It is inconceivable
how hard it was to come across VHS porno when I was growing up in the ‘80s and
early ‘90s. This quaint notion of course
sounds supernaturally ridiculous today, where every bozo with a smartphone or a
laptop has been watching gag-ball clips and Sasha Grey blow-bangs for so long
it’s as tender a honeyed formative memory as the goateed goober who saw “Star
Wars” front and center in 1977. But even
well past being voting age, three years into college (where I definitely wasn’t
getting laid), and three years after Mark Wahlberg had been a pop icon Calvin
Klein star having sex with supermodels…. I, at age 21, had still not seen
actual video pornography.
Doesn’t mean I hadn’t
wanted to, since it had been a Byronic quest since I became a veritable Mad
Whacker during puberty. Whereas other
dudes are, like, normal, and do crazy shit like playing sports and having
friends, whereby they meet these things called “girls” and go on, like, dates
and pass notes and go to parties and become, like, fully functioning human
fucking beings who go on to flip houses in pink shirts with three happy kids
and an SUV….my weird mix of super-strict fire-and-brimstone-level Catholic
upbringing and seemingly paradoxical Movie Obsession made me process human
sexuality in the most fucked-up way this side of a ‘70s Paul Schrader
character. Sex was like The Forbidden
and Women Were Terrifying, but I loved all these movies and models and
actresses, and, long story short to spare you the psych self-exam portion of
the show, the concepts of women and sex and dating became not some normal-guy
rite of passage in reality, but rather like another form of movies, entirely in
some fantasy realm in my moron head. The
only way I could relate to adult humanity was through what I’d seen in movies I
was probably too young to process properly.
There were cute girls
in school that I’d get little crushes on, but as a man-titted Poindexter in Bob
From Halloween Glasses, I was catching beatdowns and getting the Trapper Keeper
knocked out of my hands like clockwork, and no girl was gonna be seen within a
hundred yards of me. And lucky them, I
remember one time, age 13, I was in study hall next to some chick who legit
looked like Bozo the Clown, had a literal Red fucking Afro, and my Big Move of
chatting her up was to explain the diamond-heist plot of William Petersen and
John Pankow in “To Live and Die in L.A.”
I got all EXCITED like a spazz recounting the car chase and how it all
played out, doing that Boring Guy thing of telling someone who So Doesn’t Give
a Shit the plot of some movie they could watch in less time than it takes for
your long-winded ass to retell it. At my locker afterwards I heard Bozo rolling
down with the hall laughing it up with her friend Lisa – “What the HELL was he
talking about?” and mimicking my nerd voice “…and then they rob the diamond
guy!” and MUAHAHAHAing “What a nerd!”
But there was no such
ice bucket to the balls to be had in the Hannibal Lecter Spank Bank Fantasy
Chamber in my junior psycho mind, where from even younger than that, I’d had
Little Fantasies of being a Rich Guy who had a mansion and an inexplicable
harem of model/actress type women based on the girls I’d see on TV and glamour
mags. Why they were with me of all
idiots was like a “what’s in the trunk from Repo Man” McGuffin that I never
dwelled on, since clearly I had no charisma or experience in real life and
absolutely no idea how women talked or behaved.
But in my mind every
night, I’d play out these rich, three-act cinematic masterpieces in which the
girls would fight over who I liked more, and they’d paint each other’s toenails
or TRY ON LITTLE OUTFITS for me. And I’d
sometimes bust out the General uniform to have them line up in formation as I
went down the line critiquing their beauty and deciding who had the prettiest
face, eyes, lips, tits, etc.
