True Beat Generation

A Little something for the weekend, sir? Jamie Lee Curtis

2008-06-27T09:24:00.000-07:00

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.

Washington Monumental

2008-06-25T10:24:00.000-07:00

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!

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir?... Kristy McNichol

2008-05-09T11:59:00.000-07:00

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.

A little something for the weekend, sir? Jo or Blair?

2008-05-02T16:24:00.000-07:00

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.

They Don't Call Them "Finger" Lakes for Nothing...

2008-04-30T15:34:00.000-07:00

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.

John
Austin, Texas

Lump In The Levis

2008-04-17T10:51:00.000-07:00

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.

We are All Cancer Free

2008-04-16T08:49:00.000-07:00

Horatio writes: No less an authority than the BBC have revealed that what we have always known is true. What does not kill you makes you stronger.

Love Is Blind

2008-04-08T11:03:00.000-07:00

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.

http://pornfortheblind.org/

Hard Times in Bedford, MA

2008-04-07T10:35:00.000-07:00

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.

A Little Something For the Weekend Sir? Grace Jones

2008-04-04T04:16:00.001-07:00

Horatio writes: Before Grace Jones, we had only imagined someone so tall, so menacing, and deliciously sweaty in our dreams. Her primary audience may well have been the gays, but if you were a fourteen year old boy when Slave to the Rhythm came out in the mid-eighties, Ms. Jones was like an electric shock to the crotch. We had tuned out our parents. Our teachers did not understand us. But Grace Jones was mad, bad, and crazy enough to scare you silly 30 seconds in). And thanks to the genius marketing brains at Citroen, we had a sense of what Grace looked like at point of orgasm forty seconds in).

Be Kind Rewind

2008-03-31T07:56:00.000-07:00

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."

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.

We're All a Bunch of Animals

2008-03-25T10:57:00.000-07:00

As frequent readers our our blog know, the fervent curiosity of TBG knows no limits. So it's little wonder that all this scientific discussion of man's self-pleasure in the analog age got us thinking-- what about the animals? Surely they who have never had access to X-Rated DVDs, streaming amateur video, or Astroglide have found ways to make do? From horses to monkeys and even kangaroos, biologists consider autoeroticism in the animal kingdom as a perfectly normal and acceptable behavior.

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.

See more funny videos at CollegeHumor

The Long Jump

2008-03-23T19:05:00.000-07:00

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.

True Beat Generation Gets A Theme Song!

2008-03-20T11:06:00.001-07:00

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!

Steve Jobs/Hand Jobs

2008-03-17T03:58:00.000-07:00

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:

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.

A Little Something For the Weekend Sir? Miss Piggy

2008-03-14T10:16:00.000-07:00

Horatio writes: Thanks to Vincent in Rye, New York for bravely submitting the below.

I admit it. I have knocked one out to Miss Piggy. And it was not because desperate times called for desperate measures. I am not taking that out. Yes, pornography may have been low on the ground back when I was eleven and the Muppet Show was a must-watch family phenomenon. But it is hard to deny that there is something damn sexy about that woman. She is tough, ambitious, physical, yet vulnerable. Equal parts, Grace Jones, Sigourney Weaver and Tammy Wynette. I defy you to name another lady who is such a well-rounded force of nature.

I first became aware of the extent of my attraction when Brooke Shields guested on the show, right when she was riding high on her commando-Calvin Klein wearing exploits. There was no greater sex symbol in America right then and I am sure that 93% of the male population of this country had tuned in to watch her strut her stuff. But as the duo went through the motions of their act -- a song and dance routine to some showtune or other -- I realized that it was Piggy I could not keep my eyes off. She had a true animal magnetism that was arousing, personifying a passion that far surpassed that I had ever seen in any human. From that day forth, I excused myself as soon as the show was about to come, taking my leave from the rest of my family and sequestering myself alone in my bedroom, where I could watch the performance with my sweat-pants round my ankles, which come to think of it, was probably how Stadler and Waldorf enjoyed the show.

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.

Porn and Bathrooms

2008-03-12T15:06:00.000-07:00

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.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Geraldine Ferraro

2008-03-07T15:32:00.001-08:00

Horatio writes: As regular readers know, we are intensely political creatures here at True Beat Generation and this week's mano-mano between Obama and Clinton has gotten our juices flowing. Don't get us wrong. Our senses are not titillated because the future of our country is at stake. We could care less. Rather, watching Hillary, a monster for sure, makes us long for those all-too-brief summer days in 1984 when Geraldine Ferraro filled our screens as the decrepit Walter Mondale's eye candy/running mate. Political scientists have long agonized over what made Ferraro the VP choice, plucked from the obscurity of congress. Perhaps it was just that she matched up well when physically juxtaposed to Barbara Bush. But we think it was something more than that. This was a politician we believed in. Because she was one hot little vixen. Blond. Pert. Foxy. A vision in white whilst declaring her candidacy. Geraldine was eerily in touch with her core electoral base. When she came out with the line addressing the "children of America" at 27 seconds, it was as if she was omniscient. Giving all of us fourteen year-olds who were at home watching the speech in our suburban basements with our pants around our ankles a knowing shout-out.

B.T.G.O.F

2008-03-06T09:33:00.000-08:00

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!

Hall of Fame: Mr. Strawberry

2008-03-03T08:50:00.000-08:00

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.

A Little Something For the Weekend Sir? Nadia Comaneci

2008-02-29T07:06:00.001-08:00

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...

2008-02-27T11:21:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-25T03:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-22T06:55:00.001-08:00

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

2008-02-20T09:51:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-18T10:22:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-13T08:06:00.000-08:00

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"

2008-02-12T05:42:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-07T06:09:00.001-08:00

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

2008-02-05T07:28:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2008-01-31T18:33:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-29T20:20:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-28T20:30:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-28T06:36:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-24T18:33:00.001-08:00

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

2008-01-23T04:55:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-21T06:09:00.000-08:00

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Linda Hamilton

2008-01-18T13:33:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-17T08:46:00.001-08:00

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

2008-01-14T06:11:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-11T06:17:00.001-08:00

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

2008-01-09T22:47:00.000-08:00

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.

On Redecorating Ho-Jo

2008-01-07T06:04:00.000-08:00

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.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Nastassja Kinski

2007-12-21T03:02:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: Wakey! Wakey! Here comes... When photographer Richard Avedon used his powers of persuasion to make Nastassja Kinski pose naked wearing only a python and a bangle, he single-handedly inspired a generation of teenage boys to become avid consumers of amateur photography magazines. The iconic photograph originally appeared on the front cover of American Photographer. Its' beauty, biblical imagery, and mise en scene was lost on all of us. Here was a nearly naked woman on a magazine we could buy without shame for godssakes. The pretense of photographic appreciation went as far that if you could keep a straight face while you told your mother that you admired the image "for artistic reasons", you could buy the poster and hang it over your bed. The poster was in 87% of the bunks on boys side of summer camps in 1983. (If you are overwhelmed by nostalgia right now, the poster is still available here)

Kinski was sexy for so many reasons. Her agent had a prediction for ensuring she played roles in movies destined to become cult flicks... Cat People, Tess, and Paris, Texas come to mind. These were movies that conferred a halo of cool around Nastassja in the eyes of the average fourteen year old. None of us had actually seen these films but we would never dare disclose that fact and lose face to our friends. Put it this way. If the number of boys who claimed to have seen Paris, Texas, had seen Paris, Texas, it would have posted E.T. like numbers at le box office.

Number two. She looked like jail bait on film. A fact reinforced by her Roland Polanski fling. If one forgets that he was 25 years her senior (and that she was just 16), but the dude was about four foot eleven. And so were we. She had a thing for small guys which most of us were. Small, kinky guys to be precise. And perhaps we qualified for the latter trait if depositing our junk over a poster of a woman posing naked with a snake qualified as kinky.

Relive the good old days with this clip. Kinski in Cat People, Paul Schrader's "erotic fanatasy for the animal in all of us." We beg you, please make it last more than a weekend. We are taking a break over the holidays and will be back in 2008.

Only Six Shopping Days Until Christmas

2007-12-19T03:36:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: Jerry Hall once famously said that the perfect wife "must be a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom." Penthouse took this very seriously when they partnered with jeweler Viva in 1978 to create the perfect present for the man who had everything. A bracelet for his wife with his two favorite things on it - her name and the title of his favorite porn magazine. What better way to identify himself as a chronic masturbator in polite society? The bracelets, produced in an era before irony was invented, came in either leather or jean fabric. Thanks to the eagle-eyed Daniel Bracey on the Lower East Side of Manhattan for clipping this and emailing it in. Click pic to enlarge.

Evidently, Honey Wasn't The Only Thing Pooh Couldn't Keep His Hands Off

2007-12-18T20:12:00.001-08:00

A.A. Milne, beloved children's author, respected citizen, poet, and wordsmith of the first order is best known for his classic tales of Pooh and the Gang. Like most of my generation, I grew up to his stories and have vivid memories of their hijinks and shenanigans (oh, whatever will that wacky Tigger do next!). Thus, I was stunned, and of course grateful, when when my brother e-mailed me a copy of his poem, "Vespers."

The text of this innocent little ditty goes like this:

Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.

God bless Mummy. I know that's right.
Wasn't it fun in the bath to-night?
The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot.
Oh! God bless Daddy - I quite forgot.

If I open my fingers a little bit more,
I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door.
It's a beautiful blue, but it hasn't a hood.
Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good.

Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed,
And pull the hood right over my head,
And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small,
And nobody knows that I'm there at all.

Oh! Thank you, God, for a lovely day.
And what was the other I had to say?
I said "Bless Daddy," so what can it be?
Oh! Now I remember it. God bless Me.

Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.

If that's not suggestive enough, dozens of Internet poets have taken it upon themselves to subtly rework Mr. Milne's words. To wit:

Little boy kneels at the foot of his bed
Little blue eyes in a little gold head
Hush! Hush! Don't say a word.
Christopher Robin is bashing his bird.

Two with the left, two with the right,
Wasn't it fun in the bath tonight?
The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot...
I locked the door, so I wasn't caught.

Little boy kneels at the end of his nap
Little hands busy in dear little lap.
Hush! Hush! Keep it discreet.
Christopher Robin is beating his meat.

A.A. Milne-- you filthy bastard. Thank you.

Scouts Honor

2007-12-17T06:06:00.001-08:00

Horatio writes: The modern scout movement is all about inculcating a generation of American youths with what is referred to as "character development." Thanks to Theo Katz from Los Angeles for providing the insight into how this is done.

