Well, here we are back again, and damn if my brain isn't still working, after having abused it at a real movie theater. The results of this rare visit to the Little Art Theatre are in this issue.
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Well, here we are back again, and damn if my brain isn't still working, after having abused it at a real movie theater. The results of this rare visit to the Little Art Theatre are in this issue.
Marcelle Karp has been generous to the max (not that Max) and has let us reprint her interview with Nina Hartley from Bust Magazine;
Vern Frazer has bared his soul and given us another one handed adventure;
Lance Drake is sharing with us how and why he makes films;
Lisa B. Falour has another journey to the past (My Back Pages by Lisa B. Falour);
Tammy Cole has sat through Bad Wives without reaching for a bar of Lux;
and Spence has taken apart her toys and shared the results in Crackers! by Spence
Also: It's All Over Now Bunny Bleu
by Richard Freeman ,
Kelly Nichols Filmography by Richard Freeman
All rights revert to our authors!
We still have an ungodly number of adult videos littering up the basement, now that I'm busy reviewing for two publications, Adult Cinema Review and Video Xcitement. Hey meester, you wanna buy some pro, pro-am, amateur, girl/girl, and films that only Jef Hickey would dare to send me!
Help us reduce our debt by ordering some at the ridiculously low price of $5/tape + $5 s&h/order. We have a few CD Roms at $10 a throw. Don't just sit there, sit there an do something.
Checks should be made out to Richard Freeman and all correspondence can be sent to me at:
130 W. Limestone St.
Yellow Springs, OH 45387
I was born in 1961 in Oakland, Californai, was raised in Berkeley, I am the youngest of four children, the others 7, 9 and 11 years older than me. I'm the child of left liberal parents. My father was blacklisted by the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1957, so my mother was the primary breadwinner, as a chemist and statistician for the state of California. From the time I was 6 weeks old I was left in the care of our housekeeper, every day, till I was 7, and then my father stayed home. He was a househusband and an author. My mother continued to work. When I was 13 she quit her job and they went and started studying Zen Buddhism full-time. Now my mother is an Abbott of the San Francisco Zen center and my father is a priest. They just had their 50th wedding anniversary.
My mother is from Alabama (the Jewish branch of the family is from Alabama). I don't know how many of your Jewish readers know, but actually there is a substantial population of Jews in the southern United States exclusive of Miami.
The blacklisting made my father unsuitable for any well-paying jobs. He went from being a well respected radio announcer in San Francisco--at the same time as Herb Caen (you may have heard of him), they had a friendly rivalry going. He never really recovered from that. He lost his job in '57. My whole childhood, he was dealing with depression in the aftermath of losing his livelihood. My mother never expected to be a primary breadwinner, and I think, part of her really resented going back to work full-time when I was just 6 weeks old. She really wanted to do this last kid properly. My mother was an early explorer.
From the time I was 6 till the time I was 10 they tried sitting meditation, primal scream therapy, encounter therapy, Tai Chi, massage, some good basic Freudian therapy--all this time my parents were searching for ways to deal with their pain. When I was 10 when they found Zen and have been doing it ever since.
My mother was the primary breadwinner, but never wanted to be. She was in a very male dominated field, science, partly because her brain worked that way, and partly because her father was a mathematician and she wanted to please him. She was supposed to be born a boy. They already had a girl, and I think that definitely influenced the choice of her profession. Had she been left to her own devices she wouldn't necessarily have chosen mathematics.
It's only been recently that I feel I could become friends with my family. I've felt very isolated and alone, and left to my own devices. My siblings were pretty much gone. We weren't a very warm family to begin with, for lots of different reasons, and my parents were very caught up in their own suffering, and their own need for answers, and their own search; and I was the good little quiet passive aggressive sitting in a corner, just watching everything.
It was the '60s. I had Barbie dolls, and I had to wear dresses to school. They weren't consciously trying to raise me gender neutral. I saw my father do a lot of housework and he was a wonderful cook, and my mother was also good in the kitchen. It's one skill I really value. I'm very glad I have it. It's one of the few traditional female skills I have 'cause I sure as hell don't clean house. I'm a pig. I'm Virgo's nightmare. I'm a very Piscean personality.
The main thing I got from my mom about gender... you have to understand this was the late '60s early '70s, and that's when the radical feminist thoughts were just being promulgated and talked about. Berkeley was one of the beginning places of that. So in term of gender issues that I got fed through this crucial age--my mother was still going through her "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it any more" phase, and I realize I carry a distrust, judgment and anger towards the male gender in general. I see that as part of the wrong-headiness of the early feminist movement.
You had to express it, of course. You had to feel it. But the invective hurled at men just carte blanche was really quite destructive. Her projection at the time, in her anger with men and her struggle with sexuality, was really getting put on me in a very non-verbal way. I realize now I definitely harbor some anti-male attitudes I never realized I had until very recently; until I realized I wasn't gender neutral.
But there were gender issues. The state conspires to keep people alienated and unhappy and at each other's throat. This way they can't/won't look at the real purveyors of harm and evil which are the part of the population that controls 89% of the wealth. Hello.
But the two big things where I believe the early feminist movement got lost, were creating this monster of objectification, and also in not realizing that most men are victims of patriarchy, as well. Actually, because of our pussies, women are given tremendous tools for getting their own out of the patriarchy, if they're willing to use it. I'm not saying it should be that way, but I'm saying it is.
We had an unwillingness to listen to men's suffering once we discovered our own. We weren't going to listen to anybody. As I got older it became quite upsetting to me, and I realized this isn't good. We have to get past this. Somebody has to be the nurturer in our culture. Somebody has to be able to take care of the hurt feelings. I started feeling tired of being resentful of men in my life. It's wearing me down even without giving up anything of myself.
I do realize that it's not a bad thing to embrace lovingness. Firmness but lovingness, instead of feelings of pettiness, or that you're owed something by men. Most guys our age are as clueless as women are. They're walking around wondering what the hell is going on, and how they're gonna fit into the gender roles, and most of them don't benefit from the patriarchy any more than we do. I think we really have to start looking at issues....racism is still very strong.
For me, my big rant with the feminist movement these days is that if they cannot legitimatize the existence of sex work as a playing field, we will not get anywhere. We have to stop making sex a battlefield. We have to stop making pleasure and having fun and procreation and getting nasty and getting horny and getting randy, or getting whatever, the enemy, because even if I wasn't in the sex biz I'd still be a sex radical. If I were doing it as a dedicated amateur I'd still be a swinger. I'd still be a bisexual. I'd still be a femme top. I'd still be an exhibitionist. I'd still be a little bit of a pagan, even if I wasn't making a living out of it.
So many of the old wave feminists are shown to be humorless, joyless, and there's truth to it. I'm someone who grew up in the middle of it. Every family member I have is a dedicated intellectual and social radical--and there is a distinct lack of joy, humor, and lightness. And I realize that comes from their issues around sexuality and prudishness. So I really think the feminists of today would do very well to embrace a little more of the sex radicalism, the ultimate sex positiveness in their own lives. It helps you reach joy and understanding, letting go of the anger. If you can cultivate pleasure and joy in your life, and if it happens to be from sex, so much the better.
There've been tons and tons of books about it. I recommend Elaine Pagels' Adam, Eve And The Serpent, certainly When God Was A Woman, The Chalice And The Blade, and The Mists Of Avalon. The need to control the population by controlling sex goes back very very far, and it certainly is not singular to the Judeo-Christian tradition. The fear, and understanding the power of sex, goes back millennia; and the sheer power of female sexuality and the way it can make men do strange things, and make them act bizarrely against their better interests, and the way it takes their strength and leaves them sapped, and this wonderfulness of it all... To control population you have to control the outlet.
And once the patriarchy was established--which happened, as far as I can tell, once men realized the issue of paternity, and started being fruitful, and started building cultural surpluses and larger population bases--the need to know the parentage of the child became more and more important.
Carol Queen had a lot of things to say about the power of sex and so has Pat Califia--and its place and power. I stumbled upon one such book when I was 14, and it saved my life. If the culture can keep a woman alienated from her body, from the sensations--the anger, the pleasure, the passion, and the aliveness; from it all--they can keep you off balance. They can keep you uncomfortable. And they can keep you scared. And if they keep you scared and not conformable with your body, then they can have you by the nose with the brass ring. They can lead you anywhere. So the harnessing of sexual energy, the social-control, is extremely conscious and deliberate, and goes back a long long way till we have no records of it any more.
Sex is enlightening. Sex, sexual pleasure, orgasm are altered states of consciousness, and the reality is that you can achieve that ecstatic moment that we usually call religion through sexual pleasure. You can beat your body till you have visions and hallucinations; you can fast till you have visions and hallucinations; you can purify the flesh till you have visions and hallucinations; you can masturbate till you have visions and hallucinations of god and oneness and love and everything.
Once you create a certain level of nerve ending sensations of the body and in the right way, it will trigger expanded consciousness, altered states of being, and visions. It doesn't matter how you do it--psychedelics, alcohol, chanting, spinning dervishing-- whatever. It all gets you to the same place. And the reality is that once a woman knows that pleasure, that goddess is at the end of her arm; anytime she can swing her hand in front of her crotch and whoops there it is, she can find god anytime she wants. It's really easy. Let's see: teddy bears, folded blankets, jellies, washing machines, Jacuzzi jets, vibrators, cunnilingus, fucking--ooh lots of things can do it. And you can't control the population when they realize they don't need all that shit to be happy. You just have to open yourself up and allow it to come in.