There were sexier
parts, but oddly as a consummate burgeoning cinephile, I was more interested in
the long-form character arcs of whether imaginary April would or wouldn’t do
some light lesbianism with Courtney, who was subtly based on Courtney Cox, or
if Teri was going to spread her wings and leave the mansion to backpack around
Europe. Stupid shit like that. Especially since I basically had NO IDEA what
sex even looked like. I seem to remember
thinking a vagina was like a huge round hole, which is why I once tried to
replicate the Great Unknown by fucking my tae kwon do glove, and Rodney had had
some standup line about fooling his neighbors that he was getting laid by
“doing push-ups in the window.” So I
took this literally and thought you hovered over a naked woman and did pushups
into this wide mystery area. This is
probably where an anal obsession was born, since I had no fucking clue what a
vag was like but had a running start on what an asshole was.
One of my very few
friends was this fun dude Bobby from across the street, who was way cooler than
me in a Dennis Gilder-to-Arnie Cuntingham way, and who had a drum kit and had
Run DMC and Slayer records on vinyl right from the jump, and whose rage-case ‘Dad
(who looked like Danny Noonan’s father) allegedly had this hidden cache of old
Penthouses that we concocted a Hot Rock-worthy caper to break into sometime in
summer of 1985. Like working out signals
and codes and shit (“He’s on the move, go!”) and then racing out with the one
measly 1979-ass copy Bobby managed to find.
We took it up behind a tree and were passing it back and forth, geeking
out over the chicks in Guccione schmear-sheen and epic bushes – I don’t mean
Bertolucci style dicks out, but I was flopping around like fucking Josh Baskin.
I was hooked on the
naked female form from this moment, and no jelly-shoed, poodle-haired
gum-snapping Yinzer in our junior high that fall was ever gonna compete.
Anything “sexy”
became about the visual, about objectification, and if this was the last era
where clueless guys were this wantonly sexist and voyeuristic and meatheaded,
it sure was the right fucking era for it.
This was the time of David Lee Roth mugging like a jackass with four bikini
chicks on either arm, the time of titty comedies with PeeWee sticking his dick
in the peephole, those movies where “four guys on the make” go to a tropical
resort and just OGLE WOMEN and try to get them naked then do lots of mugging,
and that’s the whole fucking plot – this firm grasp on reality all helped shape
the middle-aged bozo who’s still excited about Selena Gomez movies because there’s
an off chance she might wear a PG-13 bikini, while long since giving up on having
functional adult relationships of any sort.
But said comedy romps
would come on late at night, and if I could stealthily record one while nobody
was looking, I’d be in my GLORY in the days ahead when mom worked and I had a
precious hour with the house to myself to pore over “Porky’s Revenge” or the
Linda Hamilton “Terminator” tits or “Tomboy” with Betsy Russell over and over
again, rewinding and leaving it stuck on SLP pause with the snowy lines across
the screen. They always had really
blatant tan lines back then which fascinated me so much that one day I went out
on the deck I gave my fat fucking ass a wedgie to see if I could get a thong-style
TAN LINE on my already enormous man-ass.
Yeah, I was a REALLY fucking weird kid.
I hadn’t actually
figured out stroking off at this point, but I was just consumed with seeing
tits and especially bush – I must have been carrying around a Dark Star beach
ball-sized sac of wad before I finally started wet-dreaming from all this
hotness kicking around my head. I
remember being horny ALL the fucking time.
I remember going to some zoo on a family vacation and blatantly walking
around with a massive boner I couldn’t keep down while ‘Sweet Freedom” played
on the P.A. Now I have full blown E.D.
I think the first
time I realized what jacking off was, I accidentally scraped my sweatpants
around my knob and figured it out, and blasted off a round of Flubber I had no
idea was coming. I of course spent one
hour that night praying for forgiveness and promising God he could send me to
burn in the pits of Hell if I ever did that, whatever that was, again. Also worth noting, in 2016, high schoolers
and younger are eminently enlightened authorities on gender and sexuality, we
live in a no-judgment culture where kids come out of the closet and everyone basically
respects everyone’s identity, orientation, fetishes, lustings and longings and
Hailee Steinfeld has a song about playing with herself.. But in like 1986, forget coming out or being
trans – you would get bullied like a motherfucker just for whacking off. NOBODY would admit to this, even though
everyone surely was, and some dumbass named Kern cut class to go in the woods
to jerk his dick one time, and the kid got brutalized and mocked so bad, his
parents had to put him in a different school.