Scouting was my everything. I loved the feeling of being a member of a collective. Growing up in LA, I guess the need for community is pretty self-evident. I was 13 when we left for an overnight trip out into the country. It was 1983. On the way out of the city, our bus stopped in Pasadena which provided a bunch of us with just enough time to drop into one of those head shop/porn stores where I was able to procure a pack of nude playing cards which featured an array of naked Mexican ladies. The Scout Movement was all about respecting the group and helping others, so although I cannot remember my precise motivations, I am pretty sure that without thinking, I felt duty bound to share the joy by giving out the cards on the bus so that every member of my pack could experience the thrill of holding a butt nekkid senorita in their sweaty little palms. The cards progressed around the bus, but I realized my error before they had made it almost half way round. The energy level on the bus surged to electric all the while the noise level dropped to almost nothing. Two tell tale signs which even the most distracted and incompetent Scout Master knows spells one thing and one thing only. Porn on the bus. I was quickly turned in, busted, and sent home.

My parents were mortified. Both about the fact that their son was a petty thief ("You are worse than a murder!") and that the object of my affection were cheap Mexicans in maid outfits. I should add that my father considered himself to be a proper gentleman in the My Fair Lady mode. So this was one of the greatest ethical dilemmas he faced as a parent. Had I stolen a record, he would have taught me a lesson by marching me me right back to Tower Records and forcing me to face the justice of the authorities. But this was cheap and dirty porn and he was too embarrassed to actually go to the store and ally himself with the owner, a purveyor of smut. Even Dr. Benjamin Spock neglected to cover this parenting challenge. A manila envelope was found. An anonymous note of apology was written and mailed unsigned back to the sore o'porn. And I was never allowed to attend a scouting affair, or make the scout salute, again.

A Little Something for The Weekend, Sir? Apollonia

2007-12-14T02:45:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: Lingerie may have been invented in France, but when one Ms. Apollonia Kotero used all of her musical talent to found Apollonia 6, the racy, lacey garments were firmly ensconced in the minds of thirteen and fourteen year olds across the nation. Apollonia was Prince's protege. And he was a man who knew that image trumped ability every day of the week. Hence Apollonia's special talent -- she and her band only performed in their undies. Clothing, and talent were never much of a priority. They were not needed. Deaf male teens were the only ones not to purchase their 1984 smash hit, Sex Shooter with its lyrics "I need you to get me off, I'm your bomb getting ready to explode, I need you to get me off, Be your slave do anything I'm told" But it was Apollonia's appearance in Purple Rain that cemented her legend. The scene where Prince, as The Kid, rubs her crotch over her pants was one to be rewound over and over and over. Josh David of Los Angeles who nominated this thespian tells us that he first watched the movie with his father at home in their den on the proto-cable system On TV. The moment the scene came on, father and son went silent. A quiet which was only broken by his mother using the intercom from her office upstairs to suggest to his old man that is was time for Josh's bed. She may have been out of sight but Josh's mother did not miss a trick. The damage, however, was done, and the image was tattooed at the front of his mind whenever it was business time. A simple story, but a powerful one. I see London, I see France... I used to think about Apollonia in her underpants. A lot. Reignite those memories this weekend by locking eyes on Apollonia one more time and re-summoning those memories which lie deep within.

Busted! A Public Service Announcement

2007-12-12T21:20:00.000-08:00

This masturbation PSA from the 70's is hilarious! I'd say "anti" masturbation PSA, but it's unclear if it's pro or con. I'd like to believe they're for it. After all, what mother doesn't want her son to pleasure himself in the privacy of his own room? Soundtrack available on K-Tel Intimate Moments, Volume 4.

Donor With a Boner

2007-12-11T08:38:00.000-08:00

Like most college kids, I was broke. Whatever extra money I had went to beer and it usually wasn't much. Unfortunately, the girls I dated didn't always want just beer. Sometimes they wanted food, too. And they wanted me to pay for it.

Waiting tables for tips at the local greasy spoon didn't provide much extra income. Neither did proctoring the occasional test. If I was going to get some I was going to have to make some first.

One day as I sat bemoaning my fate and flipping through the college paper, I chanced upon an ad. An ad for a service I knew existed but generally only thought about as a punch line for a joke. "Sperm Donors Needed." Wow, I thought. Had I sunk so low? Was I really willing to donate my sperm to the collective goo pool for the few measly dollars necessary to take a girl on a date and receive, perhaps, a few measly kisses? Yes, I was. Absolutely.

After completing more paperwork than it took to get into college, I was admitted to give a sample specimen. After not smoking pot or beating off for 3 to 5 days (definitely 3 in my case) I arrived at the nameless door of the windowless building. A serious woman in a lab coat ushered me to my room and gave me a vial for my deposit. She told me there was "material" in there if I needed it.

Holy shit! Was there ever material! The small room contained exactly one black pleather couch, a TV, a bottle of baby oil, a VCR, and a drawer of countless magazines and VHS porns and absolute! Eureka! I spent the next half hour just fantasizing about what "material" I would pleasure myself to!

Ultimately deciding upon a lesbian tale of frisky co-eds, I quickly went to work. I deposited my sample in the vial and sheepishly walked it back over to the lab. A week later I received the call. I was in! From now on, and up to three times a week, I would be able to donate the love of my loins for $75 a pop! It was a godsend! Not quite finished with the curious co-eds I went right back over that afternoon and finished viewing their tale of sapphic hijinks and shenanigans.

Not wishing to disappoint the eager would-be-mothers of the world, I returned twice that week, each time excited by the thought of a new tape or magazine. For the next year I was a regular. I once joked with the nurse in charge that I should bring my own mug, maybe leave it there and re-use it like in a bar or something. She didn't laugh. I didn't care. I was getting paid to do what I was already doing!

Ironically, all this self-coitus left me tired and depleted and the money I had so eagerly hoped to raise to entertain the ladies became an afterthought. I wasn't in it for the money anymore. I was in it for the porn!

Now in my late 30's, I returned to my college campus for a football game a few weeks ago. I know I'm being paranoid, but I can swear at least a dozen kids had my eyes. I considered hugging them and telling them they were loved, but quickly thought otherwise.

Great Inventions of Our Time

2007-12-10T07:48:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: Fire. The printing press. The Interwebs. Inventions that have changed the world. We are proud to add two to the pantheon today. Few gave have arguably done more to change the way the average American male thinks, speaks, and acts.

The first was sent in response to to Brad from New Jersey's technical angst over how one should keep track of the exact spot to rewind one's parent's porno videos to after a stealth viewing in their room. Perhaps this information is coming twenty years too late for Brad, but we believe that Ian from Brooklyn's wisdom is still worth presenting anyway. "The answer," he suggests, "is called a numerical tape counter and its' invention changed my life. I could watch whilst pounding away at my pants, calm in the knowledge that after mopping up I was left with the simple task of winding that video right back to 4937."

A semi-connected invention related to the videos Ian used to watch. Rockin' with Seka in which Seka, the legendary porno Platinum Princess, played a role that was a stretch for her... a flight attendant who explained her sexploits to entertain her fellow hostesses and break up the boredom of a lay over. Ian wrote: "Seka was the Jenna Jameson of her day, so suffice it to say, the story line was scant but I did not need one. This was pulse pounding stuff. I was 14. I only needed to watch it for 35 seconds and that was enough for me three times a day." Seka was also an inventor, neigh a visionary, as an early adopter of the shaven haven some twenty years before it became standard practice. Think about that next time you admire her work while playing the one stringed bass. She was not just a pretty face but a genius upstairs. And if we need to tell you even more to put you over the top, while researching this, we were fascinated to find out that she is a huge fan of both the Cub and the Whitseox and owns a remarkable collection of Major league baseball caps. She truly is the perfect woman. Start the week off right by enjoying some Seka in action.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Nancy from Oliver

2007-12-07T14:36:00.001-08:00

Horatio writes: The first time I ever saw a prostitute I was eight and I fell in love with her at first sight. It was Nancy from the movie, Oliver, and she was a magnficent being in her scarlet velvet, purple petticoats, strawberry blond fringe and a stupendous rack of breasts that stole every scene they were in by consistently threatening to topple out of the top of her saucy serving wench attirer. This was a lady to lust after. Yes, she loved danger in the form of her main squeeze, Bill Sykes but what really made her stand out was the soft spot she had for Oliver himself, who was roughly my age. I loved every scene the two of them were in together. I would watch I'd Do Anything, her duet with Oliver and squint when he was in close-up, so I could imagine it was me by her side in those grubby East London surrounds where we had nothing to lose by being together and were afraid of noone judging us. Shani Wallis was the actress who defined the hooker with a heart of gold, while one Ms. Julia Roberts was still in diapers. The role was strangely the only major one of her career. Enjoy those fleshy orbs in action one more time with this classic clip. Those mounds are still fabulous after all these years. And if you want something more contemporary, here is her daughter, designer Rebecca Rich.

Quick Draw McGraw

2007-12-04T08:24:00.000-08:00

Elliot from Westwood, California turned what could have been traumatic and debilitating adolescent episodes into the experience of a lifetime. Literally.

My secret was my shame. And vice versa, although isn't it always? I was fast. So fast that the first touch of a woman's lips upon my own would send my underwear straight to the goo factory. I couldn't help it. Try as I might (my friend suggested I think about wet leaves and puppies) I couldn't hold out for more than a few minutes. The problem persisted right up until my first complete sexual encounter at the age of 16. Barely had my purple mushroom entered the forest when, SPLOOGE, it was over. From then on, apologies and excuses became an art unto themselves. "I didn't get enough sleep." "It's hereditary." "I eat too much eggs."

Eventually, it reached the point where I didn't even want to have intercourse. I couldn't bear the shame and humiliation. And so, after much trial and error I found my threshold: heavy kissing, boob fondling and up to, but not to exceed, 7 minutes of dry humping. For the aforementioned I was a virtual Cassanova, but let me grow arrogant and stray anywhere past the magic minute 7 and KABLOOM!, it was all quickly over.

And so, girl after girl, right up until senior year of college, I abstained. The excuses were no easier to come by, but the shame I now felt paled in comparison to the excruciating feelings of inadequacy I felt before. And now, best of all, I was free to go home and mentally finish the encounter at my own pace! In what became a ritual of self-love, I would rush to my room, drop my pants, and now, finally, have my way with myself. Oh what a lover I was! Slowly undressing, teasing, sometimes even frolicking, these erotic sessions lasted hours, sometimes more!

Today, as a married man and father, if not for the occasional surprise of my wife's thumb in my can, it's safe to say I could last all day. Lovely as she is, the excitement that fueled, and cut short, my adolescent encounters just isn't there. Which is not to say the post game beat sessions are not. They, my friends, will never go away.

A Trip Down Mammory Lane

2007-12-03T06:03:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: Regular readers will be aware, we are knee-deep in an important scientific research project in the name of adding to the storehouse of knowledge. We have scattered over two dozen copies of Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition from the years 1970-1990 across the country, back in to the hands of those who once used them thrice daily to thrill their pants. As one of our masturbatory guinea pigs said upon opening their brown envelope, "Thank you for reuniting me with 1983's edition. I loved this magazine more than any real woman I have dated since. Including my wife."