It's a very Zen thing. You can't get things from other people. You're always as enlightened as you need to be. It's already in you. Sex is already meditation, and pleasure as well. Annie Sprinkle talks about it a lot in her Sluts And Goddess video--she demonstrates a 5 minute orgasm, just keeping that peak going. It's quite tremendous. I can't do it. It's pretty amazing. So women are denied pleasure because pleasure is very very powerful, very very potent. It lets you see clearly, it lets you become radicalized, it lets you see through the bullshit; and also makes you powerful, makes you confident in your sexuality. You no longer fear men. You're no longer at their mercy when you understand what it is.
When I was 20, I really feared and was uncomfortable around the sexuality of 21 year old men. I grew up in a time that said one hand sex is very natural...Joy Of Sex and all the books of the early '70s, all the way to Susan Brownmiller saying "every man will rape you if they could," and what I've found through my life is that it was all based on a fear and mistrust of lust. A feeling that sex was icky; that men and their cum was distasteful; and that need and desire and urgency was something to be condemned. And that's just Victorian prudishness to its highest degree.
The more I am comfortable with my skin, the more I am comfortable with flesh, the more I am comfortable with my sexuality the less threatening men are; because I understand it now. I look at 21 year old men and go "Is that all it was? That's so sweet" cuz no one ever told me, "put your hand on it. They'll calm down in five minutes. It's no big deal." And it turned out as I got old you could put your hand on it, they calmed down, it's no big deal; and men stopped being so scary to me because I stopped being scared of sex.
Because I had sex. It was nothing they gave me. Nothing they did to me. It's something I did. And that was a powerful moment when I finally figured that out. I got the first edition of Our Bodies Ourselves for my 13th birthday, when I had my first period, and it was the most powerful book I've ever read, next to Sex For One.
This interview first appeared, in different form, in Marcelle's magazine, Bust. Nina will continue in next month's BNI. You can order the best of women's magazines for $14 a year from P.O. Box 319, Ansonia Station, NYC, NY 10023.
by Richard Freeman
I went to see Boogie Nights, looking at it as a nearsighted historian, rather than as a film critic, trying to see what might be true, historically, if not histrionically. As a porn critic, I am only allowed, by my union, to review North Hollywood films. Of course, I wasn't in Chatsworth in 1978, so I don't really know what was going on there. I don't even remember those post-Nixon years. Due to a lack of drug taking in my placid youth, I have no flashbacks whatsoever of anything that's happened in America over the past 30 years. For all I know, nothing has happened in America since the fall of Nixon and Saigon, though there has been a certain amount of hair loss on my part. Perhaps there have been advances made in implant therapy.
I do know, however, where some of the scenes in Boogie Nights were lifted from. One scene, where Kyoto sneaks up on Johnny Wadd when he's in bed, supposedly asleep, and tries to Bobbitt him, is from China Cat. There's another Johnny Wadd scene that I remember, from China Cat or Exhausted, where a woman positively identifies Johnny when she sees his penis. It was an easy penis to identify. Paula Jones probably watched that movie, as well. And then there's a borrowing from Jamie Gillis and Rene Morgan in On The Prowl, picking up men from off the streets of San Francisco and taking them for rides in their stretch limo. Mothers never warn little boys about that sort of thing, apparently. Burt Reynolds does a nice job of play by play announcing, but he's no Jamie Gillis...or even John Kennedy.
There are probably other Johnny Wadd scenes I missed (I'm only a nearsighted porn historian, and I don't get to take Bill Margold or Jim Holliday to the movies with me), and I'm sadly not in the loop for all of the great gossip that doesn't make it into Adult Video News, otherwise, I'd share it all with our readers.
So I simply don't know about the cocaine usage in Boogie Nights...if there was that much back in the '70s...but I know, from watching Inside Edition, the profession of the man whom Shauna Grant was living with before she died, so it wasn't surprising to see the character Little Cinderella played, OD on coke in that movie. I'm sure that some husbands shoot their wives (don't they always, even in Ohio), and I remember the suicide of Cal Jammer, so I'm just glad, being unusually squeamish when it doesn't come to sex, that I didn't have to actually see Nina Hartley get shot (real life does include the tragedy of the Mitchell Brothers).
One of the vividest scenes in Boogie Nights was the attempted robbery of the drug dealer, after trying to sell him a bag of baking soda--what with firecrackers going off, and the crack addled dealer singing along with some truly awful songs (the best music to my ears in the film was some early Chico Hamilton--great to know someone still remembers his Pacific Jazz sides) before everyone involved either gets shot at or shot.
But this pales in comparison with John Holmes' real involvement in the murders of his friends, that Tammy Cole wrote about in BNI--a case that began with robbery and kidnapping, and probably ended with John having to watch his friends being battered to death in front of his eyes. The hero of Boogie Nights, unlike John, does not end up in jail for over a year, awaiting his trial for first degree murder.
There were directors living in the Valley who threw parties every Saturday night that, I'm told, were probably wilder than anything shown in Boogie Nights. I almost wish I could have been there, though I never go to parties. If I were a party animal, I'd most resemble a dormouse.
But oh, if only they had dared to shoot real sex, and show it...this would have been a great porn film, true or untrue. But Hollywood just had to substitute pistol shots for pop shots. It needs to be remade, but I fear there's no chance of that. The theater was empty enough as is, not more than 8 or 10 people... perfect seating for raincoaters, only there was no need to bring a raincoat.
It was nice seeing Summer and Skye in a tub (though their scene was so quick, I almost missed them, as I did miss seeing Tony Tedeschi at a party, and Lexi Leigh...I'll check them out when I watch the videotape version)...and I didn't twig to Ronnie Hart being the judge till I read the end credits. One reason I don't ordinarily go to the movies is that I can't rewind them. I can barely understand porn movies with plots if I watch them only once through. I'm post literate, but pre-video.
A few minor things from those golden days of yesteryear were certainly missing. Although one character goes to jail for having a young girl OD on coke at his house, there was nothing in the film about any of the real heat back then from the law...heat for just shooting porn; arrests for no other reason than to show that the law was still the law, and America was still the land of the free and the home of the brave. There was nothing about Hal Freeman taking on our criminal justice system, fighting to show that acting in porn was not the same thing as being a prostitute. The only judge in sight in Boogie Nights is Veronica Hart, and she was deciding a custody fight.
Bobby Hollander, who was there, says that while some of the scenes in Boogie Nights may have happened, they were almost always put at the wrong time in the wrong order, and that most of what did happen was missing. I'm sure he's right. Hollywood never gets anything quite right, and we are never going to see a real history of porn on film, unless someone in the Valley goes insane and decides to turn history into porn.
We are never going to read a complete, uncensored history, either, I fear. I can't write one, and those who can, aren't about to do so. Though how to write an all-inclusive work about an industry that cranks out 6-10,000 videos a year--the stories from 50,000 sets--would challenge a Gibbon, who merely had to write about a thousand or so years of the Roman Empire.
And we are certainly not going to get the story of who made how much money, and where the money went, as fascinating at it would be to know; let alone where the bodies were buried. Like any semi-underground business, from Joseph Kennedy's bootlegging to Pro Wrestling, the truth must never be told. The statute of limitations doesn't run out for certain crimes! Reuben Sturman died in jail, without telling anything he knew.
And what would an historiane have as resource material? A thousand sound alike interviews, where every woman loves to do anal, loves to do girls, loves... and ten interviews with men. There must be a million strange and wonderful stories, and I wish I could print them all in BNI, but I don't know them. When dealing with sex, everything can be shown, but nothing can be told. In this, film resembles life!
Jim Holliday and Bill Margold did give us an outline history of the industry in three excellent comic books, with some of their appreciations and opinions of various stars and movies, but there is still so much terra incognita to be filled in.
We don't get autobiographies of porn stars, Jerry Butler to the contrary, we get Carnal comic books. And how real are those stories?
I don't doubt for a second that Bunny Bleu put tacks on her teacher's chair, shot spitballs in class, and made farting noises with her arm pits; and perhaps her brother's friend did teach her how to give a blow job (in a juvenile sort of way), so why shouldn't she have done anal with him, to prevent pregnancy? And I can believe that she had sex the "Right Way" on the bathroom floor with an employee of her father, after drinking a bottle of cheap wine, after which her new boy friend ended up breaking her dad's nose.
What is there to doubt?
Bunny was 16, and running away with her nose-breaking friend, when, at the Pussycat Theater in North Hollywood, she saw her first porno with Seka and Ron Jeremy (but did she really go across the street afterwards and do it in the grass?). Two years later, she got married and went to World Modeling for a job, and the next thing she knew, she was doing a scene with three dykes (or reasonable facsimiles thereof) for Bruce Seven (Aerobisex Girls, perhaps?) Her first straight sex scene was a Golden Girls loop with the hedgehog (possibly to be found on Golden Girls Vol. 26). I wouldn't wonder if she did, "Feel like a slut! The makeup lady put all this blue eye makeup on me, bright red lip stick, cheap lingerie..." But did she really fuck around with Ron afterwards, gratis, in the shower? Does Bunny really "love it when a guy cums on my face! Really! It's enjoyable to see the reaction he has when I lick it all up!" Bunny's husband got killed in a bad drug deal (life resembling Boogie Nights?), and actually went with her dance agent, who didn't want her doing films anymore (I've heard that story before). "I try to get you to tie me up, to fuck me in the ass, and you act like I was the most disgusting person on earth! Thing is when I finally talk you into it, you cum in two minutes! And you sure didn't complain when I brought home another girl for you to fuck!"
Naturally she then married the guy, but divorced him when he got in trouble with the feds and ended up in jail. She got a boob job, touched up her nose and chin, had her hair dyed red--and went back to doing scenes with Ron Jeremy.