He never lived it down. I
remember two bullies getting in my face with the intensity of Harvey Keitel and
Chris Penn one day, fuming and fists clenched, demanding that I swear I’ve
never beat off or they would murder me. Like
I said, it was a joyous era.
But I still wanted mags
and pics of the hotness to support this addiction, but the Playboys and
Penthouses were impossible to come by on any regular basis, and that Bobby dude
soon moved away and thus so did his dad’s cig and porno stache. Along with the Mansion of Models
in my head, I started day-dreaming things like that I’d be on a walk and happen
upon a lost cache of mag porno. Other
kids wanted to be Joe Montana or Barry Bonds, I wanted a stack of dirty
magazines. The swimsuit issue came along
for me then, with its glistening supermodels doing the foot thing and wet boobs
and pretty hair, and through my mid-teens this became an absolute must. It actually sort of replaced nudity as the
principal obsession. Like the
nonexistent girls that still lived in my head, these models had Little
Personalities and sexy Names! – Names!
Paulina! Elle! Stephanie!
They were my Little Buddies and I definitely incorporated them in
fictionalized form into my daydreams, plus the relative tameness of ogling
bikinis and legs and sandy feet melded nicely with my judgmental Catholic boy
superstitions and movie-loser delusions about fame and cult of
personality.
Speaking of
magazines, and movies, and VHS, I was a little movie nerd like I said, and
would always get this magazine called “Video Review.” It would have little capsule reviews of what
was out on video, and little articles about the EXCITING HIGH TECH WORLD of VHS
HEAD CLEANERS, about coaxial cables, about some rumored SUPER VHS technology
that would truly be the dawn of a new age.
Mostly a tech wonk mag that you’d see that embarrassing HEY PADRON! Guy
from Videodrome reading, but I liked it, especially when I realized it had this
special SEALED SECTION in the back. “Why
whatever could be in here”,” I wondered.
If you didn’t crack the seal, you’d be none the wiser, hence why my
parents would buy it for me…but lo and behold it was ads for – gasp – VHS
porn. Woooooah. The ads were careful to put little stars on
the nipples and such, but they promised a World of Adventure – I was shaking
and nervous reading the titles like “Lez Be Friends” and what that could
possibly entail. All that vintage
mid-80s headband and tube socks type porno that probably had Two Quarts North and
Ginger whoever, filmed a hazy “Mike’s Murder” coke haze, Porno. This
was some next-level shit.
Yet somehow I still –
still – didn’t really realize that actual porno would should a dick going into
the vag. I was such a goob I figured it
was naked chicks hopping around or doing light kissing or something. Absolute idiot. I was like 16 by then and had figured out how
to rig the manual channel tracking on the top of my VCR that scrambled Cinemax
would show up in snowy black-and-white with no sound. It was this way that I watched some late-night
Euro Skinemax gems like “Fiona,” “Young Lady Chatterly,” the Emmanuelles, and
my personal fave, “Island of 1000 Delights,” which was absolutely filthy and had
this lesbian scene on a beach that I wanted to will myself into like Chris
Reeve in “Somewhere in Time.” Somehow in
’88 I browbeat my folks into subscribing to Showtime – get this – because
otherwise I could never have a 3-to-a-tape VHS recording of fucking “STAKEOUT”
because HBO didn’t have the rights. This
was like literally a pressing, emotional concern of mine at age 15. Anyway, Showtime had their own version of
Skinemax’s fare, and late night Saturdays soon became a prime era to whack the
dick electric to more ‘70s naughty fare that usually had a British bobby in
fast-motion or that weird Casanova movie with Tony Curtis and a bunch of
Playmates.