Our quest was to discover what it felt like to be reunited with your lost love. Did it still do the trick in the way it once did? Or would it feel like watching Ferris Bueller again -- faintly amusing but not as emotionally satisfying as you remembered it to be? Our first results are in, and readers, we caution that this is a marathon not a sprint, but here are comments from Martin from Brooklyn who test-drove the 1989 25th anniversary edition (for lovers of trivia, the best-selling ever):

"Come again? Well, I tried to come again, I tried so hard. I wanted the magic to happen so badly. But the issue itself is a stinker, way too concerned with chronicling the SI legacy than catalyzing the lust-in-me. I was left baffled by the power that issue once held over my adolescent self. What was I thinking back then? None of the famous supermodels had any sex appeal except perhaps Rachel Hunter but maybe that is because I know for sure that she still loves to do it. I forced what I could but it yielded nothing but a flaccid feeling and a sense of curiosity about how long to keep trying before giving up. What a sham. I huffed and I puffed, but then had to shuffle off from the bathroom to my office with my pants round my ankles to the loving embrace and the targeted efficiency of my 15 second clips on Tiava.com. I am so pathetically, predictably digital."

We have four copies left, so if any readers want to participate in this important medical experiment, drop us a line. We would love to hear from you.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Mark Twain

2007-11-30T06:19:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: This is the weekly feature in which we normally serve up a nostalgic beauty straight from the wank bank as something to get you through the weekend. This week's offering is a little different in several days. First we have reached a little further back in time, all the way to 1879. (Yes, we had no idea sex had been invented then either) But we are also presenting something a little more literate than our usual youtube clip of the likes of Beverly D'Angelo or Samantha Fox. Thanks to the cerebral Michael of Florida, we are proud to present, the words of Mark Twain, in a speech called SOME THOUGHTS ON THE SCIENCE OF ONANISM delivered at the wonderfully named Stomach Club in Paris (if anyone knows how we join, please let us know.) Read the below. We promise it will have exactly the same power as this because it will allow you to spend the weekend attacking your crotch with a certain literary self-confidence.

Some Thoughts on the Science of Onanism by Mark Twain [One evening in Paris in 1879, The Stomach Club, a society of American writers and artists, gathered to drink well, to eat a good dinner and hear an address by Mark Twain. He was among friends and, according to the custom of the club, he delivered a humorous talk on a subject hardly ever mentioned in public in that day and age. After the meeting, he preserved the manuscript among his papers. It was finally printed in a pamphlet limited to 50 copies 64 years later.] _________________________________________________________________ My gifted predecessor has warned you against the "social evil--adultery." In his able paper he exhausted that subject; he left absolutely nothing more to be said on it. But I will continue his good work in the cause of morality by cautioning you against that species of recreation called self-abuse to which I perceive you are much addicted. All great writers on health and morals, both ancient and modern, have struggled with this stately subject; this shows its dignity and importance. Some of these writers have taken one side, some the other. Homer, in the second book of the Iliad says with fine enthusiasm, "Give me masturbation or give me death." Caesar, in his Commentaries, says, "To the lonely it is company; to the forsaken it is a friend; to the aged and to the impotent it is a benefactor. They that are penniless are yet rich, in that they still have this majestic diversion." In another place this experienced observer has said, "There are times when I prefer it to sodomy." Robinson Crusoe says, "I cannot describe what I owe to this gentle art." Queen Elizabeth said, "It is the bulwark of virginity." Cetewayo, the Zulu hero, remarked, "A jerk in the hand is worth two in the bush." The immortal Franklin has said, "Masturbation is the best policy." Michelangelo and all of the other old masters--"old masters," I will remark, is an abbreviation, a contraction--have used similar language. Michelangelo said to Pope Julius II, "Self- negation is noble, self-culture beneficent, self-possession is manly, but to the truly great and inspiring soul they are poor and tame compared with self-abuse." Mr. Brown, here, in one of his latest and most graceful poems, refers to it in an eloquent line which is destined to live to the end of time--"None knows it but to love it; none name it but to praise." Such are the utterances of the most illustrious of the masters of this renowned science, and apologists for it. The name of those who decry it and oppose it is legion; they have made strong arguments and uttered bitter speeches against it--but there is not room to repeat them here in much detail. Brigham Young, an expert of incontestable authority, said, "As compared with the other thing, it is the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning." Solomon said, "There is nothing to recommend it but its cheapness." Galen said, "It is shameful to degrade to such bestial uses that grand limb, that formidable member, which we votaries of Science dub the Major Maxillary--when they dub it at all--which is seldom, It would be better to amputate the os frontis than to put it to such use." The great statistician Smith, in his report to Parliament, says, "In my opinion, more children have been wasted in this way than any other." It cannot be denied that the high antiquity of this art entitles it to our respect; but at the same time, I think its harmfulness demands our condemnation. Mr. Darwin was grieved to feel obliged to give up his theory that the monkey was the connecting link between man and the lower animals. I think he was too hasty. The monkey is the only animal, except man, that practices this science; hence, he is our brother; there is a bond of sympathy and relationship between us. Give this ingenuous animal an audience of the proper kind and he will straightway put aside his other affairs and take a whet; and you will see by his contortions and his ecstatic expression that he takes an intelligent and human interest in his performance. The signs of excessive indulgence in this destructive pastime are easily detectable. They are these: a disposition to eat, to drink, to smoke, to meet together convivially, to laugh, to joke and tell indelicate stories--and mainly, a yearning to paint pictures. The results of the habit are: loss of memory, loss of virility, loss of cheerfulness and loss of progeny. Of all the various kinds of sexual intercourse, this has the least to recommend it. As an amusement, it is too fleeting; as an occupation, it is too wearing; as a public exhibition, there is no money in it. It is unsuited to the drawing room, and in the most cultured society it has long been banished from the social board. It has at last, in our day of progress and improvement, been degraded to brotherhood with flatulence. Among the best bred, these two arts are now indulged in only private--though by consent of the whole company, when only males are present, it is still permissible, in good society, to remove the embargo on the fundamental sigh. My illustrious predecessor has taught you that all forms of the "social evil" are bad. I would teach you that some of these forms are more to be avoided than others. So, in concluding, I say, "If you must gamble your lives sexually, don't play a lone hand too much." When you feel a revolutionary uprising in your system, get your Vendome Column down some other way--don't jerk it down.

Wyclef: If someone has a porn collection, they have a porn collection

2007-11-27T10:49:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: Wyclef Jean. We have always loved you, ever since you named your only daughter Angelina after Angelina Jolie. But your interview in this week's New York Magazine has made us appreciate your all the more. Adam Moss and his whole team should be given Pullitzers for this quality shit:

And guilty pleasures?
I’m a great porn collector. The best porn ever is Sweetest Taboo. You ever seen it? That’s a good one. I probably have over 5,000 pornos.

Really?! Where do you keep them all?
In my basement. I collected them through the years. I don’t lie about anything; I think if someone has a porn collection, they have a porn collection. I know people who say they don’t have a porn collection, but when they get up in hotels they run them bills wild! They might want to call me and I could rent them a few.

TOTAL RECALL

2007-11-27T08:05:00.000-08:00

No where in our research has science intersected more clearly with art than in the fascinating case of Edgar Thomas. He writes:

My first pair of Nike shoes were the blue waffle trainers with the white undersoles and the yellow swoosh. My second grade math teacher's name was Mrs. Reese. She had gray, curly hair, lived with another woman "friend," and was a regular attendant at the annual Genessee County Renaissance Fair. The first tongue that ever came into contact with my own was that of Sarah R. I was in 7th grade; it was in her home, in her vestibule, at three in the afternoon. I remember it perfectly. I have total recall.

Every kiss, every fondle, every caress in my life I can still conjure up with the utmost clarity. It's as though there's an incorruptible hard drive in my brain capable of capturing every moment of my life, especially those sexual.

That first kiss with the lovely Ms. R was over twenty years ago. From then until the present I've slept with a fair share of women. And, when it comes to masturbation I have never had any need for magazines, DVD's, or the Internet. My memories of each of these glorious encounters is so perfect and intact, I merely have to close my eyes and the woman of my choosing appears at my side. And herein lies the difficulty.

As a man closer to forty than thirty, the age range of women both society and I find acceptable that I sleep with runs roughly from ages 21 to 45. However, many of my most cherished, vibrant conjugal memories are from my teenage years: elongated make-out sessions in the back of my '67 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Hasty hand jobs in the woods across from the high school track. My first blow job in my parents shower when they were away at a wedding in Maryland. What then, I ask you, am I to do? Is it immoral for a man of my age to draw upon this material? Is there a statue of limitations? Is what is illegal in the flesh to also be abhorred in the mind?

I have no answers to these questions and wrestle with them daily.

Hall of Fame: Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

2007-11-26T05:51:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: The truly remarkable Mike from New York City has nominated his fraternity brother David to the Hall of Fame. This was a man who, stay with me here, did not learn to masturbate until he reached the grand old age of 19. And so he enjoyed the subconscious secret pleasures of the nocturnal emission, twice a night until he went to college and got himself an education. "Exactly what century are we in here?" I hear you ask yourself. How does this happen? According to David, "It just never occurred to me. I don't think my folks ever spoke to about masturbation and the wet dreams began. My Mom never addressed the damage I was generating to my bed sheets and pajamas, I just kept at it. For the record, it had nothing to do with being lazy or preferring the wet dream, I just had no tips or motivation to begin to stroke it." Judd Apatow, please solve the writers strike now because right here is your prequel to 40 Year Old Virgin. Your Phantom Menace so to speak.

And, ladies and gentleman. Prepare to have your mental picture adjusted. David was no nerd. He was a five-sport letterman. Mike describes him as an amazing looking gent. "A lady killer" to the extent that "he was so knee-deep in pussy, we lived off his scraps at school." The trouble was, because he had not battle hardened his weapon, Mother Nature severely limited his ability to capitalize on his physical appeal. Mike remembers fondly that he would come home every morning perplexed that he got as far as having his lady rub up against him before he unloaded inside his Wranglers. David. You are a true American hero.

This Thanksgiving, Think about how YOU can become a better man

2007-11-20T11:03:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: To be clear, we are not big lovers of Thanksgiving. A full house is not a house which is kind to the lover of self-pleasure. So we have always viewed the holiday as a cleansing period for self-assessment - a time to ask ourselves the question, How Can I Become A Better Man?

The answer to this question, as so many others, can be found in one of two places. The Mormon Bible, and the Porns of old. As ever, we seek inspiration in the second -- and the answer is clear thanks to these 1973 ads... Change is never on the inside. You are perfect just the way you are. And physical improvement is just a clip of a coupon away.