Such is life.
So no wonder America will think, if it thinks at all, that Boogie Nights is the real down and dirty history on the industry, though the movie really tells us nothing. It just shows us a few simulated scenes, a few breasts, and one prosthetic cock. It shows us coke abuse, a short conversation about video tape being the future of the industry, several shootouts (though I'm sure, having watched my share of network news from the City of the Angels, that people not in the industry are also blowing each other away daily out there...as a matter of fact, there is a report of an LA shootout on the late news as I type this).
But if one really wants to see stories about actors going on drugs and dying young, it would be better to make a movie about Saturday Night Live (yet another actor from that seems to have died today from suspicious causes).
What I also would be interested in seeing is a history of gay porn. Women's groups never picket gay men's porn...they seem to be unaware that it even exists (unless, like some lesbians I know, straight women are secretly watching it, and hiding this degeneracy from the outside world, the way they do with the subject matter of romance novels). One of the characters in Boogie Nights is supposedly gay, but nothing comes of it, except for an incomplete forward pass. There is no mention of "straight" men doing gay porn, or vice versa in Boogie Nights, though at one point, our young hero gets nearly beaten to death by rednecks because of his inability to get it up in a truck (I suppose that's what that scene means, unless it's just thrown in to counter balance two other violent scenes, as a sort of L.A. Hieronymus Bosch tryptich).
So what we seem to have here is a group of high school dropouts making money to buy clothing and cars, who can't find work after porn. What did happen to the actresses of the '70s when their careers were over? Where is?...fill in your own blank (Rene Bond, where are you?). These were no sexual revolutionaries making porn for fun and profit. No Mitchell Bros. But perhaps any hope of making porn for the avant gard hell of it went out the window when the receipts from Thundercrack were added up.
Did porn stars really dance to disco? I'd hate to think that was true... God could forgive them anything else they did in Boogie Nights. God still thinks that disco was really sick and disgusting. Where was Tipper Gore and the Moms Against Gangsta Rap Krew when that music was going down? You have to use hard drugs to dance to disco for six hours in high heeled shoes, and even then it has a terrible effect on our reptile brain.
Sex, too, can be a dance, but in Boogie Nights, we see that porn sex is more closely resembles ballet. It's technical sex, with unnatural first and second positions; and porn actors and actresses are more like accomplished gymnasts, who can keep their tummies tucked in and their hair out of their faces, while doing reverse cowgirl. It's stylized sex. It demands lubricants like toe shoes demand cotton. Don't try it at home, without serious muscle relaxants at hand--it'll ruin the felt on your pool table!
There was a brief attempt to bring sexdance into video by making porn amateur, but who wants to watch amateur white men try to dance? Instead, we have pro-am, where young women learn to do the sexual ballet, as choreographed by Hardman & Co.
As Balanchine wanted a certain type of body, which couldn't be created without anorexia and an overwhelming love of yogurt and cottage cheese; porn now has a plastic body type that couldn't be created without surgeons and aerobic instructors and physical trainers. This body type was starting to appear by the middle of the '80s (hi again, Summer and Skye), while the '90s have brought us shaved blondes who speak with pierced tongues. I dare not speculate on the 21st Century, and what it has in store for the bodies of tomorrow's teenagers.
What we do need in the next century is a new choreographer, one who can find a way of directing/doing the dance on camera, filming people seemingly having real sex, without having to have it with Ed Powers. And then... but why get started?
So what do we have here? A young man, an innocent dishwasher with a large cock, gets kicked out of his home by a jealous mom, and goes to live with a porn director (who never gets laid) and his house mates. The director wants to make a real porn movie with a real plot--though that is exactly what porn movies were doing in '78-'82. Let it pass. The youngster makes several films, wins awards, buys new shoes, clothes, a bunch of household goods--and a red sports car.
Then he is introduced to coke by one of his house mates, an actress whose husband has taken her child in a divorce action. The coke turns our hero into a raging cokehead, to the point where he can't get an erection (something that happened to John Holmes as well, I'm told, by Jim and Bill). He has a fight with the director, and storms out of his home, and attempts to become a rock singer. He has no voice, but he must sing. After which, he is picked up and given $10 to show his stuff in a truck, and is beaten up by homophobes (but not, luckily for him, by the crowd that beat up Jello Biafra for his "art"), is involved in a bizarre drug deal gone wrong, has his car run out of gas, has an epiphany, and ends up back at the director's house, making films. Or rather, videos.
This might well be the history of porn, or of porn stars... but how will I ever know? I distrust Hollywood more than I distrust the government. Both take artistic license. When Jamie and Rene picked up men in SF for On The Prowl, they didn't get into fights with them, let alone knock them out, kick them in the head with roller skates, and leave them on the sidewalk for dead. The truth was much more prosaic, and much more interesting: guys who couldn't get it up, guys that didn't want to have sex, guys that were lousy in the back seat of a stretch limo, while their friends sat next to them and watched.
Boogie Nights doesn't even want to show the sex. It wants to make sure it gets its PG rating. It is willing to shave the truth as smooth and bald as a pussy... but it won't let you look at the truth.
There was a hope, once, that porn could become art. It is still possible, I suppose, that art might become pornographic (if we ever have any art again), but Boogie Nights is neither art nor porn...fish nor fowl. It's melodrama. There are no audience emotions it can play on, as it is essentially dishonest melodrama. It doesn't dare. It doesn't care. It just says no. As with porn, the highest Boogie Nights can strive for, or does strive for, is to resemble the Soaps...or Hollywood movies, which resemble Soaps. Porn is no longer revolutionary--except, perhaps, to sex negative people.
But in soaps, we at least get to think we know something about real life: That the people in General Hospital could be real. There is a porn marriage in Boogie Nights, but we don't get to understand what it is really like to be married to a porn actress--the difference between porn sex and real sex. I don't know about porn marriages, either, except that they always seem to be ending in the gossip pages of AVN, with recriminations.
I suspect that once you separate the sexual from the emotional center in a woman, they can become somewhat crazy, and start acting like men in heat--men who don't have to wait long hours between ejaculations (unless they're like our star in Boogie Nights, who could, at the beginning, have unlimited pop shots in succession). No ordinary man is going to be able to satisfy a woman like that for long--or at least think he can. Which is probably one reason why things are, sexually, as they are! And why the women in porn are looked at, even by Adam Film World and AVN, who should know better, as monstres sacres.
The world would not be safe, for democracy or anything else, if men had the orgasmic abilities of women!
What men are given is porn--more than a placebo, but less than the real thing. What those who don't watch porn are given is Boogie Nights I am told that President Clinton had a private screening of Boogie Nights, when Hillary was off lecturing a village. Some day, Paul Thomas Anderson should turn his life into a film.
Dear BNI,
Losing one's cherry in any aspect of life appears to carry a certain amount of weirdness and embarrassment, not to mention outright strangeness. Especially in hindsight.
Loss of porn virginity for me actually came twice--once with film, once with video. I have always been quite a loner and usually avoid parties. Working at a job with a bunch of other guys, one was about to get married, and some of the guys decided to have a stag party. Against my better judgment, I went. Turned out to be in a smallish house trailer.
Picture about 15 guys in a trailer, with lots of booze and smoke. I smoked a pipe in those days. Eventually the guys brought out the projector. Yes, it was back in the days of film and bitty projectors. Unfortunately for me, I ended up in an uncomfortable easy chair very close to the screen. About all I remember about the films is that they were in black and white, grainy, and nothing to get excited about. I do recall the projectionist at one point saying something like: "Now we go up the Hershey Highway."
My memories of this experience are all bad. I was hot, in a bad chair, sweaty, and more or less drunk, as well. Every time I moved, the big mouths in the bunch decided I was all excited by and about the films, and they had a lot to say. I was teased, especially by this one asshole, for about five years afterwards.
My introduction to porn on video was mostly notable for the resemblance of the shop owner to Miss Sharon Mitchell, and for the porn overdose I did. Long before I had a VCR of my own, I somehow learned that VCRs and videos were available to rent. A time arrived when I would be at home alone for a weekend, so I went to this video shop, which was simply a bunch of tapes on shelves on a woman's porch.
I rented a VCR and six...yes, six...videos. Babe, who ran the place, asked me if I was having a party. I wanted to invite her but was, and am, too shy for such things. I watched all six on the things twice, over a day and a half, which was somewhat too much. However, a couple of these videos featured Mitch. I have no idea, though, what they might have been. My main memory is watching Mitch, getting off, and suddenly realizing how much Debbie, the store owner, looked like her. Damn.
I still find Mitch damned hot. I still would gladly crawl into the sack with Debbie. But trying to get there ain't worth the potential hassles (such as getting shot by her husband). I still like porn videos, although the kind that Debbie rents...and that I rented way back then...are now almost too bland for my eyes. Pierre Nord *
Dear BNI, I thought I'd do a quick follow-up on Tammy Cole's impeccably researched, well written article "The Bigger It Is, The Harder You Fall." I found it extremely interesting to finally get some background on the victims of the senseless massacre at Laurel Canyon. Granted, these folks weren't what I'd call upstanding members of society, but let's face it; they didn't deserve to die. For those BNI readers that don't already know, I am currently residing in a federal prison, and since my inception, have met some very interesting people. One individual, who I call "L.A." used to stop over and borrow my smut books every once in a while. He has been locked up off and on for most of his life. In 1984, he was serving a sentence in California at Soladad. Living two doors down from him was a sickly little guy serving a sentence for insurance fraud and arson. His name was Adel Nasrallah. That's right, it had finally caught up with Eddie Nash. L.A. used to push Eddie up to the hospital every day in his wheelchair, as well as play cards and other games with him. By 1985 they had become pretty good friends. Eddie had mentioned that he had been implicated in the Laurel Canyon murders but was sure that the heat was over considering that three years had gone by and John Holmes had been acquitted. (Tammy didn't mention that John sat in a county jail for 18 months for refusing to testify against Eddie and Co.)
