Category: FUCKING DAY

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: How to Date a Jamaican Man 🌭

I’ve read a lot of books by wrong, deluded fools, but it’s very special to find a book like 2012’s HOW TO DATE A JAMAICAN MAN. This author has no idea what she’s doing, and you’re going to love it. It’s got the racially charged penis descriptions you’d expect, the vagina hygiene tips you wouldn’t, and it will absolutely make you worse at having sex with Jamaican men.

The author’s name is Empress Yuajah, and I’m not sure if the “Empress” is a symptom of rad parents or unchecked narcissism. She claims to be a black Jamaican woman, but she exoticizes their culture the same way you might if you were writing something called Police Academy 7: Voodoo Cops. Despite her desperate self-publishing career, I can’t find a picture of her, and one of her books is a guide for white people to become Rastafarian. I’m obviously not here to police anyone’s blackness, but Empress Yuajah writes like she’s hiding a very problematic secret. For instance, she opens her book as if she’s an explorer who discovered a lost continent of sex wizards:

It was such a great summary she decided to use it for the back cover as well. A person less ignorant than Empress would know the danger in mistaking stereotypes for wisdom, especially horny wisdom, the least useful kind. If you believe her, you are now a worse person and craving a specific kind of dick. Also, you shouldn’t need any more advice. Just point your holes at these undefeated fuck champs and skip the entire book. Speaking of books, Empress opens this one with some ads for her others:

The great thing about self-publishing is how there are no rules. If you want to float a blurry picture of your other book under a hyperlink, fine. Make one page the words “More Love,” and nothing else. Fuck it. Hell, put in an ad for the book your reader is already reading:

Would you like to read How to Date a Jamaican Man with a longer title and allllllllllllmost a bit of shaft? Speaking of a bit of shaft, I’ll stop teasing you and get to the book. It’s dedicated to Steve.

As you’re going to figure out, Steve is the guy Empress fucked on her trip to Jamaica. He has no game, a big dick, and the terrible sex he had with Empress Yuajah inspired this book. He split her in half like a drunk tractor accident. And as someone who fucks, I’d like to say using little quotes around “perfect gentleman” is a real virgin move. You’re bragging about sport porking a guy named Steve, Empress. We don’t need to suffer through your cute inside jokes.

Okay, let’s get started. Empress writes the same way she fucks, so this will be confusing, unconfident, and racist. She begins with some real insider tips on staying attractive:

If you open your list of beauty tips with “take vitamins,” you’re not writing for someone who exists. By any standards this is beyond dogshit. Paint your fingernails as needed? Try not to be fat!? No trust me, I once asked a guy about the fat thing!?!? It’s got to be a terrifying thing to realize you’re out of wisdom once you’re done remembering lipstick, so in many ways Empress is a hero.

Take note of this structure, as it will reappear later. Empress will state a common sense thing impossible to not know, explain it by saying it the same way again, then offer extremely anecdotal evidence for it. I’m not saying she knows nothing about Jamaican fucking. It’s simply worth noting there is no way to know less than her about Jamaican fucking. Let me put it like this: if she had walked into a different hotel bar during her one trip to Jamaica, she would be writing a book called Why Everyone in Jamaica is a Juggler. It would also be dedicated to Steve, but he would be described as a perfect gentleman without quotes.

Hey, everyone! The lipstick rememberer who fucked Steve wants to let you in on the spoken and unspoken rules of promiscuity we’ve all navigated since 6th grade! Some men you sleep with will not marry you, and Empress has the one tramp friend to prove it. Which means it’s time to ask: what is going on here? What kind of sadist opens their book with descriptions of tantalizing Jamaican cocks, lures them all in with those sure-fire beauty tips, and then tells you not to jump on them? Who are we trying to impress? The bartender watching us jerk Steve off? This better not be one of those self-published books where the author has no external sense of self and accidentally reveals all their own issues.

Oh no. Oh my god, Empress. This wasn’t the bit I was setting up! I was thinking you’d waffle more between being a woman who writes books about hunting monster dick and being a woman who thinks casual sex is “trashy.” This is way, way too much. And too dark. Honestly, it might not belong in the same chapter as the lipstick advice. Which, again, was to sometimes wear at least some. So to recap Chapter 2, wash the soup off your clothes, stay away from being overweight, apply fingernail polish as needed, and find a way to blame yourself for the toxic behavior of men. She wrote this book for you, Steve. You must be a “real piece of shit.”

In Chapter 3: Jamaican People and Culture, Empress adds a fun new element– indecision. She still says obvious things and supports them by telling you some cab driver said it, but now she’ll also say the opposite. From this point on, you will learn less than nothing about Jamaican men. You will learn they can be one way or a second way, depending on what Steve told her between ball drainings. Anyway, when Empress Yuajah went to Jamaica everyone was fine with her being Rastafari. I find this interesting because it’s a detail a white person might make note of, but no second type of person.

As Empress explains, there are a lot of important things Rastafari has influenced including . Seriously, though; if there are three things the author is good at, it’s Rastafari outreach, bulleted lists. I love this so much. This is an unproductive cough from a dying mind. If it was 2:59 pm and you asked an Arkansas classroom “What has Rastafari influenced?” this is exactly what the chalkboard would look like when the bell rang. I can’t stress enough how useless this book is to any person engaged in any kind of endeavor. If your fish said these words to Aquaman he would tell you your stupid fucking fish isn’t making any sense. How to Date a Jamaican Man is supernatural in its pointlessness. Steve probably watched his hands and dick fade from existence the moment Empress dedicated it to him. Anyway, let’s move on to the dos and don’ts of saying hi. Sorry, I can’t wait to tell you and I’m going to spoil it: it’s do!

So being rude is rude in Jamaican culture, and if you don’t say hi, fuck. I mean, Jesus fuck, Empress can’t even get into it. Needless to say, this one-time Jamaica visiting guru has tried both “hi” and “not hi” and she suggests the first one. It sounds like you might die, but I can’t be sure. She used the words “out of this world,” which means “fantastic” so it’s possible she doesn’t know shit in any culture.

Look, I know Empress’ techniques seem hard. First fingernail polish and now saying hi? But it’s time to learn why we’re doing all this:

This is one of her best lists. Of the bullet points for why Jamaican men are popular, six out of eight of them are how she wants to physically fuck them. This is unprecedented levels of horny. Sex doll owners have a deeper relationship with their partners than this woman had with Steve. But whatever Steve did, good for him. He broke loose something wet and primal up inside her.