Our favorites: The Masculiner Co's Quick Change hairpiece set which automatically turn you into Murray from Flight of the Conchords. "Simply check the color you want or send a sample of your hair and leave the matching to our expert" ( Click to Enlarge Photos...)

Elevators by Brockton Footwear "With Elevators you have a lot going for you. Two extra inches to help you measure up. With Elevators on your feet and that gleam in your eye she will know you're up to something."

How to Be Taller Booklet by NEW HEIGHT of Brampton, ON Canada, a mysterious booklet which will give you a few inches in height for those who are "Fed up with being called 'shorty,' 'Little Man' or even "Hey you down there."

Only 36 Shopping Days Left To Christmas

2007-11-19T06:05:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: We love all of our advertisers, but sometimes a product is so damn intriguing, we have to feature it for free. And this is the case for ManHood, the "undergarment for men" or put more literally, a substitute foreskin for men who have been circumcised and have worked their bell end to such an extent that they have lost all sensitivity as a result. ie. most readers of this web site. The inventor, Randy Tymkin is a modern American hero. How he has not yet received Nobel prize recognition yet is frankly beyond us. Overcoming the technological challenges of engineering these little cozy penis garments is a scientific work of genius, according to the ManHood web site:
"The most troublesome part was finding a seamstress who could fit our two layers together with all of the seams on the inside. ManHood's® are small, slippery and delicate."
Click here to see them in action. According to Jonathan who bought the ManHood to our attention, they are best bought in packs of four. He wears one down below, and one on his nose in extra cold weather.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? The Monster Muppets from Sesame Street

2007-11-16T06:21:00.001-08:00

Horatio writes: Those who like their video clips hairy will be delighted by this week's humble offering which was relayed to us by the remarkably funny Erik from Los Angeles. As with our Hanna Barbera tribute, we return to the world of children's programming for our deep dip into the wank bank. Erik reported signs of early and regular arousal in response to the work of our nation's preminent pre-school educational vehicle Sesame Street. Elmo and Big Bird may not be the stuff of fantasy. But young Erik became highly attuned to the recurring scenes in which puppets of the giant monster variety performed a song and dance number with a female guest star invited onto the show. The powers-that-be down at the Children's Television Workshop apparently had a predilection for young, nimble blond actresses -- think Cheryl Ladd, or Jane Curtin, preferably those who looked good in slight dresses or clingy clothing. The monsters and the talent would sing an innocent standard along the lines of "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" or "We've Got The Whole World In Our Hands" but the intense drama of the petite human being physically dominated by massive, ferocious, barely domesticated monsters was intoxicating. It was as if the educators at Sesame Street had decided that there was pedagogical value in letting us be privy to watching some kind of gang bang unfold. To this day, Erik is unclear whether the crackling sexuality of these clips was intentional admitting "Part of me wonders if it was designed to be sexual." As ever, we offer these clips for your weekend usage, and will leave you to be the judge.

Caballero Classics -- Our Brothers In Arms, If Not Hands

2007-11-15T12:43:00.000-08:00

A shout out to the folks at Caballero Classics for their fine collection of "classic" adult videos. From Amber Lynn to Hypatia Lee, this site caters to those adult video aficionados from a more innocent era. A time when plots revolved around radio stations named KNUT, erotic stewardesses, and Central Park flashers in fedoras. Truly a golden age of cinema.

A Slip Down Memory Vein

2007-11-14T06:07:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: As you well know, we at True Beat Generation are big fans of the nostalgic experience – a return to the wonderful world of the Wank Bank where the stuff of adolescent fantasy is stored in a mental lock box. So it gives us untold delight to break the news that a stack of magazines recently arrived on the loading dock at True Beat Headquarters, the Gold Standard of self pleasure material themselves, a complete set of Sports Illustrated Swim Suit Edition spanning the years 1974 to 1986. The magazines are in mint condition and have been thoughtfully placed in plastic covers (whoever invented them would have made a fortune if they had marketed them to teenage boys in the eighties)

Here is the story. Flicking through them now is the equivalent of taking a 1983 Chevy Camaro for a spin. Paulina Porizkova. Christie Brinkley freshly married to a great looking Billy Joel, Snakes Alive! It’s Kim Alexis, Elle Macpherson in a suggestively sequined costume, and, our favorite, the homely Kathy Ireland, sitting alongside articles for college sports stars like Harvey (Oklahoma) and Horace Grant (Clemson) and ads for goods of the day such as Aiwa Walkmen and Spuds MacKenzie posters. We would like to spread the joy of our good fortune in receiving these magazines by inviting our readers to volunteer in an experiment in the name of science. If you used to use the swimsuit edition as a daily grist for the mill, email us at truebeat@aol.com and we will mail you the year of your choice – or as close to it as we have – so that you can report to us what it feels like to take a masturbatory trip down memory lane. Does the material still move you in the way it used to? Does muscle memory just kick in? Or did you use the annual treasure trove to such an extent back in the day that you are inured to its wily ways? You won’t know if you don’t try, and in the name of the storehouse of knowledge, we will try. Oh yes. We will try.

I Before E, Except After Oui

2007-11-12T21:02:00.000-08:00

C. Ratnor of Long Island writes:

I was a slob. Strike that, I am a slob. Always have been, always will be. As a kid my room was terminally chaotic. I know there was carpet, but would be hard pressed to describe it as it was always covered with a 7-layer-dip of shoes, toys, clothes, marbles, video games, action figures, and comics. Like many kids, this was okay with me and the opposite of that with my mom. By the time I was old enough to go to summer camp, she was practically frothing with excitement, jonesing at the opportunity to restore order to my rat's nest.

Upon my return, everything was as I expected/dreaded. The carpet, now an obvious canary blue berber with a light yellow through line, was all too clearly visible. The bed was neatly made. The toys were perfectly arranged on the shelves. And, of course, all the clothing had been crisply starched, ironed, folded, and put away. It was perfect. Too perfect. A natural contrarian I searched the room for defects. There were none to be found. Oh well, I thought. If this is how it-- WAIT! WHAT ABOUT?...

Frantically, I ripped open the closet door. Wading through the neatly pressed oxfords and perfectly creased khakis, I breast stroked my way to the rear. And there they were: each and every single one of my precious magazines, arranged as neatly as the local convenience store. But more than that, they were categorized by title and date! Penthouse before Playboy, Knockers before Oui, each and every stack was organized in what was clearly the first, and perhaps only, dewey decimal system of smut. The only thing missing from this library of the libido was an index card tacked to the door. Sweet, dear mother, did you really think that organizing my filthy habit would make me cherish it any less? Quite the opposite! For the next five years, until I departed for college, I maintained her system of classification with a rigor that would make Linnaeus himself blush!

To this day, my magazines are arranged as such. A tradition, I hope, my wife will never learn of.

Zagats Guide to BOSTON

2007-11-12T04:22:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: Welcome to our new occasional feature. Now there is a Zagats for almost everything, we are proud to add to the range with our definitive guide to the best places to acquire porno mags in the 1970's and '80's. We start with The Puritan City, The City on a Hill, Beantown, Boston. Thanks to Adam of San Francisco for this review. Please send yours our way.

BOB'S CANDY STORE used to be in Waban Square in Newton. It was run, fittingly, by Bob, the meanest guy who ever lived and who was totally bald aside from a fringe of white hair that he let shoot out of the front. Bob carried himself like a man whose biggest regret in life was opening a store populated only by twelve year olds, a target audience he clearly despised. One was left to wonder exactly what he was thinking when he went into the candy store business.

The store had a huge wooden counter, more befitting of a bar, running round two sides of the shop. Bob longed for adult custom so much, that he kept a mid-sized stock of porno mags - Playboys and Penthouses -- under the bar. His biggest mistake was positioning it right next to the small entry way which was cut into the bar so he could enter and exit. And so, here's how you got your porn at Bobs: Most important, you had to be tight with my friend, Eliahu who was a tubby kid who had been blessed with deceptive speed which made him great at two things: On the basketball court he had an explosive burst to the basket, which made him impossible to stop in the paint. In Bobs, he had all the skills necessary to become an experienced klepto. Eliahu would wait patiently for Bob to become distracted by a gaggle of kids purchasing jawbreakers down one end of the bar. This was his cue to launch himself under the bar, grab a handful of magazines and thrust them down the front of his pants in one practiced silky-smooth move. Watching him operate was almost as thrilling as using the magazines later back in my bedroom. Just knowing what was going to go down and then watching it happen was like being privy to watching Babe Ruth hit a "called shot" home run week in week out.

Small barrier to be able to frequent the store. Bob is now dead and his shop has now closed. But don't let that stop you.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Taffy from Captain Cavemen

2007-11-08T16:11:00.001-08:00

Horatio writes: Hanna Barbera was our generation's Pinter. Everything they served up from "Scooby Doo," to the "Wacky Races" was a rollercoaster ride of truth and emotion. And then came Captain Caveman, a magnificent mash-up of "Josie & the Pussycats" and "Charlie's Angels." Caveman was a troglodyte who was really just one big giant ball of pubic hair, grasping a phallic club that had magic powers dedicated to solving crimes. This whole package was masculine enough to persuade three nubile young women -- The Teen Angels a brunette, an African American and a blond to follow him, groupie style, around the country. Captain Caveman was the kind of role model America's youth cried out for. My family were all lawyers and accountants. Nothing to want to emulate there. This was a man who knew what was important and lived the kind of life I aspired to when I was nine. And the more I watched, the more I realized that this was down to one thing and one thing only. Taffy. The blond. Dee Dee, the African-American was intelligent. Brenda, the brunette, to be honest was just kind of there...But Taffy was the perfect ten. A button of a nose, the slightest of mini-skirts, a divine pair of legs, and a voice that was teasing, playful, throaty and oh, so sexy. Her character had Captian Caveman wrapped around her finger, and before long, I too was besotted. When the show came on I would start off on the couch in the den. But with in minutes, like a sleepwalker, I would find myself involuntarily inching nearer to the television, ending up right in front of the screen, as close as was humanly possible, to see if I could get a glimpse up her skirt. I googled the voice actress who played her. Laurel Page. She has a web page with her agent's number, as well as her own email for her side businesses of making cakes out of photographs and art consultancy. Emailing her would be the equivalent of reaching out to Christie Brinkley or Kathy Ireland. I just flat out don't have the confidence. But if anyone needs a photo cake I am sure she would be pleased to hear from you. Until then, here is an episode of Taffy in action for your viewing pleasure in every sense of the word over the weekend.

And what do you want to be when you grow up?