Eddie was released late in 1985 and fled to Hawaii in a vain attempt at lying low. He was arrested within six months and charged with the Laurel Canyon murders. It turns out that his bodyguard, Dewitt Diles, had finally cracked under pressure of the death penalty and decided to save his own ass. Eddie was extradited back to California where he pled out of said murders and received a life sentence. Case closed!!
John Holmes was always tight lipped about the murders and maintained his innocence, while working with me in 1985. He did, however, say that his family's life was at stake from the beginning.
Richard Olson *
Dear BNI,
Just like the sex fears of governmentally engineered killer virus AIDS and the threat of accusation of so-called "sexual harassment" if you even say "hello" to a female at work, the new second '90s Victorianism just won't quit.
Now there's "John TV," first in Kansas City, then San Francisco, then in the anti-sex hellhole I live in, Buffalo, NY, where horny men, who can't get sex any other way and don't want to really go out and be rapists, will be "humiliated" on a channel nobody watches anyway--cable public access.
These sex losers will also be forced to attend "John School" where they will be programmed to hate sex, I guess.
This new Society that has taken over from the True American Society, which reached its zenith in the Free Love of the '70s, has already ruined nightlife with Draconian drunk-driving laws, which are just too damn repressive. So what's next to get? Sex, of course!
Why is prostitution illegal, when All work for pay is a form of prostitution anyway, and all employers are pimps, and all customers are johns? Office workers are all whores as well, is what I'm trying to relay here!
I notice it is only the Men who get targeted, as usual! I'd like to see prostitutes strut their stuff on the channel nobody but me and my weird friends watch anyhow as well! I'd like to see "Whore TV." You could tape it and pick your favorites, maybe go out and try to find the attractive ones on the streets later if you were so inclined!
As a sidenote--how about those recent cases that keep popping up with old lady school teachers in their 30s and 40s "molesting" young boys under 18 in school, that get off with maybe three months and a small fine? If it was a male teacher and underage girl, they'd be screaming for life imprisonment and castration, if not the Death Penalty!
Ski Mask
Ski Mask does some of the most seriously demented television I've ever seen, with his Thunderbird Theater show, seen on the Buffalo Public Access channel, and I would not be surprised one whit to see his mask appearing on John TV someday. He also puts out Riverside Artzine which you can pick up for a buck from P.O. Box 638, Kenmore, NY 14217.
At any rate I do not consider my reviewing porn movies for pay to be a form of prostitution. I mean it isn't as if I were doing totally disgusting such as literary criticism, though reviewing Boogie Nights seems to be a real gray area, and is certainly morally questionable!
The news is breaking way too fast for me to keep up with it, and BNI is going to get scooped by Time and Foreign Affairs yet once again, but I would like to know if anyone has asked, yet, whether President Clinton ever reciprocated with offers to give head, as well as to receive, as is his Christian duty. I don't know whether it's better to give head than to receive head, but if the President only gets head, well then, fuck him.
Still, our President has a point--just getting a bj is no more of a sexual relationship than masturbating--and BNI stands with our President: erect or flaccid!
I knew that men collected soiled panties, but now it seems that women are starting to collect semen soiled dresses. There are probably a number of such items that, when recombinant DNA technology has gone just a bit further, will enable us to clone Elvis, John Lennon, and perhaps even Sonny Bono.
The results are in from the 1997 People's Choice Adult Awards, with Silvia Saint winning Best Newcummer; Tiffany Mynx winning Best Performer; Gangbang Girl #19 (with Careena Collins) taking Best Pro Tape; Rodney Moore garnering Best Director; Asia Carrera, Kim Chambers and Tom Byron winning Best Scene from Cumback Pussy #6; Butt Slammers #14 taking Best All Girl Tape (in a close win over Shane's World 6 and Violation Of Brianna Lee); and Jan B.'s Anniversary Gangbang winning the Best Amateur Tape.
I don't have the new AVN award winners yet, as I'm still not allowed to vote for them, but Jim Holliday has seen to it that I got a ballot for the XRCO awards, and I will report the results, as soon as I have them in February.
Bust #10 is an all sex issue, with some truly marvelous stuff in it, including Joan Kelly's incredible interview with a soon to be ex-prostitute, who has nothing to lose in the comments she makes. C. does seem to be a somewhat unhappy hooker, with remarks such as: "Some of them will come literally in seconds, and then whine about it, and it's just like, save it, I don't give a fuck, get out... They think they're going to see these women who just live to fuck them. We don't give a fuck about them, all we care about is what's in their wallets. All of my regulars that I called to tell them that I was getting out of the business, all of them said, 'Well, you know, we can still see each other.' And I had to laugh at every one of them. You know, you don't even know my name, but we can still 'see each other'?! Pssh."
Other highlights include a shorter version of the Nina Hartley interview, that we'll be printing in its entirety; Celina Hex and Betty Boob on their vibrators; an interview with Candida Royalle, "Blow Job Tips for Straight Women from a Gay Man"; and a fascinating interview with Dr. Helen Fisher on how anthropologists view the "Look of Love." All of that plus an Erica Jong interview, and tons more in 128 pages for $3.50. I don't know how they do that, but it should be illegal, immoral and fattening!
If you can't find Bust at your local supermarket, send them $14 for a year's worth. P.O. Box 319, Ansonia Station, NYC, NY 10023.
It's taken damn near forever for me to read all of Something Weird's Blue Book, and not just because I have to move my lips when I read. This damn thing is filled with 136 pages of very small type-- hundreds of reviews for movies I'll never be able to afford to see (and a few that I'll have to see anyway), pieces on Rene Bond, memories of The Deuce, the reminiscences of Johnny Legend (including stories about the making of Teen Age Cruisers, which was on our Porn 303 list), and a little bit about Linda Lovelace.
The reviews give more information about preporn and the early days of hardcore than are available anywhere else, and if you have the lettuce, you can own an unparalleled collection of everything from blue movies to loops to nudie cuties to roughies to golden aged porn films. Something Weird often puts two films on a tape, or two hours of loops, and each tape sells for $20.
The Blue Book might cost $10, but the info in it would take you a lifetime to collect, so if your life is worth more than $10, send Mike Vraney a check: P.O, Box 33664, Seattle, WA, 98133.
The folks at Masquerade have sent us the following message, which should be of interest to any BNI reader who writes erotic fiction: The Big Book of Women's Erotica. Deadline: June 1, 1998. 576 pgs. Fiction 1,000 to 7,500 words. No poems. Reprints from zines only. Masquerade Books, 801 Second Ave., New York, NY 10017. Sase; write "Women's Erotica" on envelope.
by Lisa B. Falour
(Most of these entries are undated, but are from the summer of 1979.) Saturday
I talked Richie down to $53 for the cincher.
(Richard Shore of Esoteric Press, had a catalogue selling fetish items. I fancied a white satin corset with black trim and laces. It strikes me as ironic, now, that I should have paid for it at all, since I bought it primarily to do fetish modeling for Richie. I should have been given it for free. Anyway, I tight-laced myself into many a party outfit over the years with that corset--it was money well spent.)
...God, I wish I had copped a J on 10th Street... this beer don't exactly do the job. Henry seems to be better. I just kiss him and encourage him and he tells me how much he loves me and how much he misses me. Man, am I ever short on cash! I've gotta do some more modeling, and turn a few tricks. It's really awful. Oh, well. I refuse to worry about it.
I would like to take LSD and ride in a horse-drawn carriage through Central Park. Maybe when Henry gets out of the mental hospital we'll do that, although the LSD wouldn't be such a good idea for him!
I am surrounded by Swedish people on this train to New Haven. They are very tan and attractive. I buy ice cream, beer, and franks and have no desire to leave NYC. The train is cruising through the Bronx and some of the squalid buildings are occupied, and some are empty and blown out. I am so fortunate for my freedom--to be young and wild!
(I guess I really didn't need that joint so bad, after all. The beer seems to have been doing me in.)
June 30, Sunday
Here is an ad I am going to place in a swinger's mag: "Discreet Miss is now considering new applicants for private discipline therapy sessions in scenic New England. Convenient to NY Metropolitan area, Boston, even Philadelphia! Contact me to arrange educational weekend experiences of mutual gratification. Send SASE with complete description of yourself, outlining your sincerity and true need for my expert attention, and I will respond when it amuses me."
(I did place this ad in a magazine called Lisa's World--because I liked the title, of course. It ran for a few years and I met many men through it. One guy named Jim stayed in touch with me for years. Rather than be my slave, he hired me as a bondage model. We never had sex. He wanted to photograph me in "damsel in distress" situations. My favorite pose was me all tied up, struggling to reach a telephone, but hogtied and gagged and, of course, unsuccessful in calling Superman to come and rescue me. I still have copies of some of these pictures. They are for sale, but I really hope to publish them in a book some day.
