A Little Something For the Weekend Sir? Nadia Comaneci

Horatio writes: We are going to keep this short and sweet so we don't come across too Pete Townsend or Gary Glitter. But those who watched Nadia work those uneven bars at the Montreal Olympics in 1976 will know that she introduced us to the notion of Perfect Ten in so many ways. Before Comaneci, few of us considered notions of the female form, flexibility, and physicality. After wtaching her leap around doing Floor Exercises to the sounds of Yes Sir She's My Baby, we began to think of little else. Interesting fact. Nadia was the only woman who filled our dreams who won the prestigious Hero Of Socialist Labor Medal.

And The Award for Best Wank Goes To...

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.

Amarcord (1973)

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.

Matador (1986)

The opening scene uses unexpected masturbation to set the tone of the entire film about sex and death.

Leolo (1992)

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.

Pleasantville (1998)

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.

Auto-Focus (2002)

Greg Kinnear (playing Bob Crane of Hogan’s Heroes “fame”) and Willem Dafoe totally commit to this masturbation scene.

Secretary (2002)

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!

Babel (2006)

A brief masturbation scene featuring a young Moroccan boy who had been spying on his sister.

Whip It Real Good: Album covers we have loved and lost

Horatio writes: The Olivia Newton John post got us a-thinkin'. Which is the sexiest album cover of all time. There is, of course, an objective answer to this question. Which album cover did we knock-one out to most often? Here are five below that I spent a not inconsequential amount of my youth relieving my urges to. We would LOVE to hear yours. For added interest, two of these albums were in my father's collection. Your call as to which.

A Little Something For the Weekend Sir? Olivia Newton John

Horatio writes: Olivia Newton John singlehandedly introduced 83% of American males aged 11-14 to the female anatomy. She made our loins tingle by exposing hers. She exploded into our consciousness in Grease. Sandra D, pioneering the whole virgin/whore thing while Madonna was just a little Ciccone in suburban Detroit. Let's face it. Grease was a dull, dull movie for 105 of its 110 minutes. But the movie comes to life with one phrase. "Tell me about it... Stud..." and in that second, there is ONJ, standing proud with cigarette in mouth, clad from head to tow in black skintight spandex. This was the first time many of us glimpsed exactly what the female body looks like. She was not nude. She did not have to be. Her garb was so tight, it felt like her whole anatomy was on view. Spectacular. And then she followed that up with the stone cold killer track, Physical, the sauciest of numbers in which ONJ goads a gaggle of gay men in a gym with her body again poured into a muffalicious keep-fit outfit. The magic of those moments have never faded. And they both combined to teach us an important lesson in life, that it is sometimes, leaving something to the imagination, can be a whole lot more magical. For true ONJ addicts, check out this acoustic version, which kicks in on three minutes.

Small Black Plastic Bag for Porn

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?

President's Day, Masturbation, and a Gold Starr

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?

A Little Something For the Weekend Sir? The St. Pauli Girl

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.

The Battle of Two Cheryls - Tiegs Vs. Ladd

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.

"Elle Bent"

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.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Jennie Garth

Horatio writes: Beverly Hills 90210 changed the way we thought, dressed, and thought about women. Shannon Doherty was a woman like no other. Dirty, and dangerous, like heroin. She left us dizzied, but it quickly became clear she was too much for us to handle. And once her career flamed out, she dirtied her memory by revealing both her breasts and the fact that she was a Republican. Tiffany Amber Thiessen, who filled her Keds, was a minx. Bedeviling. Beguiling. A flirt. A tease. But the fact that she was dating Brian Austin Green in real life was enough to prevent us from ever getting true wood. And that left sweet Kelly Taylor. Jennie Garth. As bookish as Gabrielle Carteris but with enough wildness to keep things interesting in the under-theshirt/over-the-bra action stakes. Remember. This was was a woman who amongst other things survived the following: Being caught in a fire, becoming temporarily addicted to the devil of cocaine, being shot, having amnesia, going to rehab, being stalked and almost killed by a patient from rehab, becoming unexpectantly pregnant and having a miscarriage, and learning that she might not be able to have children because of a condition in her body. In overcoming these obstacles, she was able to become a better person and help others. This was a woman who had lived a life. And what is sexier than that? As an added bonus, here is a delicious video for those readers who like their women to indulge in a little gun-play...

Great Moments in American History

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.