2007-11-07T17:52:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: This web site has fixated almost exclusively on how the random pieces of pornographic material we managed to get our hands on controlled our hearts and minds and defined the way we thought about ladies and the world of love. What it has failed to do is to examine the myriad of ways these magazines influenced our thinking in less obvious ways. Let's pretend for the sake of argument that reading porn magazines fail-safe guaranteed you would develop sufficient love-making skills to pleasure women both one-and-one, and in small groups. But what were the less obvious collateral benefits? In this instance, if you dedicated a vast proportion of your waking hours to reading porn as a teen, what career track were you setting yourself on? The answer to this question, and countless others, lay in the small ad section at the back of the magazines. Have a close look and ponder just how much majestic whoopee a professional meat cutter gets nowadays anyway? Enjoy this selection from a 1971 edition of Stud Magazine. (click on images to enlarge)

Hooked On A Feeling and a Futon

2007-11-05T21:36:00.000-08:00

Jimmy O, now of suburban Chicago, sends in this tale of a collegiate bond stronger than Crazy Glue:

My freshman roommate was a handsome fellow. Well over 6 feet tall with a dong to match. He had a girlfriend. He fornicated. For all the aforementioned reasons and more, what I witnessed that cold, dreary Midwestern afternoon remains a mystery. But it did occur all the same.

And as far as roommates go, he was a pleasure. Amicable, amiable, and many other descriptive words that begin with a, he was as easygoing as they come. From pizza toppings to music, we had much in common. When it came to decorating our dorm room our tastes couldn't have been more simpatico and we quickly agreed upon a wool carpet remnant and a cherry red futon. For almost a year, we spent countless nights on that futon playing Tecmo Bowl, watching Sports Center, and pulling late night bingers from his home-made bong. Why he would chose to desecrate such hallowed ground is still beyond me. But he did. And it went a little something like this:

Poly Sci 101 class was cancelled. I grabbed a slice of pizza and headed back to the dorm. Room was double bolted. This was odd. I opened the door and-- even as I write this it doesn't sound real -- walked in on said roommate with his Girbuad jeans at his ankles, making love to the crease in our futon.

Alarmed, ashamed, and agitated I high-tailed it out of there. Too repulsed to return, I spent the night in a friend's room. The next morning I returned and, perhaps by way of an apology?, found the futon covered in a brand new tie-died tapestry.

Looking back, it's still difficult to ascertain what drove him to this act of man on couch love. Where had he learned it? Who had taught him the joys of the crease? I don't think I want to know.

Tree Hugger

2007-11-05T06:31:00.000-08:00

Horatio writes: Thanks to J. Owen for this beauty. He was born and bred Upper West Side as the story attests:

My best friend growing up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan was a kid called Marcus Berg. We were the kind of friends who were joined at the hip up to about the age of 14 when playing Atari stopped being our number one priority and was replaced by pursuing girls in his case, and personal computing in mine. Looking back, I can pinpoint one exact moment when our friendship began to dissolve. We were throwing a football in Riverside Park one late winter afternoon as we often did on the way home from school. I gave the ball a little bit too much of the Dan Fouts treatment and it went over his head and into the bushes. Bergie ran in to retrieve it, and emerged with the ball in his right hand, and a copy of Penthouse Letters in his left. Our relationship was never the same again.

The questions such as whose was this magazine and what the hell was it doing in the bushes of Riverside Park were not asked. Even the ball was quickly forgotten as we flicked through this slightly-soiled discovery and the treasures that lay within. Darkness descended quickly as it does in winter in Manhattan. Riverside Park in the early eighties was not a place you wanted to be at night unless you intended to score some drugs or indulge in some man on man pleasuring and this created a problem for Marcus. His parents were English and extremely strict in a "spare the rod, spoil the child" way. So there was not a chance that magazine was returning with him to his 98th and West End boudoir. But for Marcus, the magazine was like a diamond, and to throw it away so soon after finding it would have been a sin akin to leaving left overs if you ever had dinner with Bob Geldof.

Under pressure, Bergie was quick of mind and quick of foot -- the closest analogy would be George Peppard in the A-Team. He shinned up a nearby tree, a spruce I think, and concealed the magazine in a crevice between two branches. And that is where the fun started for Berg. For the very next night, he put on his black champion sweatshirt and camo pants and penetrated the park at night -- an act which hithertofore had held a kind of Candyman stigma in our imaginations -- returned to his tree, climbed it, retrieved the magazine, knocked one out to its pages with a flashlight, restored it to its hiding place, and then ran like the wind back to the safety of West End Avenue. When he told me about this act of foolhardy bravery the next day in class I was aghast and agog. As I listened to the story and the risk of life and limb he was exposing himself to, it was like my friend had become a different person. "Yes, I was terrified" he admitted, ""But, tossing one off is like how i imagine drugs feel. You know what I mean, right?"

I was too embarrassed to admit that I did not. For the sake of our friendship, but just as much, for the sake of maintaining perceptions as much as I could about my not so well developed masculinity... I played along and tried to pretend that I was down with his daredevil Delta Force style park raids which occurred ritually in the same way every night for the next three months, a period in which the magazine stayed in the tree, the only difference being that it was now stored in a plastic bag (my idea) to protect it from the elements.

On the 93rd day of this ritual, the magazine mysteriously disappeared. I was relieved. But Bergie entered a state of depression and mourning after which he picked himself up, started running with a slightly faster crowd at school and our relationship, though still warm, was never really the same again. I think about this story being less about friendship, and more about the intoxicating power of the act of masturbation to an adolescent boy. That between life and death and knocking on out, they would choose death.

Odd Todd and his Hot Rod

2007-11-05T06:23:00.000-08:00

Pound for pound, Todd Rosenberg is one of the funniest gents on the interweb. And now we, at True Beat, have another reason to love him, his lost days of porn innocence.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Susanna Hoffs

2007-11-01T19:25:00.001-07:00

Fewer bands were more underrated musically and erotically than the Bangles. Ok. Musically, they were mediocre, but it was their music that propelled them into the nation's consciousness, and into the stuff of my adolescent fantasy. The Bangles were living proof that the collective can be greater than the sum of the parts, because truth be told, there were some pretty ugly looking ladies in there -- but they were carried by their lead singer who was a feather of a girl, one Miss. Susanna Hoffs. Hoffs was tiny -- the Mugsy Bogues in a band full of Manute Bols. And she knew how to grab your attention and then keep you transfixed, taking the stage in a slip of dress, thigh-length boots and a strapping guitar lashing out from her crotch. When she sang, the angels in heaven stopped to listen. And when she gave the microphone up to one of her bandmates, she knew how to keep you staring with a wriggle of her tiny knees, a sashay of her hips, or a head toss of her shaggy mane. Hoffs drove me crazy. Pocket sized, she represented everything a thirteen year old boy could want in a woman. You can keep your Walk Like an Egyptian, which always seemed crassly commercial to me with its gimmicky dance and nonsensical meaning. When Hoffs sang, there was meaning a plenty -- Eternal Flame is a case in point. Many was the night I would dust off that record and give it a spin whist staring at the four individual headshots of Hoffs on the front cover of the LP Different Light. As the song climaxed, so would I, driven on by Susanna's urging me and me alone: "Close your eyes, Give me your hand, Can you feel my heart beating? Do you understand?" I understood. Oh yes. I understood.

Horatio writes: Thanks to Joss David of New Jersey for this poignant piece of masturbatory nostalgia.

Able Seaman Peter North

2007-10-31T17:34:00.000-07:00

Horatio writes: Thanks to Andrew Diamond of New York City for this video reminiscence:

Here's how I got my hands on the one video I watched pretty much every night bar Yom Kippurs between the ages of 14 and seventeen. My best friend was sent to boarding school freshman year of high school. He called all of us round to his house to solemnly dispense his "effects" like a soldier going off to war. These effects consisted solely of a dozen VHS porno videos he most could neither take with him not leave behind, knowing as he did that his mother would be giving his room a meticulous once over the second he was out the door. He had thoughtfully thumbed through his collection and selected one for each of us personally. Mine featured a virgin visiting her licentious cousin in the big city for the weekend. The slut took it upon herself to give her innocent relative an education by banging everyone that they encountered in the next 48 hours from the cable guy to the pizza delivery boy. The video climaxed with the appearance of porn-flick thesbian, Peter North, whom I later discovered, is known as The Master of Huge Loads. He made a dramatic late entrance in this particular movie, doing it with slutty cousin, for reasons that only occur in films such as this one, in a boat in a garage, before moments later, deflowering innocent cousin on a white leather couch in the adjoining lounge. Cue threesome. Such was the quality and the believability of Mr. North's performance, combined, perhaps with how impressionable I was back then (and still am today really) that the lesson that stayed with me after I had polished my pud to the final scenes for the umpteenth time was the learning curve -- that if I too could just loose my cherry it would be a gateway drug to finding myself in a threesome within the next half hour or so.

Tussling With Tuffy

2007-10-30T11:00:00.001-07:00

P. Mersky of Edina, MN writes:

As a senior in college I shared a house with six friends. We were all in the same fraternity and knew each other very well. From favorite pizza toppings to customs of the colon, there wasn't much we couldn't tell you about each other. But there is one thing I think we all wish we could forget.

It was November 6th, 1993. The night Evander Holyfield fought and beat Riddick Bowe in a 12 round decision. The bout was only available on HBO, which we had on a big screen in our downstairs living room. We offered to have a party for our friends and with the addition of buffalo wings and a keg of beer we were soon expecting over 50 people.

As fight time neared, people began to migrate towards our house. Those invited and not. By the time the punches began we were standing room only. It was so crowded that spectators gathered outside on the front lawn and watched through the window.

One of our roommates, Jeffrey X, lived in a room on the bottom floor. An unusually sound sleeper, Jeffrey could snore his way through anything. Thus it came as no surprise to find him sleeping through all the commotion of this big fight. Jeffrey's window was also in the front of the house, but even the noise from the rowdy spectators outside couldn't rouse him from his slumber.

Eventually the fight ended and Jeffrey coincidentally woke up. As expected, people stuck around to polish off the keg. As unexpected, Jeffrey decided now was a good time to catch a beat. A bit sloppy with his venetian blinds management, he had failed to secure the venue before beginning his unscheduled 3 round bout. As it was already dark outside, the light from the porn on his TV attracted unnoticed fans and the crowd quickly shuffled over to his window for the unexpected bonus fight. And there Jeffrey was, tussling with Tuffy before a live crowd of over 100 drunken suporters. Odds were taken, bets were made. How long could he last? It took everything we had to control the urge to burst out laughing and knock down his door and window. Luckily, it was a short fight and after 3 quick rounds Tuffy gave out and fell depleted to the canvas. It was a victory for everyone! We then, of course, charged into Jeffrey's room to help him celebrate the hard won victory and KO.

Home Alone!

2007-10-29T18:42:00.000-07:00

Horatio writes: Brad from New Jersey raises a fascinating philosophical question.