Years later, Jim contacted me in New York and told me he was there for the week for a business trip with a friend. Could I go to the Grand Central Hyatt and pose for them both? No sex. Of course I said yes. I showed up with my valise full of props--secretarial clothes, stockings, lingerie, six inch heels. I asked if I could order a double whiskey from room service and they said yes. But they were so excited, they tied me up right away and began snapping away. Room service came, and they had me firmly tied to a bed and immobilized. What to do? They quickly untied me partially, and helped me hop in my heels to the next room to hide, but the room service guy used his pass key, entered and saw me! He left the whiskey, went away, and called security. We got back to our photo session, and security came in and interrogated us all. They wanted to be sure I was not being kidnapped! I calmly showed them my real i.d., said I was a secretary at Smith Barney and part-time model, and was just fine. Jim and his friend were so shook up, they couldn't continue to work, so I drank my whiskey and packed up to go. A security man was posted at our door. I kept telling Jim not to worry about it, but he was badly shaken. After 8 or 9 years of posing for him, I never heard from him again.
The security guard shadowed me as I left the building. When I reached 42nd Street, I turned on my heels, surprising him, and said, "Have a nice day!" I got on the subway back to Brooklyn, several hundred dollars richer.) To be continued.
by Spence
I know so many computer loving people that even without owning one myself I've developed a fear of hackers. It was a bigger word in the 1980s, like a tiny pirate who could potentially steal your identity right out from under you, provided you had logged the whole of your being into your PC. If I had a computer, I'd want to know the basics of hacking, though I'd hate to actually break the law or violate anyone's privacy--it's just the idea that appeals to me. In the past few weeks, though, I've been doing some hacking of a different kind, with the only privacy getting violated being my own, and to great effect.
Anyone who has ever purchased a sex toy has probably tried to make one at home as well--and I'm not talking hi-tech adaptations of your stereo motor or anything, just the standard carrot-as-dildo idea. If you're at all like me, you may have felt free to whittle away on that carrot or form-fit your cantaloupe until it was a work of art and sure to please, but hesitate to retrofit a store-bought number, even though it's eight sizes too big (or small). Brothers, sisters, let me give you the gospel truth: It's Okay! Get out your X-acto knife and needle-nose pliers, and come with me.
My fear of aggressive toy-alteration was economically-based; if I chopped my dildo down to a nub and it no longer made me sing, I couldn't immediately replace it. But I was finding with so many toys, especially the tacky, cheap ones I adore, that there was almost always something that was not quite right about them. Too long, too prickly, or the classic battery-operated vibrator dilemma--all noise and no vibration. It was there that I began my quest, with a big fat butt plug.
Here was a toy I loved to look at, squeezably soft in bright pink jelly rubber, but it failed on two counts--it was positively huge, and the motor sounded like something a Hell's Angel would love, but no vibrations could get through all that jelly. I wiggled my razor into the rubber all around the motor's base, squeezing the toy hard from the top down. The motor started to move! I dug the razor in further, squeezing my hand in a wringing motion, imagining how intense this scene would be if it were actual sex and not appliance repair. The plug gave two little belchy noises, effectively killing the mood, and the motor dropped into my hand. Success!
The good news didn't stop there. I now had two toys to play with--a butt plug that now had more flexibility, thanks to the motor being gone, and a hard-plastic-encased battery motor that boasted significantly improved vibrations since being freed from jelly jail. This experiment was such a success that I've gone on and liberated a few more toys, making them work to meet my needs more specifically. I've mad a few dumb mistakes on the way, too, so here are my do's and don't, so you needn't suffer in the pursuit of pleasure.
1. Do use an X-acto or other razor-knife. I started out with a single-edged razor blade, and cut myself twice before wising up.
2. Don't do this project in bed. The second plug I demotorized was stuffed with tiny bits of foam that I mistook for recalled asbestos, as they spilled out all over me and my stuffed animals. We were left there, screaming, "The horror! The horror!" It was awful.
3. While it's hard to completely destroy a toy, always consider that possibility before you start chopping away. Could you find another use for it first? Switch it from an anal to a vaginal toy, or vice versa? Use it as a planter? In other words, be prepared--all surgery carries risks. This especially applies to toys with small external battery packs--those wires are incredibly thin, and very easy to sever with almost no pressure. If it happens, sing "Que sera, sera," and try to find an extra-hot use for the rest of the toy.
4. Don't forget--this is about your pleasure. If you like the toy the way it is, just switch it on and go crazy.
The only alteration I've yet to attempt, because I can't figure out how to do it safely, is somehow giving my jelly dildo a firmer erection. I love jelly rubber so much--it's pretty, it takes on different colors well, and it's so dreamy when you squeeze it between your thighs--but the bigger the toy, the floppier they get. I have a modest five-and-a-half incher that I adore. It's clear, and the little bubbles inside make it look like club soda, very elegant, very Nick and Nora Charles. Just holding it in my hands turns me on. But try to mount that sucker and elegance is quickly traded in for something out of Hee-Haw--the phrase "greased pig" would be apt here. I've heard you can put coat-hanger wire in jellies, but that's scary. Besides, I want an orgasm, not a black-market abortion. Any jelly doctors out there, please contact me with your suggestions.
Adventures Of A One-Handed Stud
by Vern Frazer
As a One-Handed Stud, I've seldom found myself in the right place at the right time. My inner drummer has always tapped a little ahead of my time or a little behind it, particularly in matters of art and the heart--not to mention the loins. In August 1965, however, this One-Handed Stud was standing in the right place at the right time: Columbus Avenue in San Francisco, across the street from City Lights Books and Vesuvio's Cafe, hangouts for Beat Generation writers, and a block away from the Hungry i on Broadway, where Carol Doda was establishing herself as the first topless dancer in the Recorded History of Topless Dancing. Being in the right place at the right time gave me the opportunity to ogle Doda's history-making dugs, stoke my fires and stroke away my desires.
Naturally, I passed on it. The self-satisfied demeanor of the jowly old fart who told me about Doda's show convinced me that the audience for topless dancers consisted of middle-aged executives whose miserable lives led them to ogle naked women in lowbrow bars and shack with their secretaries in nondescript motels. Besides, my nineteen year old glands were so naturally juiced that I bought Playboy for the articles, not the pictures. Instead of the Hungry i, I walked into City Lights. Doda's dugs be damned! I knew what I wanted. I wanted to sit at the reading table in City Lights' basement until some post-Beat / pre-hippie chick wearing shades and leotards surveyed my stack of books by William Burroughs and Henry Miller, turned glandular over my literary genius, and invited me to experience mystical orgasm with her in some funky pad on a North Beach side street. We might even stop for dinner in Chinatown along the way.
By being in the right place at the right time, I got part of what I wanted: ten days of sitting at the reading table in City Lights' basement. While I waited for one or more bohemian chicks to offer me mystical orgasms, my own orgasms turned metaphysical. I had my mind blown more than any preferred part of my body.
Meanwhile, Doda danced a block away.
Nine years after being in the right place at the right time, I found myself finally visiting a go-go bar, not to satisfy my sexual needs but because it was the Politically Correct thing to do. My boss, the Commissioner of the State Department of Poverty Executives Support (DOPES), had launched a Congressional campaign. Like many other political hacks with large egos and small followings, he had no chance of beating his incumbent opponent unless his mother seized Connecticut's voting booths and paid her most distant relatives to crank the voting machines the way little old ladies crank the one-armed bandits at the Foxwoods Casino.
Since his party accorded his candidacy Sacrificial Lamb status and offered him a level of support lower than a monthly welfare check, the Commissioner ran his own campaign out of his brother's topless bar, two blocks away from the DOPES building. A co-worker suggested that several of us pay a lunchtime visit to our boss's campaign office. Why not? It seemed like the Politically Correct thing to do. Moreover, I knew the Commissioner would be gratified by our coming there, i.e., visiting; the alternative definition of "coming" would have turned his campaign somewhat sticky. A month later, it turned sticky anyway; the press discovered he used ten dollars on a DOPES postage meter to send out invitations to make donations in exchange for a dinner of rubber chicken and a little fat-chewing afterward. He resigned his position in disgrace, and took a higher-paying one elsewhere.
Although I thought the Commissioner would be gratified, I wasn't sure I'd be gratified. The lurid tales of lascivious topless action I'd heard told in harsh but hushed tones of terrified generality had made me wonder if I was emotionally prepared to go to a go-go bar. It had been so long since I'd seen a naked breast that seeing one might shock me into catatonia. Worse, I might not recognize one even if a dancer pressed nipple prints onto my eyeglasses.
What I recognized, yet again, was that most hushed whispers contain more suggestiveness than fact. Fact: the combined breasts of the three dancers who shook their booties over our dried ham-and-cheese sandwiches didn't amount to one full breast of the female co-worker who went with us. Fact: the go-go girls acted laidback to the point of disinterest, dancing limp-hipped to early '70s disco. What shocked me more than the whispered hints of scandals was the notion that customers would pay to see the dancers' private parts displayed with the passion usually reserved for balding gynecologists with Goodyear waistlines.
Topless bars just didn't seem to be my kind of place. Scrutinizing naked bodies from a distance seemed beneath me. Even though the likelihood of feeling naked bodies beneath me seemed far more distant than scrutinizing, I still had hopes of improving my status from One-Handed Stud to No-Handed without amputation. Three- Legged Stud status still seemed possible, though increasingly remote. After four years of striking out with college girls, I was striking out with women who I would never have considered dating in college. Getting rejected by a lower class of women didn't elevate my self-esteem. Three consecutive Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind with women whose confusion made my worst Tourettic rants sound as reasoned as an Eric Sevareid editorial convinced me that women who were intelligent, attractive, available and half-way sane at the same time simply didn't exist. For three years I resigned myself to a life of social solitude and one-handed excess. Around 1980, when I crawled out of my suburban cave, my best friend Sly took me to Bert & Vinnie's, a strip club in New Haven's gritty Fair Haven neighborhood. The dancers there kissed me for one-dollar tips. Even though they dispensed their French kisses indifferently, I welcomed them as enthusiastically as a traveler welcomes his first sip of water in after a week in the desert. In the desert of my love life, the strip joints would become my oasis.
