A Little Something For the Weekend Sir? Grace Jones

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).

Steve Jobs/Hand Jobs

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

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.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Geraldine Ferraro

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.

A Little Something For the Weekend Sir? Nadia Comaneci

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

A Little Something For the Weekend Sir? Olivia Newton John

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

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

Horatio writes: In a departure this week, no video. But to be fair. No real woman either. But a beauty nonetheless. The St. Pauli Girl. Fewer ladies aroused more boys earlier, more often. If you catch my drift. Blonde. With arms wide open. And did we mention that chest, with wardrobe malfunction just a shoelace away? So if you once found nothing out of the ordinary in pleasuring yourself with abandon in front of your father's six-pack in an open fridge, we salute you. What the heck. Here's a video.

"Elle Bent"

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

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

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

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

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

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Jennie Garth

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

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

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

Fast forward to 1978, Playboy tried and failed to run an official Cowboys cheerleader pictorial. Plan B was to run a spoof using a fictional ensemble called the "Texas Cowgirls." I was eight at the time and an only child so Mark, the fourteen year-old son of our family friends, the Jonases was like an older brother to me. When he turned me onto everything good in life. From trains to toy aircraft modeling. Imagine my surprise when he took me into his room during one routine visit, and after shutting the door, dove dramatically under his mattress and emerged with a copy of Playboy. I had never seen a porno mag before. And here was this one, stuffed full of Cheerleader rumpy pumpy. I popped a boner on the spot. But I was five or six years away -- an adolescent eternity really -- from being able to know what to do with it. I was left to stumble back into the lounge to sit silently numb with my parents and the Jonases, like a horny little caterpillar contemplating what it would feel like to become a beautiful butterfly some time in the distant future.

I experienced the same emotion every week for the next couple of years whenever the camera would caress the cheerleaders limbs to the background droning of Cosell and Meredith, and my mind would drift to the notion of doing something -- though the idea of exactly what was stiil unformed -- to these luscious, ripe, pert images. This year's Superbowl looks like a snooze. Devoted fans of this website may enjoy using this at half-time.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Samantha Fox

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

Muck of the Irish

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

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

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

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Linda Hamilton

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

If you were lucky enough to own the video to this masterful piece of Hollywood magic, we would wager there was only one scene you ever watched. The love scene where Sarah and Kyle make doomed, frantic, yet sweet love, and in which, to our great relief (in every sense of the word) Linda Hamilton revealed the soft and vulnerable side that lies behind every all-female action hero. Two technical points must be made about this four minute and twenty-two second clip from a frenetic teen masturbators perspective. First. It was the perfect length of time to accompany the adolescent art of self-pleasuring. And second, one had to be extremely precise in execution. Because at 4:22 exactly, after a lingering seven second shot on the lovers' sweaty hands intertwined, post-coital, if you had not climaxed yourself, you were never going to. The next scene you cut to was this...

Thanks to Erik in San Francisco for this magic memory.

NSFW: Sears Catalogue, 1977

Horatio writes: As promised, this is what Santa gave us for Xmas. Thanks to reader Jeremy K. from Manhattan, this Sears Catalogue arrived in a thick manila envelope befitting of its content. Over 1,300 pages of what passed, back in the day, as hard core porn. And by this we mean the brassiere section. We present a selection for your viewing delight so you can take a trip down mammary lane. If you used to fire up your imagination by flipping through pages like these, we would love to hear from you.

Feast your eyes on the below. Something for everyone. Whether you liked the straight bra shot or the more avant garde fashion forward, "Combination Bra and Dickie" (like a Greek god that is half shirt, half bra.) Perhaps you favored leaving a little something to the imagination and so were partial to the T-shirts that say it all or with Plaid pants, or your tastes were more towards the Pete Townsend end of the spectrum and so you hung out in the Her First Bra section. We present them all, along with a page from the mens section that appears to be a subliminal reminder that real Sears Men are curiously flat in the crotch region.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Barbra Streisand

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

Many of us then staggered home from movie theaters across the country with hormones abuzz, only to make the joyous discovery, back in our father's record collection, among the Perry Comos and Jonny Mathises, there she was. Little Barb, feigning vulnerability and innocence, clad in tighty-whities topped off with a delicious pair of tube socks, like an American Apparel wet dream. Scientists have declared the cover of Streisand's Superman the most whacked off-to record cover of all time. Helen of Troy may have had a face that launched a thousand ships. Barb's launched hundreds of thousands of grunting young Hebrew school drop-outs into a state of masturbatory ecstasy. We would beat away alongside your father's record players whilst her song "Love Comes From Unexpected Places" purred softly in the background. To mix things up, the album Wet offered a different experience, though retrospectively the only thing arousing about that classic was its name.

So this weekend, let us celebrate Barbara one more time. And if Yentl does not do the trick, try yourself some good, old-fashioned Ultra-Orthodox pornography. Among our favorite lines: "She pulled down my slacks with my underwear and rubbed my hairy mokom milah. My tzitzis were in the way so I unbuttoned my shirt and took them off." And if, for some inhuman reason that does not get the job then. Use this more recent photograph.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Sir? Nastassja Kinski

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.

A Little Something for The Weekend, Sir? Apollonia

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.

A Trip Down Mammory Lane

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

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.

A Slip Down Memory Vein

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.