My parents were pioneers. They got a video recorder early on and kept it in the bedroom. It was a Betamax and they held onto it long after the VHS format got the upper hand. One day I broke into their room with my brother and some of his friends in search of something better to do. To our delight we discovered that although my parents only had seven videos, six of which unedited tapes from our Bar Mitzvahs, the seventh was a porno video with a through line about some aliens who land on earth and become sidetracked from their original invade and destroy mission once they discover the human vagina. We watched the alien lovemaking in total silence before replacing the tapes exactly as we had found them. So was born my addiction to porn. From that day onwards, I manufactured every opportunity I could to be left in the Home Alone scenario. The second the front door slammed shut I would rush upstairs, into my parents room and slam in that tape in for some UFO humpy pumpy. And here was the the thing. Every time I put the tape in, it started at a different place -- which meant that this video gem was an active part of their love life. And because I had to pay witness to the exact second they were stopping it, I had a front row glimpse of their sexual peccadilloes (They loved the women on women scenes, especially the one with lead alien watching in the corner whilst pleasuring his terrestrial penis), something which sounds funny now, but that I would wish on no other twelve year old. I wonder if any of your other readers experienced this kind of scenario because if they did, I want to know the following. To rewind back to the exact place you found the tape originally or not to rewind? At first, I always used to, with a great degree of accuracy, driven by both a respect for, and fear of, my elders. But after a while I stopped doing that because it injected such a stress level and a technical dimension to what should be a quintessentially relaxing and pleasurable experience that it seemed counterproductive. Would be fascinated, and relieved to know what others make of this human dilemma.

A Little Something for the Weekend, Sir? Charlene Tilton

2007-10-26T06:29:00.001-07:00

Horatio writes: Thanks to Jamie Isherwood of London, England for this week's nostalgic trip back to the wank bank of our youth.

Coronation Street was the biggest soap opera in England when I grew up offering twice weekly doses of working class life in Manchester. The characters' lives were designed to be extremely bleak so as to make viewers feel better about their own wretched existences. And then came Dallas. I had never seen such a televisual concept before featuring lives so glamorous, dripping in opulence, wealth, champagne, lust and glorious, glorious skulduggery. It was as if my life had been lived in black and white to that point and could now be lived in color. Aspirational television that made my spine tingle. And then Charlene Tilton appeared on the screen as Lucy. Blonde. Ripe. Licentious. And dirty-mouthed. All of the ladies on Dallas were exquisite. Even Barbara Bel Geddes was arousing in an experienced and forgiving tutor kind of way. (OK, I would have taken a pass on that drunky sloppy one, Sue Ellen.) But there was something above and beyond about Miss. Tilton. It was as if someone had pumped everything that made America great into her four foot, eleven inches. Charlene did little of note in the wake of Dallas, bar infomercials for the abdominal exercise machine (of which I own two, sigh). Enjoy this clip of her oiled up and wearing her typical wardrobe, an inky-dinky bikini. Squint during the parts with JR in them and just pretend it is you she is talking to, et voila.

Things that go Lump in the night

2007-10-25T06:09:00.000-07:00

Put your celebrity fixations aside for a minute. Don't get me wrong, I whacked off to sordid thoughts about Princess Leah as much as the next boy, but it is nigh time you raised a glass on this website to the "first girl in class to develop breasts," perhaps our generation's equivalent of the Tomb of The Unknown Soldier. I did some scientific research by broaching the subject amongst my male friends last night and can report that two phenomena were constant. First all swore to a man that the breasts appeared almost overnight. And second, they were, without exception, magnificently large. The girl in question would normally flout them as a ripe mark of pride -- the only thing in the class room that money could not buy. (In a couple of situations it should be noted that the girl in question carried them as a curse, trying to smother them in baggy clothing Ally Sheedy style.) This moment was spectacularly transformative because it marked the exact second that breasts stopped being two-dimensional expressions on the pages of a soggy worn-out magazine and became theoretically available to the touch. Conspiracy theorists have even debated as to whether Bar Mitzvahs were invented for the sole reason that the parties that followed them gave a legion of boys the opportunity to take giant leaps to manhood by literally grabbing their opportunity to get to second base. Irrespective, the appearance of the ripe orbs like the first swallow of summer, gave legions of boys something local -- something within their grasp -- to add to their mental repertoire as they pleasured themselves nightly.

Thanks to Kevin Bracey of Northbrook, Illinois for this statement.

Reunited And It Feels So Good

2007-10-24T20:00:00.001-07:00

We all grew up with a favorite piece of porn. For me it was a softcore version of The Old Lady Who Lived In The Shoe. At least I think that's what it was called. There was definitely an orgy that took place in a giant shoe but I seem to also remember a prince who was a virgin and needed to get laid before his father, the king, would give him the kingdom. And a scene of a woman kissing herself in the mirror which always freaked me out and turned me on. Not sure why I was so enthralled with this not particularly arousing or well done piece of cinematography, but it definitely stuck in my head over the years.

We at True Beat Generation want to hear about your favorite blasts from the past and, if possible, reunite you with them. No request is too big or too small. From a vintage copy of Oui to a videotape of Al Goldstein on Channel 35, we'll do our best to bring these gems home. It's our gift to you.

Not In My Back Yard

2007-10-23T14:53:00.000-07:00

Horatio writes: Mitchell Andrews read our thought piece about the art of navigating the newsstand and contributed this classic vignette which could only occur on the Upper East Side of New York:

I grew up on the hallowed turf of 79th and Madison, which for those of you who are unfamiliar, is one of the most affluent zip codes in the city, rife with more well-moisturized ladies who lunch, small dogs, and busy, busy plastic surgeons per acre than anywhere else in the nation. You would think that I would have had more than enough pocket money to procure a collection of porn that could rival quantity-wise, the collection of art at the nearby Met. I was eleven and horny as hell. But the honest truth was, a silver spoon only gets you so far. The barrier between me and mountains of nudie mags was that even the newsstand proprietors need to keep up appearances on the Upper East Side and so noone would dream of selling porn to minors with so many eyes on the street. I came up empty in my quest for Penthouse until I came to the newsstand on 86th and Lexington where the guy behind the counter announced loudly with relish that he could not possibly fulfill my request as it was against the law to sell pornography to minors. He then leaned forward, winked and whispered into my ear the magic words "Go to the newsstand on 79th and 2nd and tell them Abdul sent you." As I soon discovered, the foot traffic at that corner was virtually non-existent and Abdul had a well-rehearsed revenue share with the owner there who became my weekly dealer. Thank you Abdul, for giving me a moral education, at a critical age in my development that the means justify the ends, where there is a will there is a way, and whatever that phrase is about the worth of walking a mile in someones shoes.

Rockin' Bhavin

2007-10-22T10:37:00.000-07:00

As a freshman in college, your dorm and roommate were mainly luck of the draw. Dorm, I won. Roommate, not so much.

As an 18-year-old on his own for the first time, I was not immediately prepared for Bhavin, the Indian national by way of Kenya who preferred the witty society of engineering students to cold beer. For the entire first semester I don't think I ever saw him leave the dorm except for classes. He had no interest in drinking, women, or much of anything except studying and hanging out in our tiny 10 by 10 cell, made even more cramped by the U-shaped loft we installed overhead.

In a school full of kids from exotic locales like Great Neck and Bloomfield Hills, I bemoaned my fate daily. Where was my beer guzzling, late-night pizza ordering, partner in crime? Woe was me. Little did I know, everything was about to change as I would make the discovery of a lifetime. Or at least of freshman year.

Bhavin, you see, was the son of a successful 7/11 owner and operator. Where I came to college with a duffel bag brimming with Girbaud jeans and pastel-colored Ralph Lauren oxfords, he came with a chest stocked full of beef jerky, Coca Cola, and the most glorious collection of hardcore convenience store porn I'd ever seen in my life!

A bit sloppy with his post-game cleanup one night, Bhavin left a mag sticking out of his chest of goodies. It all became instantly clear. No wonder that son of a bitch never left the room! For the next semester, neither would I. From Jugs to Oui to Knockers, the more I beat the less I left! In what became a ritual of don't ask don't tell, I would go out each night, wait for Bhavin to finish his business and fall asleep, then sneak back in and tend to myself in the semi-privacy beneath the loft.

After Freshman year, Bhavin and I rarely spoke although we were always cordial when we ran into each other. Why wouldn't we be? We were beat brothers!

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Sheena Easton in Miami Vice

2007-10-19T06:22:00.001-07:00

Sheena Easton's 1987 appearance as singer Caitlin Davies in Miami Vice was an emotional highpoint for adolescent boys across the nation. Her sexual charisma was so intoxicating that she tamed ace-swordsman and generational role model, Sonny Crockett, marrying him within one episode of their meeting. The five episodes she starred in before her brutal murder marked the apex of a six year journey from squeaky clean virgin to dirty whore under Prince's tutelage. She exploded into our consciousness as a fresh faced perky pert performer in 1981. Her debut single, Morning Train (9 to 5) stormed to the top of the charts, driven no doubt, by the purchases of youths across the country eager to relieve themselves to her video on MTV. We offer it up here so you can relive the stuff of your adolescent fantasies this weekend. The way she handles the signal box with both arms and a rag in hand at 1:58 is powerful, powerful stuff -- enough to make the likes of Ron Jeremy explode in their undies. Sheena, we salute you for the six years of self-pleasure you brought into our lives. And for making a video with an avantgarde concept which has influenced even the likes of Bat for Lashes (same color shirt, same bike)

Thanks to Andrew of the Upper East Side for this nomination.

Wakey, Wakey! Here Comes Snakey...

2007-10-17T16:29:00.000-07:00

Horatio writes: Byrd is back, thanks to Kris Cooper of New York City for this beauty:

Great to read about Robin Byrd again. Been far too long since I thought about that lady and the way she used to make me feel. But am wondering if anyone else had the same problem as we did. It was not that we were forbidden to watch it. And I did not lack for a TV to watch her performance solo as we had five televisions in my house. The only thing that stood between me and nightly ecstasy was that the Robin Byrd Show started at Eleven Thirty p.m. and it was just too damn late. Every afternoon I would bid my sixth grade school mates adieu in the same way -- we would laugh like little James Earl Jones' at the prospect of watching us some titty on Robin's show that night. Cut to our homes... a spot of homework, dinner with the family, watching some TV, some Fresh Prince perhaps, or a spot of Atari. Anything to kill the time till that magic hour when Robin would appear before us. Same story every night. I would wake up, two or three in the morning, fast asleep on the couch, with Robin having quietly come and gone, and the only stains I had created coming from the pool of saliva that had emerged from my mouth. I would love to know if I was the only New York narcoleptic or was this a commonly experienced technical challenge?