To slide back to real
life, this was now getting closer to 11th and 12th grade,
and in fairness to myself I somehow was FAR less of an inept loser by the
latter high school years. I’d worked up
a little comedy persona that won over most, if not, all of the jocks, and with
a few exceptions the bullying had really subsided. I traded in the coke bottles for contacts,
and looked like something approaching a functional high school kid circa
1989-90. Even started having female friends, especially this
chick I’ll call Jody who I went full-on over-the-moon for. Of course I was friendzoned but didn’t remotely
realize it, in my infinite inexperience I assumed I was the love of her life
and we were “just like Harry and Sally!” or something, and we hung out in her
house together a couple times watching MTV until her asshole lawyer dad who
looked EXACTLY like that motherfucker from the “Cradle of Love” video would
come home and throw me out.
Of course this was
short-lived as she started inviting her big-sized camp-hag pal and my INDIAN
BOZO ROLLING PARTNER along on our adventures, since in her rational mind we
were just pals, and frankly she was on and off with some Marlboro Lights
100s-smoking preppy god who had a brief stint in rehab because he couldn’t take
the pressure of being TOO GOOD AT EVERYTHING, guy was a walking John Hughes
character. I remember thinking me and
Jody had a “date!” together to go see fucking Alan Alda in “Betsy’s Wedding,”
but at the last minute she suggests we invite the Indian Bozo along and make it
a group scene, then doubles down by having him sit between me and her as I’m in
fucking ALDA AGONY, and as slow on the uptake as I am about everything, even my
idiot ass sussed this one out that this great love was not meant to be. I think I had one more conversation with her
where I embarrassed myself royalty, and from there it was a fucking
Gettysburg-worthy retreat from the comparative pain of reality back to punching
the fucking cork like Fast Times Reinhold to my imaginary swimsuit girlfriends
Showtime tits and fantasies where I not only could command pussy, but I had the
fucking General costume to prove it.
Was bummed and
dejected about this through most of senior year, especially since my “posse,”
such as it was, were all starting to date these really cool chicks, and I was
always fifth-wheeling like the clown, striking out when I tried, and in the
last few months of that year I remember already drifting apart pretty good from
my little crew. I just wanted to move to
L.A. to be a
comedian, but because I’m a pussy first and foremost, I wanted to please my folks who desperately
demanded I get a proper four-year college education, which we all know is the
cornerstone of every great famous actor and comic.
I ended up that fall
as a motherfucking COMMUTER at the University
of Pittsburgh. Right from
Semester One I started noticing I was riding a bus and going home nights to
work as a grocery cashier in my PAISLEY SHIRTS and Dockers, I was hanging out
with high school kids thinking I was The Fonz but was really The Douche, and the nadir of my life came one December
weekend (I believe the one where Last Boy Scout was released) that was
officially Christmas break and on Friday night I was drinking a case of Coors
in THE WOODS with a bunch of 15- and 16-year-olds, and the next night my BROS
who’d gone away for college all called an Applebee’s meetup, and they’re
regaling me with TALES OF THE VAG that sounded right out of a Phil Kaufman movie….
And my comeback is that I finally had TWO VCRs and was able to make a faded
copy of GOLDFINGER I’d rented. This guy
Phil and this guy Scott who’d been total losses when we were in HS suddenly had
college girlfriends and made it sound like they’d just wander the dorm and
behind each unlocked door was a different waiting 1991-hotness chick taking the
D as Sad But True played and the Jack and the jizz flowed in equal measure.
This was when
WHACKING OFF became less a “hopeful fun someday somehow” sunny fantasy of a
LIFE I WOULD SURELY LEAD, to a LIFE THAT WAS PASSING ME BY. I still had hope that I’d ride out this
MISERABLE FUCKING COMMUTER LIFE, but each visit home in the SNOW-OPP-USE YOUR
ILLUSION era from the increasingly distant posse was a gong resounding what a
lonely pathetic worm I’d become.