Topless bars offered me more than beer and bimbos; they offered me male camaraderie, as well. My first night at Bert & Vinnie's, I responded in broken Spanish to the broken English of the Latinos behind me. They taught me the Spanish names for the dancers' body parts that excited us the most. We shouted them at the dancers. The highlight of the night's camaraderie occurred when a white guy with a handlebar mustache, infatuated with the dancer onstage, staggered onto the runway and sat against its mirrored wall. "This is one fine babe," he declared thickly to anyone who could hear him over Rick James' "Superfreak." "This wom'n izh beau'ful, an' I'll kick anybody's ash who shez she ain't."
I turned to Sly. "Now there's a nice, peaceful attitude." I didn't expect my voice to carry through the din.
The guy glared at me over his handlebar. "Whatsa matter? You don' think sho?"
"Oh no, no. Listen...I'm agreeing with you." Of course I thought she was great. She didn't turn down my money and she didn't refuse to kiss me. The way my love life was going at the time, she had offered me the One-Handed Stud's version of a meaningful relationship.
My first night at Bert & Vinnie's not only brought me back into physical contact with women and the world of male camaraderie; it taught me skills that could prove useful in other areas of life, particularly in topless bars in other areas. While preparing to drain my beer in the men's room stall, I heard four voices near the urinals engaging in high-minded dialogue about items missing from a Harley-Davidson parked outside. Their intense discourse prompted me to place my feet on the toilet seat, hold my breath, and squat there, ensuring that nobody could identify me as a witness if the issue culminated in a court proceeding. While I trembled with awe at the new skill I had acquired, the voices agreed the matter could only be resolved through a change of venue from the pissoir to the parking lot. I sighed my relief, sucked fresh breath, then undid my trousers before my distilled beer could drench them. I returned to my seat emotionally and physically drained.
Whenever Sly and I went to Bert & Vinnie's, I would kiss the dancers as many times as I could afford to. In between kisses, I attempted to consume more beer than a human bladder could hold, thereby establishing the cycle of drinking and draining beer as the first All-Natural Perpetual Motion Device. Visiting Bert & Vinnie's became a regular part of my get-togethers with Sly.
But Sly lived forty miles away from me. I wanted to find strip joints closer to home. A few of the newer employees at DOPES had told me there were strip joints in the area--the former Commissioner's campaign headquarters had closed not long after his landslide campaign loss--and along the roads we usually traveled throughout the state to ensure the social oppression of the lower economic classes while ostensibly addressing their need for food, shelter and fuel. The newer employees liked to park their official vehicles in the parking lots of public agencies, walk for fitness to the clubs, where they would rest during two or three-hour naked (or nearly so) lunches, then walk back to their official vehicles to ensure additional fitness before returning to the office an hour before quitting time. The unspoken macho code that One-Handed Studs live by prevented me from asking them where the stripjoints were located.
Instead, I drove through East Hartford, a town known for its topless bars and little else, looking for signs that advertised exotic dancers. Nothing on the brick fronts or the neon signs of the bars in the town I live in indicated that they featured go-go dancers. Finally, I discovered a bar whose curtained window displayed a small cardboard sign with "Exotic Dancers" scrawled on it. In addition to dancers who kissed for cash, the bar employed a waitress who brought beers to the bucks seated at the runway, then rubbed their heads between her 60++DDDD breasts. She gave me the kind of treatment that made me tip her generously and come back for more.
About two weeks after I launched my campaign to find topless bars close to home, M.T. Gonad, the Mayor of East Hartford, launched a campaign to eliminate them. A survey of the fourteen-town Greater Hartford area had determined that East Hartford was the second-least desirable town to live in. Instead of bringing into town cultural events, entertainment, and restaurants a quantum leap above the town's factory worker fare of hot dogs, pizza and fast food, Mayor Gonad planned to change the public's perception of East Hartford by closing down the strip joints which, according to his pronouncements, outnumbered the filling stations and liquor stores on Main Street. He wanted to establish East Hartford as a Family Town, where decent people could live decent lives without worrying that some depraved dancer might deflower their Little Johnny on a runway lined with squinting lechers. After all, what if Little Johnny liked it and wanted more?
To support the Mayor, the local weekly newspaper cited numerous scandalous events at the town's go-go bars and listed each bar by name and address. The Mayor's outspoken campaign, coupled with the paper's support, worked about as effectively as the anti-drug TV commercials of the 1960s, whose strident bombardment made youths more eager to try pot, acid and cocaine than to avoid them. Thanks to Mayor Gonad and the press, I now had a veritable City Directory of places I could go to remain in contact, however tangential, with the female gender. Pompei's headed their list, even though it didn't advertise its dancers. On my second beer while sitting near the high, circular platform at the end of the club's multi-leveled runway, I started talking with a waitress about the clampdown. "This is so crazy," she told me. "The cops come in and do the same things everybody else does. I said to them, 'How can you come in here and bust these people for doing the same things you do?'"
Before I could ask what the cops said to her, a customer called for a drink. He was wearing a blue uniform. His eyes bulged with moral rectitude as a dancer teased him with her large breasts and small, gold pasties.
Over the next few weeks, word-of-mouth brought me the names of topless bars in other towns, as well. Even though the clubs in the other towns weren't suffering clampdowns, I had difficulty getting into them. The bouncers at the door frequently suspected me of carrying a camera inside the shoulderbag that held my notebooks, pens, books, medications, Danish pipes, tobacco and anything else I might need over the course of a day or the unplanned overnight stay that never seemed to happen. Obviously, my glow-in-the dark Alexander Julian shirts and corduroy jackets made me look just like the somber enforcement officers of the State Liquor Control Commission, which regulates topless dancing in Connecticut.
I would try to explain to the bouncers that: (1) I wouldn't be stupid enough to bring a camera into a place where fifty men flying on testosterone-alcohol combos might beat me senseless for using it; and (2) a professional photographer could snap the dancers with a camera whose lens would fit through the buttonhole of a shirt pocket. When I cited (1) the bouncers reacted as though I was insulting their intelligence. When I cited (2) they reacted as though I was a camera expert and regarded me with even greater suspicion. Then, I'd ask to talk to the managers. The managers would suggest that I leave the bag in my car. I said I would, if they would assume liability for anything that got stolen because I didn't have it in my possession.
Reluctantly, they would let me in. Eventually, though, the people who worked in the area's strip clubs came to regard me as a guy who tipped well, treated the dancers respectfully and didn't cause trouble among the customers.
With one exception. In my third year of cruising the topless circuit, I stopped at Bosome Mucho, where a waitress from my favorite jazz club worked part-time. The bouncer refused to let me in unless he searched my bag. I left. A week later I returned, thinking if I let him look through it one time he'd see that I wasn't carrying anything that might put the establishment at risk and wouldn't inspect it in the future. He took my money and let me in without looking at my bag.
Fifty feet toward the runway I heard, "You! Stop!" from behind me. I kept moving.
"Hey, you. Stop!"
I kept moving.
"You with the bag! Stop!"
I stopped.
A head full of steam charged toward me. "Goddammit! You're just doing this to piss me off! Aren't you!"
"You didn't stop me, so I thought it was okay."
"You just like to get my ass out! Don't you!"
"Actually, I figured this time I'd let you look through the bag, so you'd see I don't carry anything that you need to worry about."
"You'd better leave, mister. You've caused enough trouble."
This time it wasn't the bouncer talking, but two guys in their mid-twenties standing near us. Their interpretation of the situation puzzled me. After all, the bouncer had waved me through when I paid him at the door. True, I kept moving after he shouted to me, thinking of the previous week's hassle and hoping he'd drop the matter. But I had just offered to let him look inside the bag. And now two baboon's assholes were about to gang up on me because the bouncer had caromed off some wall of wounded ego. I was trying to keep the peace the screaming bouncer got paid for keeping. "Here. Search the bag, if that's what you want."
The bouncer searched every compartment, through the notebook-and-hardcover-novel pocket, the pipe-and-tobacco pocket, even the narrow pocket where I kept my checkbook and the index cards I used for jotting down ideas or telephone numbers. They didn't make spy cameras as small as the crannies he was examining. While he ransacked my bag, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the other yahoos had drifted away.
"Here. You can go in now."
"I was hoping you'd see that I don't carry anything in here that you need to worry about, and that you wouldn't inspect it every time I came in."
"I'm going to go through it like this every time you come in here."
I left. The next day, I did the last thing I wanted to do after years of traveling the Naked Lady circuit: I wrote a letter to Bosome Mucho's owner, pointing out that I had to pacify his bouncer, that examining my bag without examining the purses of dancers, waitresses or female customers constituted sex discrimination, and that learning the contents of the bags might give a bouncer knowledge of contraband or weapons that might make him an accomplice or accessory to an illegal act. I mailed a copy to the Liquor Control Commission, with a cover letter that said I didn't expect the incident to justify their taking action, but that it might tilt the scale against the club if they were to find infractions in the future.
A few years later, a satisfied grin spread across my face when I read a newspaper article about the Liquor Control Commission shutting down Bosome Mucho for ten days. Sometimes it's nice to think we've "made a difference," even though we're not entirely sure we have, or that it was in the area in which we wanted to make one.