So now you know why we’re doing this. But before we go get some, Empress wants to review some of the more complicated aspects of being a human.

I honestly thought this was a guide for banging a local while staying at a SandalsÂź, but literally one third of Empress’ hygiene tips is to change your bedsheets weekly. Won’t the maid do that? Did Steve have her doing his fucking chores? And look at all that space she had left on the page. That’s weird, right? I’ve made my suspicions clear already, but here’s who stops listing basic hygiene tips before they get to lotion and hair: a white girl with dreadlocks and no second type of woman.

With this tooth brushing tip, Empress is confident she’s given you all you need to lock down your Jamaican man, so let’s go over the rules you need to follow.

“Don’t Show Weakness of Any kind” is strange advice to get from a person this observably helpless. There’s a non-zero chance this Jamaican goddess boarded the wrong gate and her whole book is based on a weekend in Honolulu. Steve was probably some guy from Detroit who faked an accent to sell Empress a timeshare.

Constantly wiping your vagina with moist towelettes is the SECOND RULE OF DATING A JAMAICAN MAN. I mean, I knew it would be in there, but number two!? What did Steve say about her crotch?

Here we are at the third rule and all we’ve learned is to be brave and maintain inviting holes. All kidding aside, though; I think it would work?

Well, I wish you told me this before I let my Jamaican King give me a harsh talking to about my sour poom poom. Empress, why did you make this a top ten list if the only two things on it were self-respect and hygiene? Could you at least try to surprise us?

Jesus Christ! I genuinely cannot wrap my head around the goals of this book or who it is written for. On which date did she bear Steve a child? Is it trashy to start a family before you’ve gotten to mouth stuff? My head is spinning… this goddamn maniac was just telling us to brush our teeth two rules ago. This is someone who learned a stereotype and wanted to turn it into wisdom so badly their brain broke. “You want my advice for navigating Jamaican culture? Um, watch out for pregnant!” You don’t need me to mansplain racism, but this is like saying, “Buy extra waste baskets. Some black men are Shaquille O’Neal, so they are going to miss a lot of free throws.”

The rest of these are all variations of “speak and behave like a normal human,” so let’s skip to the end.

Oh no, what did you give her, Steve? Hey, I don’t want to brag, but earlier when Empress told me not to get pregnant I already considered using Safe Sex to do it. In fact, aside from thinking vaginas cleaned themselves automatically, I already knew all this stuff. Let’s try to find something new.

Aiiieeeee!!! You’re supposed to hang your panties so everyone in the home can inspect them!? AIIIEEEEEE!!!!! STEVE, WHAT DID YOU TELL THIS WOMAN!?

Okay, this is fascinating. Did you know some Jamaican men have sex with some white women? No no, wait, don’t get Empress wrong– this can, in rare cases, be fine.

Ah, that makes sense. Jamaican men sometimes have sex with black women as well. You know, if this suspiciously anonymous author hadn’t said she was a black Jamaican woman I would have thought an ignorant white dingbat wrote this.

I bet you want to learn more about the complicated dynamics of interracial relationships as understood by a woman with such highly inspected wet underpants. So I’m going to jump to Chapter Not Numbered: Jamaican Men Who Love White Women.

Empress has broken her racism down into three categories: worship, lust, and money/gift which can sometimes be gift/money. She thinks this is helpful! She thinks you can check this list of unused 1995 Chris Rock joke premises to find out if your husband is cheating on you with a white woman for the sex or the idolatry! I’m truly stunned. I couldn’t dare tarnish such championship stupidity with a joke.

Holy fucking shit. Look, we know Empress is a bad communicator prone to errors in syntax and language. But did she share a story about a man who literally called her “nothing special?” And her response to that was saying, “Special!? Hey, I’ll take it!”!?!?!? No. No. Do you know what this means? It means that when Empress Yuajah Googles her name and sees I called her Steve’s Most Embarrassing Sexual Conquest, February 2012, she’s going to say, “Oh boy, I’m a sexual conquest! And, of course, a black!”

“I am told that white women from abroad are worshipped by the black men in Jamaica. I could see how it could be true,” types the 37-year-old white woman trying to make sense of how she finally lost her virginity. Wait, everyone shut up. The next chapter is called The Jamaican Male Mind on Sex.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha Empress forced herself to imagine what a Jamaican man thinks about sex and the first thing she writes is “I don’t know, p-penis?” Are they right? Well, the author checked with someone who has experienced nearly two Steves, and yes, absolutely penis. Can you imagine needing a second book on human relationships other than How to Date a Jamaican Man?

I love these windows into Steve’s game. “You’re going to have to touch it, ‘Empress.’ We Jamaican men do not believe in Masturbation or self-Masturbation. There are few exceptions. Also, it’s bad luck, I mean juju, for a man to buy his own drinks. And yes, for a penis, which is what you call this fleshy tube, this is HUGE.”

This was a weird place in the book for the author to bring this up, but at least in Empress’ experience, the love between a black Jamaican man and an also totally black and Jamaican woman is expressed by telling the other one they stink.

“Wait, slow down. My… vagina… is filthy… and… disgus…ting. Great! Thanks, Steve. You’ve been a huge help with my book.”

Here’s a warning, girls, from a real experienced love maker: “Sex hurts because the noble savage often misinterprets our screams for pleasure when we are, in fact, being torn apart.”

This is such raw to-the-bone ignorance. “Ignore her… just concentrate and finish,” Steve thought, having no idea he was pounding off into such an insightful anthropologist.

You feed a Jamaican man Jamaican food? This sounds like a sarcastic answer to a sarcastic question. It’s like someone found a Jamaican baby and asked a stupid dick, “What do you feed it!?” Empress, you fucking tooth-brained cow, what the shit is wrong with you?

Hahaha this student of the world took some time out at the hotel pool to look at the men and decided their sexiness must come from their people’s robust soups and bold spices! She still has a couple tests to run, but ran into some problems when she found out men aren’t allowed to take off their shirts at Red Lobster.

For readers seeking dates with Jamaican men, it’s good to remind them every few pages their vaginas are unclean. Menstruators, your foul crotch stench lingers in stew and the hearts of good men.