It’s almost a fucking
footnote that somewhere around here in 1992 I finally kinda sorta got some makeout
NECKING (ooh! See ya at the sock hop!) and light petting action fumbling around
in my fogged-up K-Car from some chick in an event so low-rent I had to ask her
to hold off making out one more minute so I could finish a fucking Skoal Mint
Chew Dip. But that wasn’t what I wanted,
which by now was MAGAZINE PORN and HUSTLER and HIGH SOCIETY, and if I wasn’t
meeting any chicks on my daily travails on campus, they had a newsstand and I
was an adult now goddamn it, and while my buddy Scott was off on some campus in
Erie regaling me with stories of how his TWO girlfriends’ pussies tasted
different, I was nervously waiting in lines buying a pack of Marlboro Box with
a squack mag in plain view of every freshman chick who happened by. I would RACE HOME with these glorious
low-rent Hustlers and bust a nut over their incredibly tacky shots of wide-open
vag. And yet, and YET, this is 1992-3,
I’m 19, 20 years old, and to get back to whatever the FUCK I was on about 11
hours ago, I still had never seen video porn.
Never. Not the real stuff. I
still thought MAGAZINES were the height of human eroticism.
I got my first glimpse
of said VIDEO MAJESTY, finally, around age TWENTY YES TWENTY I MEAN TWENTY,
this is the first time I’d ever seen any kind of sex in video form, thanks to
some cipher-like bro Ryan who works at my market as a bagger. His stepdad was some wiry drunk asshole who
looked like Rex Brown who would get all fucked up and roll out and get lost and
wake up in a storm drain or something, so me and this dude and some other rod
Eric who looked like the kid from The Toy despite being 18 are ALWAYS looking
to get our hands on beer. We work up a
Reed/Dirk/Todd plan to just straight-up fucking boost a case from Ryan’s deadbeat
stepdad some night he’s out getting loaded at the dive bar, figuring he
wouldn’t notice it or remember. We’re in
this wood-paneled eminently West View PGH dumpy house, I got a case of warm
Coors in my hands and we’ve almost gotten away with it when Ryan offhands,
“Hey, my stepdad has some pornos, you guys gotta see this!” Even the fucking spazz from The Toy-looking
dweeb was like “Eh, let’s just go get fucked up” but I heard a HEAVENLY CHOIR
AND THE CLOUDS PARTING and at AGE 20 was BOUNCING AROUND A FUCKING SOFA going
“Put it in! Put it in!” And dead-voiced
Yinzer throws in some cassette from a HUGE FUCKING BOX, I mean those old porno
boxes were way bigger than even the MGM HOME VIDEO BOX that like YEAR OF THE
DRAGON came in, and hits play and the first thing I see is some dude’s HUGE
FUCKING COCK, just an EPIC FUCKING LOOFAH LOOKING HOLMESIAN COCK and on cue it
BLOWS A LOAD, like jizz flying fucking everywhere, I’m then basically the same
age as MATT DAMON, MARK WAHLBERG, BEN AFFLECK, DREW BARRYMORE, and COREY
FELDMAN were, and I’m like SCREAMING IN A WHINY VOICE in Pittsburgh
Pennsylvania, “It’s a COCK! OH MY GOD HE’S SHOOTING CUM! OH MY GOD THEY’RE
SHOWING A COCK!” Like my voice went up
nineteen octaves high in a shrill squeal, COULDN’T BELIEVE THAT THERE WERE
MOVIES THAT SHOWED JIZZ, which was blasting all over some tacky DD tits. My mind, at age 20, was FUCKING BLOWN that
they made movies that showed THE ACTUAL SEX ACT (er, a load), I was wholly
unprepared for the view of GENITALIA, had no idea that was what PORNO
entailed. Almost on cue, the dude’s
stepdad barged in and I’m standing there shrieking like a bitch and Ryan has
the sense to shut the fucking TV off, and drunk-ass Stepdad has a Winston
dangling in his Chevy ballcap and goes “Heh, heh, heh, you boys doing some
drinkin’?” then shuffles off to pass out.
