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).

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

A Little Something For the Weekend, Susanna Hoffs

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.

A Little Something for the Weekend, Sir? Charlene Tilton

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.

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

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.

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

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.