I’m kind of losing my mind. Let’s talk about something more serious– the lying Jamaican cheat.

Empress, master of lists, has narrowed down the Jamaican man’s need to cheat on his wife to nine reasons. To be fair to Steve, there are really only six since she repeats “he likes women,” “change of routine,” and “because he can.” And like all good advice-givers, Empress wants you to know the man lying to you and disrespecting you loves you. In fact, you might not want to bring his cheating up. Seriously, there’s a section on that:

Empress asks three times on one page, “Is it really cheating if he has money?” And speaking like a person who has had actual adult feelings, she suggests, “Hey, if no one has any STDs, who cares?” At the risk of going too far, anyone with eyes can see this woman has never known love and will die alone. Which means all of this is theoretical, and even in her wildest fantasies her ideal relationship is quietly enduring the infidelity of some lifeguard who got her pregnant. What’s next, a whimpering guide to taking a cheater back after you can’t find someone else?

No! No!! I was kidding!!!

Oh no, I’ve seen this before. We’re in a sadness vortex! We’ve got to– oh, hey. This next chapter will work:

Even after all this you may not believe me, but this chapter is only three anecdotes about polite men she met in Jamaica. The first one is about a tour guide who took her to his home. Can you imagine not knowing how things work so hard you would let a bus driver take you to his house? And then writing a book on how things work!? Can you imagine being such a sexless drip you could SEE A BUS DRIVER’S DOGS AND IT WAS THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE TRIP THAT INSPIRED YOUR BOOK ABOUT FUCKING!?

Okay, I want you to imagine one more thing. You’re a woman actually interested in dating a Jamaican man. You don’t know how to brush your teeth or apply lipstick. Your vulva is a wreck. You sometimes wonder, racistly, which kind of ethnic food Jamaicans eat. You have been soaking up all of this helpful information, getting ready to just howl in pain under an unfaithful Steve of your own. And then you get to this pointless story about the time some absentminded dumbshit borrowed a cell phone. I can’t picture a more perfect audience for this book, and yet I still think you’re wondering what the hell is going on.

We’re almost done with this cosmically insane spectacle, and if you’ve been following Empress Yuajah’s instructions, you’re now getting married.

Empress wants you to know that like every other thing that has ever been, she has no expertise in immigration law. This is only a rough guideline she got from a friend, as if the fucking rest of the book wasn’t. As if she hadn’t made that clear on every page of this thing. Anyway, you can try marrying him in Jamaica? Give it a shot, she doesn’t know.

She’s also been told you can do something with a lawyer maybe? Again she was only told this, but it should take about the same amount of time as marrying him without an immigration(,) lawyer. It’s clear you’ve made a great decision if you’re planning your wedding with How to Date a Jamaican Man. Empress has covered everything, but there’s still a little bit more you need to know…

I guess this last part is mostly an apology. She’s sorry for not looking any of this up before she made it an entire chapter of her book. Speaking of looking things up, it’s 2012. Maybe pick up a copy of the Yellow Pages or a Caribbean newspaper?

If Empress ended her book here I would be happy. This series of wrong guesses is a perfect wrap up. Future civilizations may discover someone dumber than Empress Yuajah, but no one will ever say less. And yet this is not how she ended her book. It is my great honor to show you Chapter Also Not Numbered: Sex with a JM FOR the First Time:

Look at it. Take it in. During her research, the author of How to Date a Jamaican Man discovered you can do sex with the girl “on top” and those are her emphasis quotes. She’s telling you like you need to get ready for it. You can’t fuck less than this. Steve had to teach this woman how to unhook her own bra. 

Ha ha ha ha Steve can’t fuck either. The world’s squarest virgin laid there judging her first lay as he jackhammered her into the Jean-Claude Van Damme splits. “He looked so happy doing it,” is brutal. By Jamaican law, Steve has to cut his dick off.

Ha ha ha ha ha this woman believed everything Steve told her. She got picked up by Jamaica’s least attentive lover and now she’ll be wrong about sex until she dies. “I’m sorry about the smell,” she’ll whisper to the many cats on her lap. “Da poom poom renk like me piss up myself, yuh know,” she’ll add after looking the phrase up in a Caribbean newspaper.

This is wonderful. We know what Steve’s dick looks like and that he blames premature ejaculation on the extra sensitivity afforded him by his foreskin. And, again, we learn it is quite painful when he puts it in you. He is hung, uninterested in foreplay, and not really paying attention to the signals you’re giving off.

I am having the best time watching this woman try to extrapolate an entire culture’s mating rituals from her flailing first attempt at casual sex. Let’s see how she sums up everything she learned:

Hahahahahahaha holy fucking shit. As if it would be anything else. Perfection.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

The Best Hot Dogs of 2022: Fucking Day 🌭

Fuck you. We mean that sincerely, it comes from the core of our sacral chakra, which is the one that controls the balls. Get fucked. That’s what we hope for you in the upcoming year, and if that doesn’t happen, at least you can go fuck yourself. Here’s to all the good Fucking Days we’ve had, and the many great Fucking Days to come. 

Oh we should’ve spelled that differently. It would’ve been cute. 

Best of 2022 Fucking Day #1: Diebel Blog by Seanbaby

This is the article that finally made Don Diebel take legal action against Seanbaby. He issued copyright strikes and takedown notices to the 1900HOTDOG hosting service and Patreon. Our host will never give a shit, but Patreon, like every major media platform, errs on the side of pulling content at the first complaint. We explained the situation reasonably to Patreon, cited legal precedent, basic logic, and the actual letter of the law, and then hovered over the delete button, knowing what was coming next. They fucking sided with us! It’s the first time that’s ever happened in the history of modern IP enforcement! We’ll have to word this very carefully now that we know Don Diebel is reading it, ready to take legal action: Hahahahahahahahaha-

Best of 2022 Fucking Day #2: How to Pick Up Japanese Girls by Seanbaby

“Do NOT read or attempt to read this book if you are: a female, a boring conservative type, simple-minded, LGBT, a feminist, a non-player, a devout religious person, a weak pussy or if you suffer from any other types of bullshit sensitivity factors.” Those aren’t our words, that’s how this Japanese phrasebook starts. That’s how this Japanese phrasebook. Starts. If you bought this assuming it’d teach you to say “I think you’re super neat, do you like to ride go-karts” in Japanese, what you’ll actually learn are the Japanese words for “don’t thank me, thank my cock!” and “I am in jail for NOT sex crimes, I have done normal crimes. Do not listen to the police.” 