I don’t have the
nerve to still steal the beer, but next phone call with SCOTT FROM PENN STATE
BEHREND, I’ve finally got a STORY WORTH BRAGGING ABOUT! “Oh, my God, man, I watched some PORNO! THEY SHOWED A DICK! YOU ACTUALLY SEE THE DUDE SHOOTING
SPERM!” (Guarantee I said SPERM even at
that age.) This dude’s been eating
pussy like a fucking Michael Douglas champ for a year-plus and my big brag is I
saw SEMEN EMITTING on a VHS tape. I have
finally seen pornography as a grown adult mere months from legal drinking
age. I didn’t even really see the chick,
or the chick taking a dick, or the vag in closeup, or the anal I’ve been
curious to see for a fucking decade in the goddamn fucking general costume of
my mind….. My first porno, in my third year of college, was seeing a random
dick shooting jizz for 11 seconds. With
both my hands clutching a case of beer.
From here I
absolutely needed to see THE FULL ACT – aka, like, you know, a fucking chick,
on a video screen, getting fucked or doing super-hot-lesbianism or something,
like the ads of VIDEO REVIEW had promised oh those many years ago. I started CRUiSING TOWN like a fucking
creeper surveilling magazine stands and out-of-town newspaper shops downtown
that promised the VIDEO BOOTHS or whatever like it was the days of THE HOWLING
and CRUISING. Again, I sure was never
good-looking in life, but if there was EVER an era where I was passably human
looking with a working head of hair, it was the 90s, and instead of going to
college events on campus or chatting up NotAlexandraPaul in the library, I was
PROWLING THE NIGHT like fucking LIGHT SLEEPER in the quest of not actual pussy
or hookers or company or a girlfriend or a nice girl with a friendly smile whom
I could see as human, but rather…. A fucking BIG OVERSIZED VHS CASE that might
have shots of girls’ assholes and lesbian stuff. I was consumed by this, picturing blonde
girls all naked with bare feet doing insane porno stuff, I’d go downtown and
stake a place out in Ferrara Sheen with my head down like I was scoring a fix,
roll in, and get intimidated by some Spinell-looking asshole and stalk out in a
hurry. On MCKNIGHT ROAD they had some
video store with a porn section, I got all emboldened one day and STODE IN like
Wasson in Body Double, only to come face-to-face with a Female Employee. I went through the saloon doors like an idiot
then realized this, doubled back and, for reasons I’ve never understood, asked
for a job application. She’s all
incredulous, “You want a job here?” I confirmed yes, God knows why, and she
slapped down an application all “I don’t think we’re hiring, but whatever,” and
like a dumbass I filled out a fucking job application complete with personal
info to a jack-vid store instead of just
buying some tapes or racing out. They
never called me back.
The by-now
anticlimactic (ZING) last act of all this came (ZING!) in late 1994, they’d
bumped me up to PRODUCE MAN (GREEN SUITS COMIN’!) mostly because the
chain-smoking, hard-drinking asshole Zubaz-wearing alpha-male stock guys and
managers loathed me and were trying to Gaslight me into quitting the
supermarket job where I’d dandy in like a bitch bragging about how I was the
next Tom Hanks, despite wearing wire-rims and rocking size 38 waist black
Levi’s in suburban fucking Pittsburgh for the fifth year going. At the very least they’d try sticking me in
BAKERY and DELI where I’d be far the fuck away from the “cool guys” in
stock. I was such a monumental fucking
douche, but by now the RAGE LEVEL was at an all-time high, I was 21 and never
getting laid, was starting to go to STRIP CLUBS by my SELF, prime of my life just
a fucking dork, this was also the last year I was clinging on to METAL!, trying
to browbeat GROCERY BAGGERS still in TENTH GRADE into going to metal shows with
me even though I would show up in shit like a fucking gay-ass SALMON COLORED
DRESS SHIRT (SO METAL). The other
produce guys were this hate-filled burnout named Gary who looked like Andy
Richter and hated me, especially since I was lazy and depressed and a whiny
bitch and wouldn’t stack the potatoes right;
This fat Italian awesome mook named Dom who looked like the fat kid from
EVERY aforementioned ‘80s tit-flick and who I’d occasionally grab a brew
with; And this disco-ed out weirdo
called THE REFT – I don’t know, I think his last name was Reft – who rocked
CHAINS and BIG COLLARS and the closest approximation was that swingin’ douche
in FRIDAY THE 13TH PART V who did coke while waiting on the waitress
he was hoping to fuck in his car. THE
REFT was total Pittsburgh pure-comedy buffoon and would BAG ON ME mercilessly in
his thick stupid fucking accent, especially once he found out that at age 21,
four years into college, I was still a virgin.
