Able Seaman Peter North

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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.