Best of 2022 Fucking Days #3: Hunk Boat by Seanbaby

Quick, what’s the best vehicle for hunks? Dune buggy? You idiot, you god damn idiot. These hunks will be quickly nude, they’d knock themselves unconscious with their huge floppy dongs on the first jump. A hang glider? That is begging, absolutely begging for raptors to attack their huge floppy dongs. Think this through. You know the answer: It’s houseboat. Placid houseboat, the perfect vehicle for huge floppy dongs and tight buns to cavort. It actually might be illegal to rent a houseboat for non-cavorting purposes. 

Best of 2022 Fucking Day #4: Dick Fight Island 2 Part 1 by Brockway

In 2021 Brockway introduced us all to Dick Fight Island. We showed up ready to laugh at the elaborate dick armor, but fell in love with the rich worldbuilding, dense characters, and the complicated but relatable ways they jacked each other off in battle. We returned in 2022 ready for more Ultimate Cockfighter and were ambushed once again by a complex weave of relationships that mostly dealt with the messy aftermath and psychological fallout of participating in a dickfighting kumite. 

Is this
 is Dick Fight Island art??

Best of 2022 Fucking Day #5: Dick Fight Island 2 Part 2 by Brockway

Yes, it is.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: How to Talk Dirty 🌭

In 1909 James Joyce wrote to his wife extensively about how much he loved her “tiny little naughty farties.” It’s the strangest, filthiest, and also sweetest collection of love letters in all of history. Since we no longer have to write out our appreciation for our spouse’s “upturned rump,” the art of dirty talk is at risk of fading into obscurity. Luckily, a courageous writer named Juicy Queen is here to try and revive it.

Technically the full title of this book is Dirty Talk: Over 400 Examples and Quotes Of Dirty Talk And Sext That Are Proven To Make Your Lover Go Crazy & Give You Maximum Pleasure & Joy Tonight. Wow, that’s a really long
wait; sorry, there’s more. Learn The Guide To A Great Sex With Your Man Or Woman And Lustful Language Expressions. The title of this book is a full paragraph long! Diving into it, I expected that to be the kind of rich, descriptive language I would be greeted with, and yet what I got was


Now I’m worried that people think I was dirty talking to them if I said yep too enthusiastically. It’s the exclamation point that makes it so horny, right? If you say yep, it’s normal, but yep! Calm down, you lascivious maniac. It does get dirtier than yep right away, but it doesn’t get any more impressive. 

If you need a book to tell you to say, “shit, I’m cumming” during sex, I don’t know that you’re human. Everyone on earth is born with certain phrases encoded into our DNA, and “shit, I’m cumming” is one of them. This is like telling someone to say AAAHH when you see a clown in a haunted house or, “Oh my God, my roommate just texted that my car is on fire,” if a guy dressed like Criss Angel asks for your phone number. It’s just unnecessary. Nature told us to do that. 

Now you may be asking yourself, has Juicy Queen already run out of good dirty talk by number eight in this book of over four hundred examples and quotes of dirty talk and sext? Don’t worry, my friend, the numbering system in this book is super weird and sometimes non-existent. Sometimes it’s just a pile of dirty words that don’t even go together. 

I love that this book isn’t afraid to ask tough questions like, “How do your corners work?” I have no idea how to answer that. Fine for front stuff? For a moment, this sentence made me think maybe this book had been run through an auto translator, but if you were going to steal a book about dirty talk, wouldn’t you choose a better one? Maybe something that doesn’t read like it was written by an AI who learned everything it knows about human sexuality from gas station t-shirts.

That summary might be unfair. Not everything in this book has a gas station t-shirt vibe. There’s also a bunch of dirty talk that sounds like it’s specifically aimed at an old-timey gold prospector or perhaps an 1800s oil baron you’re trying to persuade to write you into his will. 

Trousers, underpants, pornographic videos? Is this how fancy people sext? If I were going to try and fuck the old rich guy from the Monopoly box, I think this is definitely how I would go about it. The part where it says, “shoving my trouser down your throat,” is a bit concerning to me because I think trousers refers to the whole pant. Shoving an entire pair of pants in someone’s mouth doesn’t seem super sexy to me. It seems difficult. It would probably be a fun challenge, but not an ideal sexual activity to make your partner eat an entire pair of pants. The point is, when this goes wrong the police will assume you are good at murdering, not terrible at fucking.

You know a series of sentences must be truly baffling when I don’t mention the phrase hungry hole straight away. Hungry hole is not even on radar at this point. That’s where we are in this book. I’m fine with hungry hole. When you’re choking to death on pants, hungry hole is normal.

The deeper you get into How To Talk Dirty, the more you begin to question your knowledge of anatomy. I don’t want to brag, but I’ve had sex, and as such, I thought I had a fairly good understanding of where most of the important parts are on the human body and what you’re expected to do with those parts in a sexual situation. It turns out that might not be the case. I have no idea what’s going on in this paragraph, for instance. 

The Rubik’s cube of the human body doesn’t turn this way in my head. Which hole is the unnerving entrance? Which hole is the perfect one? And in this scenario, I think there are a lot more holes, and I don’t know where they go. Is this person fucking SpongeBob SquarePants? 

The math this book makes me do in my head is harder than when I was studying for the ACT. Ok, if there are two people, it’s at least four holes, up to 6 holes, and women actually have like three down there, so, two people… assuming they’re both women, I guess we could be looking at up to 20 potential holes? No, wait, that’s not right. If one hole leaves the train station at midnight


I’ve decided I would like this book to apologize for what it’s just done to my brain. Luckily there’s a whole section on apologizing for the strange things you might have dirty misspoken in the heat of the moment. That’s right, they built the apologies for the book right into the book. That’s the kind of forethought we don’t usually expect from this type of author.

It’s really funny that the book doesn’t need any context for these apologies. It knows you will read the apology and automatically know exactly what you did and that you will need this apology for that action. I would love to see a more detailed apology with some mystery to it, like, “It was not cool that I didn’t ask to use the catapult or tell you what would happen if the catapult malfunctioned in such a horrific way. I should have asked if you were allergic to bees earlier in the process, but I was swept up in the moment and didn’t consider that this would cause so many issues.” 