I’m going for an English Lit minor and Film Studies major and whipping
up these incisive analyses of cinematic thematics through the prism of
contemporary American politics and Marxism and The Revenge of the Repressed an
the Mulvey Gaze and ALL that bullshit, but come dayjob time I got this
cock-of-the-walk Pittsburgh fucking shithead calling me a “fag”and pointing
fingers even though he’s a 46-year-old man with a Dawn of the Dead accent
packing strawberries on the shrink wrap machine.
Around this time (OJ
era, for the record) I’m doing movie extra
work and trying to network to set up some opportunities for when I GRADUATE
COLLEGE in a few months so I can move to Los Angeles…..but then facing epic
shit from this Reft asshole come day, and he’s telling EVERYONE IN THE STORE
I’m a virgin and shooting RUBBER BANDS at my dick. Again this fucking moron was pushing like
fucking 50. Produce is right by floral
department and some AWESOME blonde chick actually is kind of ALL ABOUT the
Lexman BLACK JEANS GREEN COAT COMBO and likes the HAPLESS DORK VIBE and we’re always hanging out when the Three
Losers are taking a powder, and one time she teases my dick in the cooler
(pretty sure I got some precum on some poor sap’s fucking cabbage) and FUCKING
REFT rolls in like an asshole and cockblocks me at my finest hour as this girl
was letting me dry hump her ass crack in a moment I replay every fucking HOUR
of my life. Idiot fucking REFT rolls in
and shuts it down and I spazz out like fucking CUCKOO’S NEST DOURIF by way of
Ray Babbit slapping his head, going off on this fucking cocksucker like he just
took away all I got and all I was ever gonna have.
Actually went off on
the guy so bad he backtracked and, knowing of my lack of pussy and complete
obsession with said topic, starting talking up some PORNO TAPR he had. WOO-HOO,
this guy had PORNO. Imagine how fucking
absurd in the world of 2016 that sounds, some absolute mind-blowing asshole
mortal enemy you fucking hate, and he seeks to smooth over the bad blood by
giving you a spank-vid from his VHS collection.
Fucking monumentally insane to even conceive of now, you’re all, we’re
all two clicks away from seeing any and every fetish and fever dream we could
ever concoct in our wildest fantasies, but the idea of a VHS PORNO was still –
still – so fucking verboten and supernatural that YEARS after everyone my age
was knee-deep in pussy, I still wanted to see FEMALE NAKED BODIES IN A VHS
PORNO SHOWING THEIR VAG. And he had me
hooked from the jump, I was like “It better have lesbianism! It better have
female assholes!” and he fucking milked that, “Oh you better believe it does!”
and I was SHAKING, FUCKING SHAKING at the thought that all these years later,
of dreams and fantasies and images and movies and softcore and Euro fake porn
and some Indian asshole stealing my girlfriend who had no fucking idea she was
my girlfriend, all of it, ALL OF IT, came down to this slimy, strawberry-slicing
fucking jagoff in his ill-fitting green coat with his promise of porn oblivion.
