"Elle Bent"

Horatio writes: In our continuing scientific experiment to reunite middle aged America with the nostalgic material that used to make the masturbatory magic happen (or in the words of our latest lab rat, the mighty P from Mississippi, our "SIscience project") we provide the following in depth report. P, we salute you for taking this assignment so seriously. In his words "To create exactly the right mood, I prepared by stealing some clove cigarettes, playing Cult of Personality on my ghettoblaster, and watching that brave-assed Chinaman standing in front of a tank muted on the TV. "

February 9, 1987. That’s the date on the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue I just beat off to. Page 117 to be exact. It shows the lower half of Elle McPherson’s body clad in a wet white bikini bottom that hugs her mons pubis and hints at that contours of what’s underneath. Coincidentally I probably jacked it to this very image 21 years ago to the day; This issue took pride of place in my stash alongside a Penthouse, a Hustler, two issues of High Society, a Club International, a Cheri (where the same girl with a rat nest of pubic hair was in three different pictorials sporting a different name in each - Kellye Works on a Dairy Farm! Orsola Enjoys Being a Vice Cop! Gloria is a Promising Young Architect!), a Girls of the SEC Playboy that I stole from my Dad who bought it because one of my sister’s Ole Miss sorority sisters was in it (Yes, I am aware just how creepy that sounds right now), and a couple of really nasty little cumrags that I shoplifted from Sydney’s News on Decatur Street during some family trip down to New Orleans.

It was a lot easier climaxing in 1987, and that’s not just because 21 years ago I was a twelve year old boy who could orgasm on account of the mere thought of getting off later in the day to the girls booty-shaking on WGN’s Soul Train rerun. But now, trying to find my groove staring at women with big hair and hideous swimwear was difficult. First off, even back in the day I detested the ever-prominently-featured Kathy Ireland (even before she did Necessary Roughness). Time has not soothed the hatred I harbor for her blank stare and her holier-than-thou attitude. Just looking at that picture of her in pinstripes makes me want to punch something, and I long ago promised myself to be a non-violent masturbator. But this issue does have Elle, and Elle and I had had our share of magic days. So I was working it, transporting myself to another place and time where I’m a knock-kneed 12-year-old boy (who is on this revisit holding a man-sized penis), and a swimsuit issue is considered not only suitable but rabidly sought-after masturbatory material.

I am proud to be able to report: It still works. Everything was coming along swimmingly until my fiancée’s dogs started fighting in the back yard. I was immediately snapped back to the present in which I found myself standing up and banging on a window with some sweatpants around my ankles while sporting a near-capacity hard on. The dogs were really going at it. Fuck, OK. So I pull up my pants and go out the back door to separate them. At the same time my neighbor comes out of her back door to see what all the ruckus is about. Picture this. Her: a septuagenerian spinster who enjoys gardening and who works nights at the VA hospital. Me: a 33 year-old with thinning hair who at 2:00 in the afternoon on a weekday comes running out of his house in sweatpants that not only do a very bad job concealing his hard on, but, if you will allow me to boast, a very good one accentuating it.

With the dogs and my boner pacified I was beginning to think that this whole project might have to be postponed. But there was Elle, calling my name on the floor of the bathroom in her white bikini. My cock woke up. Immediately. And I dutifully polished myself off. I then pulled up my pants and emailed my fiancee that one of her dogs was bleeding.

Muck of the Irish

Horatio writes: Regular readers know we are in the midst of some important research in the name of science, reuniting a cadre of plucky volunteers across the country with the formative material that used to catalyze their fantasies in the days before the internet. A long way of saying, we have invited 25 friends to toss one off to a vintage copy of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit edition to see if it was as arousing an exprience as we remember it to be. This just in from Jonni of Brooklyn, New York:

"Back in the day, I was sent home from Hebrew School after being busted for reading the swim suit edition at the back of the class with a kid named Fatty Rosenbloom. My excuse that these texts were just as sacred as the bible passages we were meant to be studying fell on deaf ears. I returned home in disgrace, prepared to be disciplined by my parents. But to my surprise, although my mother gave me a cursory telling off, she seemed to be almost giddy. I realized retrospectively that she was internally delighted. Here, at last, was ireffutable proof that I was not gay. At the risk of straying to another topic, I feel this is an appropriate time to raise a glass to the Mothers of America. Among the greatest enablers of adolescent masturbation this nation has ever seen.

All of this is to explain my mental condition when I received the copy of SI Swimsuit, 1992 edition two weeks ago. I cancelled my evening plans immediately and settled in for a night of solo excess. And I am happy to report that I was not dissapointed. Although I was alone, the evening was like a scene out of Caligula. Indeed, I lost count of the number of times Sports Illustrated and I had that magic connection. However, there was nothing nostaligic about the experience. I did not emotionally summon up deeply buried adolescent fantasies. Far from it. The thing I found arousing was however sexy these women were back then, in today's licentious times, they felt more frumpy-sexy -- and I loved that -- because they felt, like middle-aged Jewish mothers ready to have an affair. Kathy Ireland, case in point. Look at this picture below and tell me that she does not look like the treasurer of the Temple Sisterhood, living out her fantasy life and letting herself go wild."