There are so many actions in this book that should lead to apologies, especially if your target audience needs to be told “shit, I’m cumming” is a thing you could say during sex. If that’s the target audience, everything else in the book needs to be very specific. And yet, they’ve left so much room for error. 

The one thing I like about the phrasing of “I just masturbated in your honor” is that it immediately puts the reader’s expectations where they should be. Starting with “in your honor” could be catastrophic because going into the sentence that way builds the anticipation that maybe someone has donated a statue to a botanical garden in your honor or named a star in your honor. Here’s the vibrant language I was searching for in How To Talk Dirty, and you know what? I don’t like it. Maybe it’s the [insert sexual action here] first? The typical reader of this book will end up constructing a sentence like, “trouser swallowing, I just masturbated in your honor.”

Another thing this book should apologize for is the “emoji sex” section. It includes a bunch of gross and over-explanatory descriptions of emojis and their potential uses in sexual situations.  

Yeah, I got it. But the truly horrific thing is the big fake emojis which don’t exist used to illustrate the chapter. They’re there for some extra pizazz, I guess. A little extra dash of decoration, like a cardboard cutout of Elvis in the corner of a vintage shop for some reason, but instead of Elvis, it’s the thumbs up emoji with an enormous yellow hard on. I don’t know if we can post this on Patreon, but my current thought process is if I had to see this, so do you. Maybe we can edit it so he’s holding a big baseball bat or something? 

Editor’s Note: We already had a picture of you fighting a snake. And then we can add another snake for the balls.

Maybe right now you’re thinking, surely that’s the creepiest thing in this book, and while it’s the most lasting image, there is one more piece of dirty talk I’d like to leave you with. This is advanced level dirty talk you shouldn’t try unless you’re very sure what you’re getting into. It will definitely ensure the person you say it to never forgets you. 

Folks, that’s it for me. I have to go unlearn all that I have learned to be able to speak like a normal person again. Or, as the writer of this book would say [Insert sexual action here] in your honor I will be performing the forever screams tonight.

…

This article is brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Joshua Graves, who is mouthful of trouser sexy.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: SUPERSEX! 🌭

Well how-hot-dog-do-ya to-ya its me Sissyneck, today we’re just gonna say right off the bat here that this article is one in the 1900HOTDOG Marital Aid series (its not TOO dirty, a few notches above a Tanya Roberts PG maybe) so take your regular percautions, whether thats making the browser window real small right in the corner of you’re work computer screen and reading the whole thing in kinda a sweaty panic, or taking a longish bathroom break with your phone or hell: me and LaRene have learnt that sometimes you might SAY your readin something saucy as a goof but it might turn out your homogenous zones dont get the message its just a joke and honestly: thats just good fun. So maybe if you got the time an privacy an inclination: go ahead and put on your softest flannel and set up your backrest pillow and perhaps some sensual music and take your time reading this one to yourself or to a willin pard or even as we shall see: pards.

So today we will be considerin a book of the type you might have found in the closet of your friends older brother-in-law who had boobie-mags or the back room of a used bookstore they would kick you out if they found you in there or even, depending on your upbringins, your parents had a copy in their nightstand, which is:

You may recall that we have happen up on Xaviera in our past adventures, she was sellin some labious jewelries and in case you dont know, she was pretty famous: she wrote a advice column for Penthouse because of she was qualified by her history of being a sexworker who got arrested and deported but first she ran a brothel called The Vertical Whorehouse. Which I don’t know if it was the house that was vertical or the workers or her marketing strategy because she also had a board-game:

And wrist-watches for maybe a cool bachelor uncle who would get upset if someone asked him can you please not wear that one to the wedding ceremony:

(He’d still wear it I think and kinda nudge you and show you every time its 3:15 or 6:35 or whatever and you’d laugh despite or account a because its getting uncomfortable.)

And Xaviera also had a musical perswasian (careful if you click on that one it is safe but the song WILL get in your head and you might not realize your singing it out loud and try to explain to your coworkers its a unreleased Queen song but i don’t think they believed me.)

Anyway back to books, she also wrote a BUNCH of them and I for a while thought it might be another Franklin W. Dixon betrayal where your favorite writer turns out to be a dumb committee but it looks like Xaviera is real and still alive actually!

The internet has some new versions of SUPERSEX but mine is from 1971 itself. I found it at the Friends of the Libary booksale and was a little nervous about who would see me buy it so i also got about 12 James Michener novels for camouflauge (and a nice Chet Atkins double LP I didn’t know they sold vinyl) anyway my copy has a warm inscription:

Which the mind reels a bit with speculation doesn’t it, about Michael and Mimi and John and how they came to be the type of friends that would give such a gift with such a message did Mimi and John perhaps give their buddy Michael a ride home from the circuit finals rodeo in ‘73 and the excitement and heat of that august night and the earthy smells of Wrangler and wool and truck seat cover there with Mimi in the middle and all three of em not looking at but completely aware of that extra long extra slender gear shifter with the handle-knob on top worn smooth from Johns expert touch just BUZZIN there against Mimi’s thigh until she can’t keep it in anymore: a soft moan escapes her rural lips and she clutches em both by the leg and then they did look and at each other too and with a meaningful slight smile John turnt on the blinker and off onto a side road none of them had never dreamed they’d ever travel, let alone, together


Ah well let’s get er back on track here and see if we can’t learn something to enrich our bedroom times.

This book is actually pretty dents with information so i’ll break it down into manageful chunks so you can get the main themes and flavors:

Erotick Celebrity Guest Stars

Xaviera understand that fame is sometimes its own sexual dynamite and so she sprinkles her books with some tarantalizin cameos guaranteed to red your blood right up for example:

Sound the arousal siren! Thats powerful sexual but in way as maybe a David Letterman type might say ‘we got a woody here’ real sly with a part of a smile that let’s you inside the joke so you could snicker when even your grandma was was around so’s you had pausable denyability. 

Weeee-ooo-weeee-ooo what a dirty-boy maybe more like Benjamin Fucklin!? No, that one felt like me trying to hard to fit in with the other dirty jokers around here. C’mon Sissyneck to your OWN voice be truth! 

Who turned off the arousal siren?  Seriously turn it back on this right-here is a erotic gravel pit of pleasure-treasure.

Yes another thing that is not for women only is: Barbara Walters! NOW we are getting wet/hard/wide/etc.