“So it’s all girl?” I asked.
“No, it’s about this
guy, Rocco,” he replied. Rocco? Who the fuck is Rocco? Plus he made it sound like a fucking biopic. THE ROCCO STORY. Had no idea who that asshole might be, but he
assured me despite the presence of a GUY WITH A DICK, which I’d seen before,
there’d be plenty of female masturbation and lesbians and assholes and tits and
feet and the other fucking thing. I
needed this tape now now now now now also? Now. Also now.
Like the true
gentleman he was, this fucking asshole shows up with a blank black VHS cassette
the next day, no labels, no case, nothing.
I’m TWENTY-ONE YEARS OLD and shivering while snapping up this glazed chocolate
donut of a VHS that this idiot SURELY RUBBED HIS DICK ALL OVER just to fuck
me. Speed home in Liotta Vision with the
Nilsson practically playing in my head, fantasizing about what lesbionic
majesty was in my grip.
Raced into the door
and, lo and behold, in a striking contrast from the 1986 days of
pause-rewinding “Porky’s Revenge,” Ma has taken an unexpected day off from work
and has decided to delight me by whipping up some spaghetti for her son. Ma’s all “Can you get out the Parmesan
cheese? It’ll be ready in 10 minutes, go wash up, and I race down to the GAME
ROOM to slap this fucking GLORY into the VHS, knowing my SPAGHETTI BONANZA is
almost ready, and it’s this porno called “ROCCO UNLEASHED.” Title comes on and this dead-eyed Italian
cipher who looks like Troy Aikman on downers is strolling around in some
establishing footage, I’m pounding on the FF button with pre-ejaculate in full
effect, then a minute in, some NAKED CHICK is playing with her vag and I’m like
WOAH WOAH WOAH and with a 2/3 limp dick FULL ON BLAST A LOAD into my jeans
before Rocco so much as starts fucking.
This was a moment a decade in the making. I came in my pants over a chick rubbing her
vag then went up, hosed down, and couldn’t wait to see what erotic glories were
contained past the 2 minute mark.
Turns out it was
Rocco fucking 10 or 12 chicks in an apparent stupor, and after all this time I
had my dream in my hands…. Of watching some zonked-out cipherous idiot fuck a
bunch of chicks on my TV set. I still
watched the tape again and again, and a real highlight of ‘ROCCO UNLEASHED” is
near the end when GOD ROCCO is balls deep in a haze fucking one of the chicks
and kinda glazes over then a light bulb goes off and he deadpans, “Hey! Who’s
the chick who wanted to get fucked in the ass?”
And he proceeds to fuck some chick in the ass. As long as I live, I’ll never get to utter
those glorious words or that glorious command outside of my late-night
daydreams in my general costume. It took
21 years just to WATCH a chick getting fucked in the ass, I’m now pushing 44
and this seems to never actually be on the horizon of occurring in my real
life.
I finally drove
across the country the first of two times to make it as an actor in late 1995
through early 1996. I brought the Rocco
tape with me, but never ended up in a motel with VCR capability, so I
backtracked a half-decade and spanked to some fashion ad with Christy
Turlington in a West Covina Motel 6 as the Rocco tape fried in the San Gabriel
Valley heat in my trunk. When I failed
to get famous and drove home to Pennsylvania
in 1996, Rocco and the gals made the trip back with me, and got a few more
horned-up views as I wasted away that summer prepping to go back and take L.A. by storm. When I eventually did that winter, I decided
it was time to put immature things behind, and found myself at some white-trash
K-Mart dumpster where I tossed “Rocco Unleashed” in, but not until after I
pulled out a healthy amount of VHS cassette tape and broke it off lest anyone
ever see the forbidden treasure contained on it. The magnetic tape wound around my knuckles
and I snapped it with shame and embarrassment and yet a certain anticipation
that the things held on said cassette would one day be a reality for me.
