senses were alive. The cold water felt so good on my crotch and I momentarily started to evaluate the possibility of not leaving the pool area at all for the next four days, Man from Atlantis style. I sashayed my way up to the deep end and that all changed. The sole occupant of the pool was not just another person. Lying against the hand rail in the deep end, she was the stuff that wet dreams are made of. This was the kind of woman who had fallen off the Poison tour bus. Dyed blond hair poofed up to the highest level. Way too tan. And Inflata-boobs popped into a neon body glove one piece swimsuit. Remember I had not shot one off in over twelve hours here. At this point, me so horny, I was not sure if she was real or a mirage, a figment of my imagination, a composite of all of my magazine fantasies come to life. I swam a couple of pretend laps under water, trying desperately to get a look at her submerged crotch and see if there was a trace of any foliage as in the Sports Illustrated swim suit edition. But with my manhood projecting from my Jams like a rudder, my mind soon moved to the problem that was literally at hand. Where was I going to go to get some relief?
My parents were in my bedroom. The bathroom would leave me vulnerable and exposed. HoJo did swimming pools but changing rooms, not so much... what was I to do? The frozen water started to make my nipples ache. I knew my pool time was limited. Desperate times. Desperate measures. I slid out of the pool, made a bee line for my towel and casually hung it over the pole in my pants as I boogied out of the pool area and stumbled through the reception like a member of the Pogues, my mind focussed only on the fact that I was an adolescent boy with needs and I would not be denied. I was now on the second floor, approaching the long corridor that led to my parents room. It was now or never. I pulled my weapon out over the top of my shorts and oblivious now other human beings, staggered forward, like a masturbating zombie, pounding away frantically and without shame. Did I mention I had not pleasured myself in forever? It was all over in a matter of seconds. Without breaking stride, I exploded all over the cheap fibers of the hotel carpet, and in one slick move, slipped my sword back into its holster and knocked on my parents door. With no pre-planning, I had executed the much discussed, but rare-to-achieve hotel corridor wank -- driven by my insatiable needs to perform the whole task in broad day light, out. And now you know why every hotel carpet feels crusty people.