Consensual or Nonsensual?

Well another recurrant theme is that it appears that maybe thinking has changed over time about what is okay to do without asking for example:

I mean MAAAAAYBE with a lot of communication ahead of time and pre-consent and boundaries and trust and such but even then I think we could probably still find a better name.

Yes again I know clear and direct communication is not super-sexy purrsay but it might be worth it to avoid some issues and also our cover IS attractive and fluffy but I feel like Nemo starin up into our openins might make me self-conscience.

The Unbidden Snowball eh? Well this one is maybe at least a equality in sexual ambush but still.

I played this one out in my head: okay so it’s me and lets say Doyle Jensen talkin about this ahead of time and agreein to set it up? Out-loud promising no motel monkey business (a fib), which is pretty-much a knowledgement that the person promisin it thought about motel monkey business? LaRene and Marjorie bein up for non-private monkey business?  Me and Doyle bein up for monkey business in the company of Doyle and me, respectively? Sorry Xaviera its just red lights all the way down this street.

The Times They Have a Changed

Now I am not pretending I am the most super-experienced sexual Lutharion and I am happy to think that there are things I never heard about that would be interestin to try with a gameful pard, but some of these I just dont know if theyre a thing like:

I’m not saying puttin fun parts in untraditional places isnt done but these specific instructions about you also either got to pretend to run very fast or do whatever dance that is? Well let me look it up here don’t tell the librarian.

Okay I found lots of videos of armpit pleasurin but no sprintin about like the t1000 or dancin while doin so, so.

Well we got all sorts of judgements in this one around orientation and identity and genitals and then sure while your being mean I guess why not top it off with some racism at the end but also just: really? Hold on I’m lookin this one up too tell me if the librarian starts coming over.

Now I’m not claimin my search was exhaustive but I didnt see any empiracial support for this one.

So I dont know why we’re given credit to our Albionese cousins for this one and personally I have both those items equipped but I feel like you really dont want to introduce certain funguses to certain membranes but maybe other people
hold on again keep an eye out.

Okay so this one is definitely a thing I guess today is a Learning Day for sissyneck, good for you adventuresome folks out there enjoyin your good toenail health!

This one I think even Xaviera maybe realized she went too far and was propagandin some sexy myths because



she backs off the jellyfish thing pretty quick and kinda disowns it like: ew who would even do that but you know what DOES feel good? is stingin nettle on your butt-cheeks and then someone hits you there, which: c’mon now.

Nope nope I was wrong I just looked there are many many videos and practitioners of nettle-play out there. The world is wider than I knew and I am enhumbled.  I still doubt about the jellyfish though.

Yes this seems like some silly 70s-style psychoanalacysts. You know what else is a tight coil? Most duck’s johnsons but i dont think anyone is sayin that means all waterfoul are into butt stuff. 

Lets just say that maybe the written parts of SUPERSEX are kinda a mixed bag. But luckily Xaviera understands the sexual mind is not only a organ of words and text but pictures are also pretty important. If you do buy the new computersized version of this book it is my for-sincerely hope that it includes the original illustrations by one Robert Baxter who as a artist is real talented and made me interested in his style (bet you never thought you’d find ol sissyneck spending his library computer time searchin up Egon Schiele). My only thing is, sometimes his facial expressions
well I just don’t know if the first word you want to think of when your looking at the faces of sexy picture people is: Haunted. 

Here I will show you, we will make this interactive like a 90s Osha training, first we’ll see the expression by itself and you guess with me what is the context and then we will look at the answer, ready? Ok: My guess for above would be: “Prince Gloom realizes the pitysome hag he just pushed over the battlement wall was, in ironic fact, his beloved Unicorn Princess, transfiggerd by a evil curse.”  

But really:

Okay how about this one:

Um maybe: “Debra contemplates that she didn’t not only inherit her mother’s passtive-agresstive tendencys but also her eye bags.”  

But really:

Okay next is:

“Hell Jake, I’m startin’ to doubt if we’ll ever get these beeves up to Missoula now that we lost Cal to them water moccasins and I never told him but he was my best friend too.”  

But really:

Another one is:

“Dearheart, I anticipationed that that fart would be of a mild odor or at worst moderate I did not realize the chorcheezo had completed its passage of me I am so sorry and ashame. Forgive me my love.”

Also probably shes saying: “No never.”

But really:

Okay one more it is our last chance:

“It is painful for me to consider there might not be a place for such as I in this party I was excited might accept me.”

But really:

Oh hey, we got one right!

But not all of em has everybody despaired, for instance she looks pretty happy:

Which with that one the mind reels a bit with speculation doesn’t it? About we can kinda imagine if we were at the Friends of the Libary book-sale and asked a volunteer: any chance of good Louis Lamours this year? And he said I heard theres some rare items of what you seek back in the Collectors Corner and pointed but he kinda winked weird when he said it and even a touch of the fey ‘bout his puckish smile and when we looked back to thank him he was nowhere to be seen, and then when we entered the Collectors Corner there wasnt anyone else in there which thats unusual but there was a sign saying “GOOD COWBOY BOOKS” with a arrow pointing up one of them book ladders so we started to assend and as we climbed we could smell the familiar and welcome book-sale odor of delicate folds long bound in darkness but ready for discovery with just a touch of damp but also a LESS familiar but just as welcome odor of delicate folds long bound in darkness but ready nay achin for discovery with much more than just a touch of damp and our hand reaches the final rung and


Well anyway we better keep going there’s another important lesson the artist Baxter teaches us, I suspect with the input of Xaviera herself which is the powerful erotic potential of: Upholstery Patterns. 

But not every illustration is in need of such adornament a good artist knows when NOT to guild the lily for example:

Which with that one the mind reels a bit with speculation doesn’t it


You know I wonder


Uh-oh:

Welp there tellin me I got to leave the library now in the name of jesus christ amen.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Nash 🌭

Wrestler Kevin Nash is many things: Tall. Diesel. Super-Shredder. Probably not the bad guy from Avatar. Last of the giants from the frozen North? I leave it to wrestling fans to answer these mysteries, because my nerdery is comic books. That means I only know Nash as one thing: a man who will pleasure tattily clad women. The Gospel of Nash tells us of his almighty cocksmanship in 1999’s Nash, written by, and starring, Kevin Nash as Kevin Nash, and drawn by the many-headed dragon of the ’90s known as Not Quite Rob Liefeld.