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Kelly Le Brock

2007-10-12T04:21:00.001-07:00

Horatio writes: In a new feature, we will empty the vaults of the wank bank every Friday to offer you blasts from the past -- strands of masturbatory DNA from the seventies, eighties and nineties -- for you to test drive over the weekend. Look at it as our weekly gift to you, a chance to jerk off nostalgically. We start with some classic action from one Mrs. Kelly LeBrock who thrilled us twice, by baring her chest twice in Lady in Red and the strangely under-rated Weird Science. Both unveilings happen towards the end of the movie which was fine in the latter film but excruciating in the former as it meant sitting through an interminable hour and a half of Gene Wilder at his sun bed crisped worst, not to mention the harrowing Chris De Burgh theme song. But once Kelly took over in the climactic bed room scene, she gave a performance that teenage fantasies are made of. Let's face it, if she would do it with Gene Wilder,she would do it with anyone, right? A fact she proved at true by going on to marry Steven Seagal. Enjoy this clip over the weekend. WARNING: Learn to time your self pleasuring so you are not paddling your pickle when Gene Wilder is in frame. If you can't manage to do this, here's a bonus gift.

Camp Tamawack

2007-10-10T22:28:00.000-07:00

Art Krugel of Southfield Michigan writes:

It wasn't real. It couldn't be. There we were, huddled around the floor of our wooden cabin, waiting with raised flashlights and baited breath as the greatest competition of our young lives unfolded: who could come the fastest.

The contest always began the same way. Each warrior would take to his bunk and enter his respective sleeping bag. Lubricants and magazines were permitted but were hardly ever called upon. Silence was requested, but not mandatory and rarely achieved. On the count of three the tugging would begin. And then, like crazed butterflies trying to break free of their cocoons, we would witness the cartoonish outline of this epic struggle. Within minutes, sometimes seconds, a winner would grunt out his victory and a triumphant hand would protrude from their sleeping bag, Whoever said the proof is in the pudding wasn't kidding.

But I still couldn't believe it. Late to the game of self-love, I laughed heartily at these alleged victories. Come on, there's no way that's what you say it is! That's hand lotion! Or vaseline. You guys wouldn't really? Would you?

They would. And they did. Later that year, back at home, I finally discovered the joys of me, a pleasure tempered only by the dark realization that what had occurred that summer was only too real. The following year at camp these competitions were not repeated. Nor spoken of.

Twitchin' Beaver

2007-10-09T06:42:00.000-07:00

Horatio writes: Thanks to Eddy from suburban Detroit for this moving story.

I believe the case has been made on this website that the world is divided into two kinds of people -- men who read porno for the photographs, and those who love it for the stories. I would suggest that the reality is more complex than that. While I had no time for the stories -- the photographic spreads never did it for me either, unless they were in Hustler's Beaver Hunt feature -- a piece of visionary thinking from the devious mind of one Mr. L. Flynnt, in which he foresaw the explosion of amateur porn which would occur two decades later on the internets and persuaded seemingly everyday damsels from middle America to rip off their undies and show us their down belows. I was the proud owner of six copies of Hustler and the Beaver pages were the only ones I ever turned to in my hour -- more accurately, fifteen minutes -- of need. These were average girls trying their damnedest to look supersexy. Secretaries from Appleton, WS, factory workers from Portland, ME, and best of all, the occasional Mom from Brick Township, NJ -- all were driven by the forces of lust, and desires that only I could satisfy to put themselves on display. Back in those days I had no appreciation of such issues as misogyny, insecurity, or the numbness of repeated dull relationships. The feature served to insert a simple truth in my adolescent head. Beaver Hunt was the female mind laid bare. They wanted it all day and all night -- and that goes for all women. And as soon as I could learn to drive, I could service their desires. Until then, I went about my daily life wearing a pair of Beaver Hunt fueled goggles, imagining that every woman I encountered -- my teachers, dinner ladies, school bus driver -- were just a camera and a tripod away from the pages of Hustler. On weekends, there was nothing finer than to hang out in mall parking lots, approaching girls as they returned to their automobiles and asking them "haven't I seen you before...?" The girl's would look both flattered and confused. And then we would deliver the killer line which never got tired. "... in Beaver Hunt!"

Great Works of Literature: The Happy Hooker

2007-10-08T11:39:00.000-07:00

Horatio writes: Thanks to Dan from Ontario for this tall tale. If you had some classic material which fired your imagination and was pivotal in your physical emotional development, we would love to hear about it.

My family bought a cottage by the lake as a summer home with visions of opening my eyes to the glories of the Great Outdoors. Fresh water, mountains, the works. The summers I spent there were lifechanging in a way my parents never imagined. Especially since, in all of my time there, I barely left my own room. This is my story.

I was twelve when my parents bought the place. The the first thing I did upon arriving was to act on the curiosity of youth and sniff around the place, checking out every room, rummaging through all of the odds and ends the previous owners had left behind them. My parent’s room, the biggest in the house, was spartanly furnished. It had one medium sized formica chest of drawers in front of a bed. The chest was mundane on the outside. But its looks were deceptive for when I opened it, I was astonished to discover a veritable treasure trove of pornography – magazines and books. The magazines were mostly Penthouses, and my father who walked into the room seconds after my discovery made them vanish pretty sharpish. But thankfully, he was a picture person, and he left behind a couple of books that were also there. I quickly gave them the under the shirt treatment and whisked them back to my room for closer inspection.

One of the tomes was The Happy Hooker by a woman called Xaveria Hollander. A graphic autobiography by a woman who loved doing it so much that she became a prostitute. In the same way some Major League baseball players can’t believe they get paid to play the game he loves, Xaveria loves her work, hence the book’s title. I devoured the book from start to finish in one sitting in the way I imagine Tom Cruise felt as he read the work of E. Ron Hubbard for the first time. I delighted at the graphic positions, the dirty physicality, and the unbridled bliss, more than that, I loved the way the pleasure described in the pages mirrored the throbbing feeling it stimulated in my sweat pants.

I spent more time alone with Ms. Hollander that summer than I did with the rest of my family combined. I kept the book in a blue envelope at the back of my closet but it was rarely there. It was more often in my hands. I quickly identified the dozen parts of the book I liked best, and after turning down the corner of the page, would rotate through them. On those magical days I was able to use the book seven or eight times I would mix in a couple of B-level scenes to keep things fresh. I estimate that I knocked one of to the Happy Hooker close to ten thousand times over the next ten years which, fittingly enough, is as many women as Wilt Chamberlain estimates he had slept with in his lifetime. Just writing this makes me hard.

I just googled Xaveria. She now has a motel you can stay at in Holland. I would like to propose a Beat Generation Road trip on which we can discuss the literature that defined our generation.

Aqua Man

2007-10-08T08:11:00.000-07:00

Art Dvorak of Lansing, Michigan writes:

My younger brother's showers were legendary. From the time he hit middle school until he left for college, no one took longer showers than he. Not to mention his frequency. Sometimes showering four times a day, he spent a good portion of his youth under the hose.

It wasn't until college that I figured out what was going on. Chalk it up to incredible naivety, but I just didn't put the two together. No stranger to touching myself, I preferred the privacy of my own room and a clean tissue. For whatever reason, the aqua beat never crossed my mind. Even more perplexing is why my parents never spoke up. Surely they must have realized their son was wanking away in there costing both them and the good tax payers of Lansing hundreds of extra dollars in municipal water charges.

My brother, now 35, denies these allegations. He contends the combination of mild eczema and a dry Michigan clime necessitated he moisturize in such a fashion.

Golden Toilets

2007-10-03T09:44:00.000-07:00

Frederick Goldensnapple of Texas writes:

Hands down, from ages 12 to 18, my house was the most popular place to shit in the neighborhood. It wasn't the toilet paper, although it was 2-ply. It wasn't the lighting, although my mom always did have the eye of a true Texas aesthete. And it wasn't the location-- my house was a good half mile by foot further away than anyone else's. It was the sink. Or rather, what lie hidden beneath it.

My friends discovered it before I did. And for weeks, could it have been years?, I couldn't figure out why all my childhood pals insisted on making my house the location for their afterschool dump du jour. In hopes of unravelling this mystery, one day after everyone had left, I secluded myself in the commode, determined to figure this thing out once and for all.

Other than mom's impressive collection of lotions and potions and dad's harsh-smelling aftershaves there was nothing out of the ordinary in here. Was I missing something? I counted the tiles on the floor. And recounted them. I then proceeded to catalogue everything in the room with a zeal to rival missieurs Coopers and Lybrand themselves. Still nothing.

In desperation, I flopped on the floor and landed face to face with the cabinet beneath the sink. But what was this? A false bottom? There, in the two or three inches between the cabinet and floor was porn, glorious porn! Hot Bottoms and Playboy! Elated, I flipped over on my back and poured through every magazine then and there.

To this day, my mom still tells her friends about the Civil War-esque case of dysentery I came down with between the ages of 12 and 18. Until, of course, I switched to soy milk in college and everything cleared up.

HALL OF FAME: THE RISE AND FALL OF JOHN BOX

2007-10-02T14:36:00.000-07:00

Horatio writes: This heart-wrenching ballad was told to us by Dan from Ontario:

John Box became a legend in my school for all of four weeks. He was a quiet kid who generally kept himself to himself. And then porn came into our lives, in a trickle of magazines and videos that were passed surreptitiously locker to locker. Out of nowhere, John Box piped up that he had a mound of porn at home he had been given by his Dad -- a Kareem-sized stack of Playboys that by his telling could keep the sailors of the Sixth Fleet busy for an entire shore leave. John Box quickly became one of the most popular kids in school. To sit at his table at lunch was an education as he held us entranced with tales of both pictorials and articles. Rapt, we begged him to ignore the bell that signaled the start of afternoon classes and tell us one more story. Throw us a bone here John Box! After two weeks of wining and dining on his stories, and metamorphosing into one of the most confident, ney a little bit arrogant, boys in our year, things were going rather fantastically for John Box until one lunch time when Jason Corran had the tenacity to pipe up at the end of a marathon virtuoso porn recital and ask Box if for once, he could bring in a couple of the magazines so we could feast our eyes on their splendor. Box laughed a nervous laugh and promised he would on Monday. Frankly, many of us were so devoted to John Box and his story telling that we shouted down Jason Corran and tsk-tsked his rudeness as inappropriate... but the Corran faction were proved to have a point when Monday came around and Jason Box came to us empty handed, citing that his grandmother's moving in for the week as a defense. Yes, we all continued to sit with him at lunch times. We were addicted to his stories. But something in the air had changed. The exchange was functional. There was less laughter, awe, and respect. Things came to a head the following Saturday when after three broken promises to bring in some booty, I went with Jason Corran and two other boys from my year as we invited ourselves round to Box's house for a sleepover. To Box's credit, he dealt with our unannounced arrival with aplomb, using his Pong as what must have been a last desperate attempt to make us forget the real reason we had come round to his house. And it almost worked. That game is crazy catchy. But after what must have been five or six hours, we remembered why we were there. Jason Corran calmly stated "You know why we have come. Lead us to your stack." To Box these words must have sounded like the phrase "you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead." Nowehre to run, nowhere to hide. He stood there and grinned a lob-sided grin. We watched the life drain out of his face. He knew the game was up. And as Corran stepped forward to deliver the knuckle punch to the eye on all of our behalf, I realized that the pain of that was nothing, compared to the realization that for 12 year old John Box, the high point of his life -- those four glorious weeks when he was the toast of our town -- were now behind him.

