A Little Something For Superbowl Weekend, Sir? The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders

Horatio writes: We are off to Arizona to witness the Giants stooping to conquer. And so we are serving you up a little something special before we go. From Jezz in New York City: Growing up in Westchester, my family were die-hard giants fans. But my life changed alongside untold thousands of my generation during Super Bowl X when a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader winked at a network cameraman. He relayed the image to 75 million viewers, who helped turn the Texas phenomenon into a national craze. I became a devoted Cowboys fan on the spot.

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.

You've come a long way, baby

One of the missions of this blog is to compare, contrast, and record generational differences in porn. In our humble opinion, the youth of today have it way too easy. Thanks to youporn and redtube kids today have free porn on demand 24/7. They have neither the incentive nor the desire to forage, steal, and squirrel away precious pornography as we did. For these reasons and more, we firmly believe ours to be the golden age of porn.

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!

Rolf Bone-irschke

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.

Shaven Haven

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.

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?

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Samantha Fox

Horatio writes: It may come as little to surprise to you that one of our favorite books here at True Beat is Phillip Roth's The Breast in which a man wakes up in the morning to discover he has morphed into a 155 pound mammary gland. That was fiction. Samantha Fox was all fact. 5 foot one inch tall. 36D-23-31. Phillip Roth's fantasy writ large. Breasts so important that they were insured for quarter of a million pounds (back when quarter of a million pounds really was quarter of a million pounds.) A singing career soon followed when her managers realized that it did not really matter what she sounded like. If she released a single all boys between the ages of 12-16 would automatically buy it, just so we could see her wobble precariously yet gloriously around the stage on television. Sam went on to bigger and better things, becoming both a Christian and a Lesbian, but by then she had taught us an important lesson. That beauty is entirely on the surface and intelligence is overrated. Because when Sam did open her mouth she sounded like David Beckham. So as long as we did not hear her, we could fill our heads with thoughts of Sam and work ourselves in a frenzy three times a day, while in between, playing a pixiliated version of the versatile Ms. Fox in an artful hand or two of strip poker on our commodore 64. Remember those days fondly this weekend with this classic version of the Fox blockbuster, Touch Me.

Hall of Fame: Mother's of America, We love each and every one of you

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.

Muck of the Irish

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:

"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."

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Linda Hamilton

Horatio writes: 1984 was a year of classical films -- Amadeus, A Passage To India, and Cannonball Run II, but there was only one movie that made our adolescent crotches go all a flutter. And that was Terminator, with its classic Boy Meets Girl, meets cyborg assassin plot line. It takes a big man to admit it in today's political climate, but back then, Arnie was the bomb. He was the dude women wanted to be with, and teenage boys who knew no better, wanted to be. However, it was Linda Hamilton who stole the movie. With her sullen sultry looks, rippling muscles and seeming inexhaustible supply of wife-beaters, she was a tom-boy fantasy all grow'd up. And those hands knew their way around a gun, to boot.

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.

Peeping John

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.

NSFW: Sears Catalogue, 1977

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.

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.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Barbra Streisand

Horatio writes: Two things combined to make Barbra Streisand a catalyst of our lust back in the day. First, in the 1983 magnum opus Yentl, she played a shtetl girl who loved the good lord so much, she dressed up as a boy to study torah with the guys, inventing the Jewish version of the Madonna-Whore in the process. See the clip above and witness Barb at 26 seconds, peak with arousal whilst cloaking herself in a prayer shawl.

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.

The True True Beat Generation

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On Redecorating Ho-Jo

Horatio writes: Back in action in the wake of a holiday period in which we at True Beat were grateful recipients of a number of remarkable gifts from readers around the country which we will be posting in the coming weeks. A veritable treasure trove of that which once aroused us, all of which were as close to pornography as pleather is to leather.

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.