If Snake Plissken and Mad Max had a baby, Nash would be the poorly shot home movie of that baby’s conception by your hot wife’s bull lover. It’s your standard post-apocalyptic One Man action-adventure dystopian western, except its title character is only here to bone down; fighting oppressive regimes is just his love language. Nash doesn’t fail the Bechdel Test so much as seduce it with a swaggering confidence that all lesbians haven’t met the right penis yet.

“But what is the plot?” I hear you asking. And if I ever find out, you will hear my cry of disappointment. Baby, the Nash simply is. Like the heroes of antiquity and City Dragons of our childhoods, fights are merely inconvenient interruptions to his partying. The best I can tell you is sometime before the comic started, Nash got sick of doing The Man’s dirty work and became a folk hero outside of the domed cities where REAL America scrabbles to suck nutrients out of the dust. 

Our protagonist is a sensitive, indestructible lay-about who has Superman’s fortititude and Batman’s skills, but devotes his life to kumbayah down by the fire. If he saves your settlement, you’re stuck with him. He only moves on to the next village after he’s fully impregnated the last one. 

Nash has no objectives, motives, plan, or prophylactics. His nemesis finds him more useful alive, and his ex is too hung up on him to risk his ire. As long as he repels the occasional attack on the village that’s passive-aggressively hinting he should move on, it’s all repartee and orgies, you groovy cats. 

Obviously I love this comic. 

Let’s meet the characters!


A+ villain name, take a cookie. Our evil mastermind of this hellworld is a complete cipher. The book tries to keep him in the shadows as a big bad while his daughter runs his empire, but she’s plainly covering up that her dad is brain-dead. If there had been an issue three, Nash would have revealed Cyrus to be a husk in a life-support pod, which means he could be played by almost any wrestler over 30. 

Cyrus Storm’s daughter and Nash’s former lover. She’s blonde, busty, and cokerail-thin, but even that is describing more personality than she has. To call her tits on a lighthouse would suggest she projects anything useful. Yet somehow, she’s the most morally complex character, musing that good and evil are a useful illusion shared by a selfless freedom fighter with a dick straight out of Sumerian myth and a puritanically authoritarian hypocrite who bombs whole towns in the desert. I—I
wait, oh dammit, Nash really predicted the New American Century.

All the bad guys in this book have widow’s peaks and slicked-back hair, but only Parch has Alex Jones’s gorilla-tits torso. We meet him molesting an altar boy for laughs. He rules over an entire city of religious fanatics, and weirdly, it’s not Birmingham. Los Angeles has changed in the futuristic world of 2023. 

He’s positioned as the right-hand man’s enforcer, but will actually turn out to be the main villain, Robocop-style. Trax is made of chewing gum and heavy. Sometimes he looks like The Rock, other times he resembles Walton Goggins. The only constant is his scowl for all the world. He doesn’t love power, he just hates all things that are not Trax. 

Don’t get too attached.

Jared’s uncle and leader of this ragtag passel of human vermin. And yet
they have pride and self-restraint. Perhaps enough to make an army that will yet topple the Citadel. If they find one true man to lead them. No!…one LEGEND.

She’s sultry, she’s Asian maybe, she’s a hired killer. Nash has sex with at least four women in two issues and even the one who tries to kill him doesn’t get a name. I’ve decided to call her Nadia, though Nash simply refers to her as Bitch.

Look, there’s no easy way for 1999’s Nashiest comic book to tell you this: 2000 was the beginning of the end. That was the year Cyrus Storm culled humanity, via some kind of selective nanotech plague, to prevent the food shortages that happened anyway. The elite survivors erected massive globes over major cities, while shipping food from farms in the wastelands, where everyone is starving, and I already have so many logistical questions about how this world works before the comic actually starts.

Honestly, you’re only selling me on this Storm visionary who tried to stave off world hunger. I’m going to need to hear more about his eugenics program’s criteria before I disapprove. For all we know he selected for altruism and empathy. Like, are all the billionaires dead? He seems to have condensed all of the world’s religious fanatics into a fishbowl under an ineffectual clown, and they’re not allowed to leave. So far, I’m an admirer. 

Through this dark future world of 2023 strides Nash, ex-agent of the Citadel, which is either a place or a group. It’s unclear, and frankly a mistake when it could have been called The New World Order. Get it together, Nash. Vince McMahon can’t sue you when you’re an outlaw of the Wastelands.

Showing up seconds too late to save an old woman from being shot in the face, Nash force feeds her killer a plasma grenade while her grandson Jared watches with an eerie cheerfulness. It’s like other people aren’t real to him. That’s when the little psycho’s uncle shows up, cursing the murdered woman (his own mom?) as a fool. But hey: free food truck!

Back in the City of Faithful, Deacon Minister Parch is furious about the stolen food shipment. His right-hand man is Trax, who hates Nash, despises Parch, and wants Nash’s old job working directly for the Storms, even though nobody else seems to have it? This is all getting a bit Game of Thrones. Parch orders retaliatory troopers into the wasteland to reclaim his food even if he has to obliterate it. Compounding his foolishness, he strikes at dawn, meaning there’s a 105% chance the attack will interrupt Nash’s most important meal of the day: sex. 

Sure enough, we get our first Nashfuckface. The concentration of this man on her pleasure—by God, I’ve never seen its like. This is sexual solicitude of the first order. Nothing can—

PAAAAAARRRRRRCH! 

Death from above should have thought twice before interrupting Nash pre-ejaculation. That’s just going to make him mad. Your only chance of survival is striking in the afterglow, when all men know the unbearable sadness of clarity. 

Using his grappling disc, Nash takes to the skies and bombkicks through the hydrofoil cockpit of a hoverjetcopter. It’s pretty flippin’ sweet, you guys! And I know from sweet; I bought a used BMX when I was 33.

To keep things fair, Nash kamikazes his skyjacked deathcopter into its helibuddy. He then skydives without a chute to extra-murder the freefalling pilot, because Nash is a perfectionist who worries his foes’ last minutes will be spent in terror instead of agony. Orgasms, a horrifying death
both get Nash’s fullest effort as long as someone’s screaming. 

The remaining chopper, terrified that Nash will turn his rage on gravity itself and punch the primal forces of the universe to death, bravely sacrifices itself to distract him. Its pilot? None other than Mr. J. Hieronymous Trax, Esq. 