Rock Beats Scissors, Porn Beats Hornets

2007-10-01T08:50:00.000-07:00

JAMES T. of Venice Beach writes:

When you're the youngest of three brothers stuff magically appears. Beers in the basement. Bongs in the back of your closet. And last but certainly not least, a stack of porn in the hornet infested attic. To say stack is an injustice. This was Alexandria: a vast, catalogued, collection of every major porn publication from the 70's and 80's. Playboy, check. Oui, check. Knockers, check. Penthouse, Penthouse Letters, Penthouse Forum, check check check. And oh yeah, the hornets. Did I mention them? It's funny how much a teenage boy with raging hormones can weather in the face of pornography. The stings and welts I received over the years pale in comparison to the joy I received from many hours spent reading in this fine library of the libido.

HALL OF FAME: JAMES FALLON, THE GETTY OF PORN

2007-09-28T06:49:00.000-07:00

Horatio writes: Thanks to Jay Grass of Chicago for this submission:

A product of divorce, lax parenting, advanced tastes, and being the youngest of three brothers, James Fallon was always flush with porn. From fifth grade onwards, his bedroom was littered with magazines, discarded brazenly on the floor, and stacked inches high on a stool by the throne in his en-suite bathroom. While the rest of us proudly possessed two or three mags maximum, Fallon amassed a John Paul Getty sized collection. Magazines, Videos, Posters. If you were offered a golden ticket to the Wonka factory or an invitation to hang out at the Fallon house, 9 out of 10 boys in my class would have plumbed for the latter. Such was its size, that every six months or so, word would get out that James was doing a "purge" of his collection. This was the signal for all of us to turn up at his home and cart off whatever he was giving away. The scene was amazing. You would turn up and see your mates exiting his front door with piles of mags -- as much as they could carry, and a video or two tucked under their arms. Did every class have a James Fallon equivalent in their lives?

The True Beat Generation Hits The Road!

2007-09-27T20:28:00.000-07:00

In what will surely go down as one of the greatest clerical errors in history, last week the authors of The True Beat Generation were invited to speak at the First Assembly of God in Sandusky, Ohio. Evidently, the church's aging secretary/PR administrator confused us with "The New Beat Generation of Christ," a group of reformed hippies who travel the country preaching the word of God. Never ones to look a gift horse in the mouth, we accepted the church's kind offer and made the trip to the Buckeye State where we treated a small parish of no less than 39 congregants to our views on the evils of Internet pornography and its clear connection to the destruction of a healthy adolescence. They couldn't have agreed with us more.

Sadly, just as the head nodding and amens were really heating up, the bulb on our projector burned out and we were unable to proceed with our planned presentation of wholesome, family-oriented, fisting-free, pornography from the late 70's and early 80's.

They did, however, offer to invite us back for the Pentecost, so perhaps it's all for the best.

Lube-o-lution, Part 2 of a 52 Week Series - Brought To You By Nivea For Men

2007-09-26T23:07:00.000-07:00

In the beginning there was vaseline. This much is certain. But what came next? Did you jump straight to mom's face cream? Shampoo? Conditioner? Both? Or was it something more exotic like ripe fruit, deli meat, or a seemingly forgotten Thanksgiving gourd that your aunt cooked and served to your entire family?

A recent Zogby poll estimates that 28% of serial masturbators under the age of 18 but older than 15 living in an Eastern Seaboard state from 1979 to 1985 preferred conditioner over shampoo by 10 to 1. As a policy, TBG usually disregards polls but the lack of concrete evidence in this case is compelling.

Viva le beat!

2007-09-24T22:45:00.000-07:00

J. Brown of Los Angeles sends in this adorable little tale of quality mother and son reading time. And to think we here at the TBG thought Goodnight Moon was as good as it gets:

In the summer of my 12th year I was a very skinny kid. Too skinny. So skinny I once overheard my mom asking my father, “When is he going to get muscles?” My dad laughed and told her to stop worrying. But she wasn’t the type to let go of anxieties that easily.

That was also the summer my mom and I started to read the same books together. Not together like over-the-shoulder-together. That would be creepy. We’d buy two copies of the same paperback and read them at the same time. But I was a faster reader than her and would always be 20-30 pages ahead. The book we were reading around the time she expressed concern for my lack of anything resembling a manly physique was “Papillon,” the French prison story.

One day I was reading and came to a point where the narrator remarked that many of his fellow prisoners were “so skinny…because they’d been masturbating too much.” I closed the book and thought, “Fuck. She’s going to think that’s the reason.”

Now let the record state that I was masturbating a lot that summer. But I knew that had nothing to do with how skinny I was. One look at pictures of my dad when he was a kid would tell you that it was genetics. But that’s not what my mom was going to think.

Sure enough, a couple days later, we were sitting in the family room both reading when I felt her eyes boring into me. I looked up over the top of my book. She was holding her book and just staring. With that heavy, accusing, stare. She didn’t say anything. Never even brought it up, not even after we finished the book. But she knew I knew what she was communicating with that stare. “Stop jerking off and you’ll grow to be a man.” I looked back down and kept reading.

King of the Wild Frontier

2007-09-24T06:16:00.001-07:00

Horatio writes: We have commented before that learning to shoot one off can be the closest we get to being like Peter Parker trying out his newly-found Spidey skills. This is especially true when the discovery is accidental as Edmund Ross of Los Angeles describes. We would love to hear your stories, be they of being taught, self-taught etc.

To this day, I can't remember what made me do it. But it changed my life forever. I was thirteen years old and had jumped into bed at the same time in the same way a thousand times before. But this night, something felt spectacularly different. My penis had liberated itself through the fly of my brown kung-fu style pajamas. The ecstatic shock as the underside rubbed against the light starch of my fresh Scooby-Doo duvet was as pure a feeling as I have experienced, before or after.

When I look back on this definitive moment twenty-something years later, I am amazed at the bravery of my next step. If this kind of thing happened to me today, I would be risk averse. Persuade myself it had not, turn off the bedside light, and try to forget. But in those days, I was fearless. After catching my senses, and making sure I could hear no footsteps -- the sound of my parents downstairs -- I tentatively slipped my hands under the sheets, took hold of my schlong and tried to recreate the move which had provided me with such unknown delight just moments before. After a couple of trial efforts to work out what felt best, I started rubbing and rubbing. Against Daphne, Wilma, Fred, Shaggy, and, yes, even Scooby, with increasing confidence approaching abandon.

Imagine the shock then when it happened -- an explosion of pleasure carelessly shooting out across my duvet cover. After thirteen years, I had learned something absolutely new about my body. I had found a hidden skill. Like a young Evil Kneivel experiencing the thrill of performing a wheelie on a push bike in his back yard for the first time, I recognized I had identified the talent I would devote the rest of my life to. I quickly picked up my new tool and rubbed and rubbed some more.

After this there was no stopping me. All day in class I would count the minutes till I could return to my bedroom and my new trick. Checking my watch at lunchtime, a thrill would spread through my body. Only five hours till home, and home now only meant one thing. After cursorily dispensing with my homework, I would wolf down the bolognese or lamb chop we had for dinner, kiss my parents goodnight and race upstairs to my field of dreams.

I only knew one way to do it. Rubbing it directly against the cotton-polyester mix of my duvet. The friction was intoxicatingly addictive. Even when then that friction shaved off the top layer of my skin and turned my innocent manhood bloody. Possessed, like a junkie searching for a vein, I would fiendishly focus on any small area of my tool that was not scabbed over. My duvet cover was transformed into a crisp and bloodied rag. Lying in my bed breathless after the act, I would look up at the Adam and the Ants poster that was taped to my ceiling. Adam Ant himself looked back with approval.

Here's To Good Friends, Tonight Is Kind Of Special...

2007-09-23T13:36:00.000-07:00

A hearty thank you goes out to the Blog of The Day crew for naming us, what else?, blog of the day. We can't thank you enough. We can, however, thank ourselves, so we did what we always do in times of celebration and hit the cellar, breaking out a vintage Porsche Lynn VHS compilation and a well-aged bottle of lavender scented body lotion.

Great Works of Literature: Cosmopolitan Magazine

2007-09-21T03:35:00.000-07:00

Horatio writes: Thanks to Chris Levy of Edgware, London for this fine literature review.

I was fourteen when I discovered one of my Mum's Cosmos lying around the house. After a quick perusal, I soon sequestered it in the bogs where it stayed for the next seven years. There was one full-page lingerie advertisement by some French sounding brand with two models fully decked -out in suspenders, knickers, bras. The works. I must have knocked one out to that picture alone over a thousand times when I lived at home.

The key was that one was blonde, the other brunette. They reminded me of Pepsi and Shirlie who came to fame as Wham!'s backing singers before setting the world alight as a talented pop duo under the tutelage of Mr. George Michael who produced their big hit Heartache. I used to rest the ad on my knee while I was sitting on the bog and mentally transport myself from my suburban home in North West London to a hotel room in New York in which I was doing it with both of them.

For Chris Levy and other fans of Pepsi and Shirlie. Knock yourself out

2007-09-21T03:10:00.000-07:00

HALL OF FAME: PAUL FEIG

2007-09-20T13:30:00.001-07:00

Horatio writes: Paul Feig is our hero. Aside from the fact that if there was a Nobel Prize for whacking off, he would, so to speak, win it hands down, he is one of the finest comic minds alive today (Bruce Vilanch obviously excepted) Everything we do is inspired by the Feig. He was the adolescent everyman (or is there such a thing as an "everychild"?) For proof, we urge you to check out his classic tome, Superstud in which he pleasures himself, amongst other things, whilst climbing a rope in gym class, to photographic manuals, and to copies of National Lampoon. Superstud is, to our genre, what the Mormon Bible is to astute religionists.

Odes to Onanism

2007-09-20T08:55:00.000-07:00

Why did the 80's spawn so many songs about masturbation? Are people still penning tunes about it today? If so, I can't think of any.

Billy Idol's, "Dancing With Myself."
Prince's, "Darling Nikki"
Violent Femmes', "Blister In The Sun."
Tori Amos's, "Icicle."
Devo's, "Praying Hands."
The Pixies', "Holiday Song.
Cyndi Lauper's, "She Bop."
The Vapors', "Turning Japanese."

And the list goes on...