Plumbing The Depths Of Human Depravity For Fun & Profit
by Lance Drake
So I'm banging this Babe from behind... I'm in her butt up to my balls and she sez, "Oh sweetie, wuncha like me to turn around so we can make love where you see my face... cause all you ever see is my ass..." And I'm like, "Hey...your face...your ass...what's the diffrence?"
Apologies to feminists everywhere, but I had to chuckle at that Andrew Dice Clay joke from the opening of one of his TV specials. The laugh was born a little out of shock and and a little out of sadness. Later it occurred to me that it was a metaphor for how I felt about the state of "Adult Films" In both cases the women are objectified with little shrift given to them as people but rather only as soft, wet receptacles for the precious-bodily-fluids of men. Oh Yeah, it appears the women are willing participants, but the parallel fails when you look for real world examples of the same behavior. What a waste and what a confusing message to send to both men and women about the nature of men and women.
There are legions of kids who grew up unwittingly and unknowingly influenced by Scoobie Doo, a limited animation cartoon show in which a great dane speaks to it's teenage friends via a guttural, teen-dog language where every word begins with the letter R. For example, Scoobie urges his friends to "leave" by growling, "Ret's Roh!" OK, it's cornball and completely without intellectual redeeming value. Some would also allege this kind of show teaches that problems are solved in 30 minutes by a combination of pluck and righteousness. Then again, maybe it's just a cartoon show. But what about the reality-distortion-field that takes over when one becomes too used to seeing women with inflated bodies and over-the-top enthusiasm for what must certainly be uncomfortable, unprotected sex with (essentially) perfect strangers? Perhaps, when you first see explicit sex, the context doesn't matter. Only after becoming acclimated to the genre might it occur to some that something is missing. Then, isn't it just human nature to expect your mate to mimic that same degree of slathering abandon? What is her reaction as you attempt to introduce your eager penis into her not-quite-ready-for-primetime anal orifice? Are you then not also disappointed because her body looks more like "Pooh-bear" than "Anna Malle"? Isn't it kind of a letdown when she doesn't exhibit the same degree of enthusiasm as the young Traci Lords in a triple-penetration scene from Black Throat?
Many times I've been sitting in front of my TV attempting to "enjoy porno," (more on that below). Over and over I kept wondering, "What is wrong with this picture?" How is it that hours of video tape with an endless parade of people constantly screwing in every imaginable position and location is completely boring and otherwise not sexually stimulating? How did I get to this featureless sexual tundra? Don't get me wrong, it's not like I haven't shared untold hours of conjugal bliss with with sexually enthusiastic, beautifully featured, body-splendiferous women. Still, I know that women, as portrayed in porn-features, bear little resemblance to most women in the real world.
Of course, There's a huge amount of fabulously erotic material which has been produced by truly gifted directors with scores of wonderful actresses and actors. The problem is, as Ron Jeremy has been heard to say, "In the end, the customer is buying a box cover." That's really all they have to go on. Even Ed Powers with his very popular Dirty Debutantes series can have a spine tingling smasheroo with #82 then leave you flaccid and floppy with #83. There is no access to the true nature of the content other than by seeing it. But, if you, as a producer, have the right set of images and the right title on the box, you're gonna get sales.
I know from personally surveying the adult video market that the pool of people producing the pulchre consists of a few souls who know what they're doing, followed by legions of wannabes who have somehow managed to get into a room with some naked people and a video camera. The bottom line is that no matter who made it or who is in it, there's no telling what it's like without seeing it. And, for some people, it doesn't matter what is on the box--mainstream porn is, by definition, not something they like.
My not-necessarily-original theory goes like this...At one point it was just too expensive or illegal to create much smut. Thus, even the most meager of offerings was well received due to the limited crop of material from which to choose. Then the teens of the '70s "Sexual Revolution" became became old enough to represent the mainstream-voting-power-base of our country. As a result, tolerance for sexual materials of all kinds increased. Combine that new tolerance for explicit sex with affordable broadcast-quality video-cameras and it became not only legal but "cheap" to create porn. The floodgates were opened.
As we saw, Adult films hit a knee-curve of exponential growth with the advent of "produced on video" features. But a significant shift in the distribution chain occurred. This new material wasn't ending up solely in "Adult Bookstores"--it often came to represent 50% of the revenues at your friendly-neighborhood-video-rental store. Today, there's a feature in a glossy box titled Small Chicks/Big Dicks in plain view behind the counter at the corner convenience store here in suburban Mountain View, California.
The workplace for Adult videos changed overnight. It morphed from projects filmed by crews with gaffers and key grips to tapes made by guys with a Hi-8 camcorder. The formula was transformed from directors with scripts and sets who would work with people who could do some reasonable acting to four scenes of two couples shot entirely on one bed with one camera in one day for less than $5K. Obviously, the pressures of the marketplace were not pushing on the "Let's do it better!" button; the thumb was jammed down hard on "Let's do it more." Guess what happened to subtlety, nuance, quality and ideas.
Perhaps it was a desire on the part of the producers to appeal to the natural appetite of the porn viewer for variety that combined with lower production costs to drive the output of new material thru the roof. Maybe it was market pricing-pressures and a lower return on investment. Maybe it was greed. It seemed as if everything had changed. It was the dawning of a brave new world for the chronicling of human sexuality. But, to paraphrase the Who, "Meet the new sex... same as the old sex." As was the case then, it continues to this day: Adult videos primarily consist of one or more men "doing" one or more women. Add in the unblinking focus on the penis and you have the fundamental fixins for formulaic fucking.
Alex Bennett, morning personality at KITS-FM (Live 105) in San Francisco did a lot to raise my consciousness about human sexuality. Often he would have Adult film stars from the SF bay-area on his show. Shanna McCullough, Nina Hartley, Annette Haven and various local porn-biz residents would stop by. As part of the patter, Alex offered, on a couple of occasions, that he usually masturbated twice a day. At the time, it was a bit of a shock to hear a guy come out and admit--on the radio--that he regularly rubbed his penis to the point of orgasm. Some authorities will tell you that 95% of men masturbate regularly and the other 5% are lying when they say they don't. But for me, it was Alex Bennet who brought masturbation out of the closet. His take was, "Hey... we have this little bundle of nerves that appears on the outside of our body. You rub that bundle and you brain goes 'Wow-that was good!'" Say goodbye to J-O shame.
Still, there are probably an awful lot of men jerking-off every day who, seconds after the glow has faded, feel the remains of an unabated frustration. This longing may be caused by the absence of a sexual fantasy life for themselves that corresponds to what is presented as viable and accessible in porno when compared to their own narrow-band sex opportunities. From all indications, it would appear that the only people who actually have sex like they do in Adult videos are the people who actually appear in Adult videos.
Again, I am not saying that nobody has good sex, lots of sex, lots of partners, bizarre sex; as much fabulous sex as they can stand. But if you accept the premise that with 5 billion people on this planet, "Life is a bell-curve," the people with sex lives to brag about are under a very tiny section of that curve. Sex for the 99.99% of the rest of us hoi polloi is as if we were another genus-species from the 8th global continent, "Mundania." When we watch Naked People Theater it only serves to accentuate the disparity. I keep looking at the screen and going, "Who are these people--really... and what are they about--really?"
Oh my God... we're finally getting to my point!
Sitting there, looking thru a fishbowl at the parade of naked bodies flickering before me on the television and furtively fidgeting with myself, I was often hoping to find some spark of enthusiasm for that video in general and the glimmer of an orgasm in particular. In the course of numerous such sessions, I have asked myself many questions:
"What do I really want to see?"
"What is it about a particular scene that is the essence of what I might key on and find exciting?"
"What happens in a scene that makes it seem 'hot'?"
"What was it about that last scene that allowed you to become so excited as to be able to chase down that wonderful orgasm?"
"What is boring about some videos?"
"What is annoying about the technical things like camera work, etc.?"
"Lance, what would you do if you could make your own adult videos--so they would be exactly the way you wanted them?"
These question were not going away or diminishing in number. Finally it occurred to me:
"Buddy!... if you can't rent or buy the the videos you really want, why don't you make your own? There must be others who feel and think the same way as you do?"
Lance Drake is the Producer/Director of Caprice Video, and makes some of the best solo women tapes on the market. If you are interested in knowing more, you can write to him at P.O. Box 390893, Mountain View, CA 94039. "Plumbing" will be continued in the March BNI
by Tammy Cole
Ever since the millenarian riots over the bite of an apple, the world has been ravaged by cults and climatic changes, bubonic plague, AIDS, and the plaintiff cry of Rodney King: "Can't we just get along?" Man and woman have sought a means to calm the persistent desire to control the bizarre relationships between confirmed catastrophics and eager environmentalists. In Bad Wives, we have a comprehensive treatment for an intermediate solution before we either reach deadlock, or the United Nations is forced to issue a decree. Again, Paul Thomas brings his knowledge and experience as an actor to the producer-director chair, at the genius level; and Vivid Video provides the opportunity for us to study ways and means of breaking the "sound barrier" of sex in vital living color. Our lead heroine, Dyanna Lauren, as "Tracy Jo" shows us what Pamela Anderson Lee will look like when she grows up. All you "Good Wives" out there in radioland can profit from her example of the art of the fuck. She has found the Rosetta Stone of sex. Bad Wives carefully explains each and every act and position so that you may answer the age old question: "Why can't I fuck like that?" and provides a step by step review of all you have learned in life.
The ground breaking studies of 1668-1801 clearly demonstrated the existence of a vital and active lesbian and female bisexual underground in our society. This modern documentary is filled with the dynamics of the female species of pussy eater, exemplified by Melissa Hill as "Elizabeth," who not only puts on an excellent demonstration of munching muff, but also of eating soap; Stephanie Swift as the checkout counter girl, who does not mind giving her body in search for the truth; and Tricia Deveraux and Missy as secretaries, who have no hesitation in putting their asses on the line for the benefit of cock.
As our story unfolds, Tricia is putting her ass, in all its unclad grandeur, on the conference table for you, me, and Steve (Tony Tedeschi, Elizabeth's husband) to celebrate, the slopes and vales of which I would compare to the Rockies of female comeliness. Once Steve gets her engine warmed up with a few choice licks and slurps, she has no problem with draining his pipe, all over her face.
Tracy Jo is an obsessive consumer of Chocolate Chip and other cookie delights, whose compulsions overtake her at the most inopportune of moments: this time, at the corner grocery. With the competence of a cat burglar, she starts stuffing herself like a madwoman. However, she stays at the trough too long and Roy, the bag boy (Steven St. Croix), observes her, and calls her to task in front of God and his consumers, over the store's P.A. system.
Stephanie, our checkout girl, recognizes embarrassment and contrition when she sees it, and offers solace. Roy takes Tracy Jo and Stephanie into the meat locker, hangs Stephanie by her hands from a meat hook, and demonstrates plowing Dyanna's furrow. Stephanie, one of the major participants of the 1668-1801 study, somehow gets loose from her hook, and carefully applies mouth to cunt resuscitation.
Elizabeth has somehow gotten over her fundamentalist religion and high school football cheerleading days, but we don't want to hook her up to a brain wave monitor just yet. She is beside herself with her own problems, as we shall see. Unable to entice husband Steve into a bit of diddling, she takes a shower to cool her passions. That failing, she tries eating a bar of soap. Most of the butter has slipped off her cracker, but nonetheless, we'll give her the benefit of the doubt, since she can work her ass like a Waring Mix Master. Now it's her time in the meat locker with Roy and his weird ways, though he does keep the gals' engine running, and shows how to bank the fire when a husband is driving his wife up the wall.
Next we find it's Tracy Jo's 36th birthday, and Elizabeth and Guy (Tracy Jo's husband, played by Jon Dough) are having a cookout to celebrate the occasion. Tracy Jo is not in a joyful mood, ruminating that she has not attained those goals she should have attained at this stage in her voyage through life in the dull lane.
Elizabeth introduces her to the ultimate low cholesterol low fat diet treat--eating pussy. But while it does take the edge off of things, it doesn't satisfy those internal desires to experience "all" life has to give. I've yet to figure out why she screams and moans and groans when hubby is hauling her ashes, and then screams at him, "You never get me off." I should caution Tracy Jo that anger causes synaptic anomaly, and she might wind up eating soap like Elizabeth, if she continues in this manner.
From this point forward, things get a bit rough for our soap eating heroine, Elizabeth, before they get better. At one point she takes a sawed off shotgun and threatens to blow her husband's head off if he won't start screwing her again.
I am beside myself with lust and generosity. I want to place this production on my highest level of glorification, but I've already done that with another Vivid creation: Borderline, and we know two can not occupy the same place in space and time; so I must characterize Bad Wives as defeated by "a nose" as the horse pundits are wont to say. However, this is one you will return to again and again, if only for brief periods of time to rehearse the execution of certain penile-vaginal insertion maneuver/techniques (and end up getting your rocks off when your sexual temperature rises above and beyond your mate's time of arrival home). Think of it as keeping dinner warm in the oven of flesh.
by Richard Freeman
I don't ever want to forget Kelly's portrayal of Raymond Chandler's ultimate Little Sister in Dixie Ray Hollywood Star. She was exactly the kind of woman you'd want to find, unconscious and disheveled, in your bed.
Afro-Erotica 6 - Clip.
Bad Habits - (Nonsex)
Ball Busters - 1984 with Gina Carrera, Jacqueline Lorians, Nina Hartley, Ginger Lynn, Erica Idol, Joanna Storm, Lois Ayres, Jamie Gillis, John Leslie, Dan T. Mann.
Be Careful What You Wish For - (Nonsex)
Blonde Ambition - 1980 with Suzy Mandel, Dory Devon, Erica Eaton, Eric Edwards, R. Bolla, Jamie Gillis, George Payne, David Morris.
Blowing Your Mind - 1984 with Tanya Lawson, Kandi Barbour, Jeannie Pepper, Tasha Voux, Scarlett Scharleau, Herschel Savage, David Christopher, Veronica Hart (Nonsex), Ron Jeremy (Nonsex).
Bon Appetit - 1980 with Samantha Fox, Merle Michaels, Kandi Barbour, Erica Eaton, Robin Byrd, Randy West, Jake Teague, Roger Caine, Jack Wrangler, Ron Hudd, George Payne, Alan Adrian, Ron Jeremy (Nonsex), Gloria Leonard (Nonsex).
Brats In Bondage - (Nonsex)
Centerfold Girls - Loop
Cherry Red - (Nonsex)
Cherry Redder - (Nonsex)
Climax - 1985 with Cody Nicole, Taija Rae, Rhonda Jo Petty, Rene Summers, Chelsea Blake, Sharon Kane, Tish Ambrose, Eric Edwards, Joey Silvera, George Payne.
A Coming Of Angels - The Sequel - 1985 with Annette Haven, Ginger Lynn, Colleen Brennan, Jamie Gillis, Paul Thomas, Eric Edwards, Herschel Savage, Jon Martin, Mike Horner.
The Corner - (Nonsex)
Corruption - 1983 with Tiffany Clark, Tanya Lawson, Tish Ambrose, Vanessa Del Rio, Jamie Gillis, Michael Gaunt, Michael Morrison, George Payne, Samantha Fox (Nonsex), Bobby Astyr (Nonsex).
Covergirl - (Nonsex)
Deep Inside Crystal Wilder - (Nonsex)
Dirty Girls - 1983 with Jacqueline Lorians, Cody Nicole, Stacey Donovan, Colleen Brennan, Joanna Storm, Helga Sven, Jamie Gillis, Tom Byron, Billy Dee, Francois Papillon.
Dirty Looks - Clip.
Dixie Ray Hollywood Star - 1983 with Lisa DeLeeuw, Juliet Anderson, Hillary Summers, Veronica Hart, Samantha Fox, Phaery Burd, John Leslie, Kevin James, Cameron Mitchell (Nonsex).
Dominating Girlfriends Part 1 - (Nonsex)
Dominating Girlfriends Part 2 - (Nonsex)
Double Trouble - 1986 with Taija Rae, Kristara Barrington, Dick Howard, Eric Monte.
Down Under - 1986 with Tigr
Eighth Annual Erotic Film Award - (Nonsex)
Exploring Young Girls - 1978 with Gena Lee, Vanessa Del Rio, Sharon Mitchell, Susaye London, John Leslie.
Extasy - (Nonsex)
First Annual XRCO Adult Film Awards - (Nonsex)
Forehand Swing - (Nonsex)
Formula 69 - 1984 with Desiree Lane, Kristara Barrington, Jay Sterling (AKA Horney Wheels).
Games Women Play - 1980 with Samantha Fox, Lesllie Bovee, Merle Michaels, Veronica Hart, Roger Caine, Ron Jeremy, Ron Hudd, Jack Wrangler.
The Gift Of Samantha - 1991 with Samantha York.
Girls That Talk Dirty (?)- Clip.
Girls Will Be Boys 3 - (Nudity only)
Glitter - 1983 with Shauna Grant, Rhonda Jo Petty, Marlene Willoughby, Tish Ambrose, Ashley Moore, Athena Star, Alexis X, Jerry Butler, Michael Knight.
Great Sexpectations - 1984 with Joanna Storm, Honey Wilder, Rene Summers, Tanya Lawson, Chelsea Blake, Eric Edwards, R. Bolla, George Payne, Jerry Butler, John Leslie, Dick Howard.
G-Strings - Annette Heinz, Susan Nero, Sharon Kane, George Payne, R. Bolla, Alan Adrian, Jerry Butler (Nonsex).
Harem Nights - (Nonsex)
Heartbreaker - 1985 with Tantala Ray, Lee Carroll (Clip).
Heaven's Touch - 1983 with Sharon Kane, Joanna Storm, Ashley Moore, Cheri Champagne, Gayle Sterling, Michael Knight, Ron Jeremy, Dave Ruby, George Payne, Veronica Hart (Nonsex).
The Hellfire Society - (Nudity only)
Hot Licks - 1985 with Sharon Kane, Carol Cross, Kristara Barrington, Joey Silvera, George Payne, R. Bolla.
In Love - 1983 with Tish Ambrose, Joanna Storm, Samantha Fox, Susan Nero, Jerry Butler, Jack Wrangler, R. Bolla (Nonsex), Veronica Hart (Nonsex).
The Interrogation - (Nonsex)
Jailhouse Girls - 1984 with Ginger Lynn, Raven, Kristara Barrington, Taija Rae, Chelsea Blake, Joey Silvera, George Payne, Paul Thomas, Dick Howard.
Jane Bondage Is...Captured - (Nonsex)
Just Desserts - 1991 with Samantha York.
To be concluded in March!
Don't Get A March Hare Up Your Butt
Order Our BNI Videos.
Still Only $5 per film and $10 per CD Rom + $5 S&H/order.
Coming Next Month to Your Local Newsletter
Tammy Cole on Psychosexuals; David Steinberg on Transsexuals; Nina Hartley Interview ; Dorothy Feola on Where The Girls Sweat; Bill Margold's Legends of Erotica; and Kelly Nichols Filmography Part 2. And that's Just For Starters!
See You In March!
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