Nash fight-plunges seven stories for the second time in as many minutes, only this time he hits the ground. Don’t worry! The ground is okay. So is Trax, who shoots Nash, but all that happens is he gets blown through a wall. The banter isn’t memorable, but even the non-fucking parts of this comic are fun. We’re having fun. This is fun. Is this kayfabe?

Nash fights some hovermonks, and in the time it took your brain to respond, “What a great concept!” he wrecked their shit for them. Ha ha ha! Who else ya got, God? 

But! That is when Nash is perforated by bullets. And the comic ends, gasping
”Wh-who?” Stay tuned for the big reveal in Nash #2, coming at you
RIGHT NOW!

Who could have gotten the drop on our h–oh, it’s Trax again.  

Our cliffhanger was just the unvanquished foe that Nash had turned his back on. Fooey.

Pulling anti-tank ordnance out of hammerspace, Trax shot Nash with harmless “mercy bullets.” We never find out how they harmlessly puncture a man! Don’t look back, focus on the road called Nash. Trax wants Nash to take down the non-Trax parts of the system so that Trax can rule it.

Killing Parch’s hovermonks is a classic Starscream maneuver, and I think we have a pretty intriguing setup here. There are four bad guys, each of whom is about a third allied with any two of the others. It’s a Michigan standoff, boys! 

Trax teleports home while the villagers begin to rethink their “We need a hero” policy.

In half a day the settlers go from welcoming the legendary Nash to hinting that he ought to leave. We can all agree their fears are bullshit. They knew repercussions were coming the minute they swiped a SysCo-brand comestibles ‘n’ combustibles conveyance for the noms inside.

Tara is watching this unfold through some kind of Eye of God camera that can see anything. Perhaps it’s mounted on the monks’ armor? But this means she must know Trax slew Parch’s men? None of my questions about this backstory are answered by my questions about the now-story.

Point being, the year is 2023, and without smartphones, technology has advanced at an incredible pace despite social collapse. You switch to a sandwich-based economy, and everybody’s capable of great things. Great things indeed, like Avalon, the flying city! Its teleporter beam! The invulnerable Nash! And of course, his six-minute refractory period. 

Which is how we know their real problem is Nash eating all their food and banging every woman in the village. Look at this panel:

Every single man is glowering at Gilganash here. The conversation orbits around Nash’s groin, because his balls exude gravitational waves. This comic waxes romantic on his Kegel muscles so much, it was named 1999 valedictorian at esthetician school. Comic Book Nash could find a way to brag about his dick game while helping you select a child’s casket. And this universe agrees with him! It’s the horniest apocalypse since 1994’s Dr. Strangelove 2: The Strangest Love.

Tara and her daddy issues teleport Kevin up to Avalon without his consent to let him know that no man, no legend, will ever fill the internal demolition he left in her heart. It goes well:

Back at camp, Nash and more nameless women who exist only to jump on his lap are having a foursome. Nash asks one why he hasn’t seen her before, but forgets to ask why no one else in town has either. It will surprise you very little to learn she’s evil, and even less to learn nothing else about her. 

Nash wakes to find that she has slain the other women and drugged him after partaking of his post-apocalyptic phallus. The women of the future sure act like the men of the now. 

There is a hotly contested pistol that vanishes and reappears while they brawl. It ends when she suddenly gets really religious and points the gun at Jared’s temple. Nash talks her down, like the hero h—

Wow! Okay, this book really has a handle on America in the 2020s. She shoots Nash next, but come on, it’s Nash. He has so much muscle mass his internal organs are safe from radiation. Anything under .50 cal is, relatively speaking, a mercy bullet. 

Oh, and all of this infanticide makes Nadia’s nipples so tight aerospace engineers copied their design for rivets. This is the apocalypse we could have been living through. 

Nash banters with this despicable woman, but his heart isn’t in it, since Jared’s one intact eye is staring at him accusingly, and it’s been at least two hours since our hero drained his balls.

Nash’s agony is such that he can barely muster quips while we leer at this child murderer’s smoldering breast. He vows vengeance to you, our reader, and it turned out he was the monster at the end of this book all along.

And that’s it! Both issues of Nash, a comic that showed up, charged $100 for a platinum foil edition, and vanished with all our questions compounded like Nash’s last six simultaneous lovers. It is a bafflement where this story is going—or rather, where 80% of it went before we got here. This book’s editor interferes only slightly less than the average WWE referee. 

Fortunately, editing comics well and drawing them badly are two of my four non-sexual skills as well as both of my sexual skills. And I have two decades of experience in 21st-century apocalypses ruled by the 1% in partnership with theofascists. I think that’s all we need to divine the ending we were denied. I can’t draft sci-fi vehicles, or even any car that isn’t a VW Rabbit, but I can trace a potato, so I’m more than qualified to draw every one of these characters.

Yes, that tingle below your navel is correct. The story of Nash will not stand incomplete. No longer will you toil through life with uncertainty gnawing at your soul: resolution is here, my Hot Doggos, in a satire that, for legal reasons, I should probably call N’ash. It’s HAPPENING! RIIIIIIGHT! NOOOOOOOWWWWWW!!!!!

Thanks for Nashing with us, Nashsters!

Brendan has a store now if you’re itching to buy the original art to this comic, prints, sketches, script, and more, or just commission a drawing to woo your one true love. (Seriously, that’s a real thing people have hired him to do.)

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: M Jahi Chappell, who is known as the Kevin Nash of the local 4-H Club.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: The Hunk Boat 🌭

Let’s talk about the 1995 film THE HUNK BOAT. It’s about “five hot frat buddies” sharing a houseboat for a weekend where clothing is not just optional, it’s penis! Where the waves aren’t the only loose, wet shapes growing mold on a boat! Sorry, these aren’t great loglines. The front of the box screams, “SET SAIL ABOARD THE U.S.S BEEFCAKE FOR THE HUNKIEST CRUISE OF ALL TIME!” which was already a masterpiece of salesmanship.

Maximum hotdoggers may recognize THE HUNK BOAT from the last time I tried to review it and the tape didn’t work. Well, I fixed it*. Which means buns. Which means possible flopping dongs. Which means if someone comes up behind you while you’re reading this, those are the two things you’ll be talking about. The title THE HUNK BOAT is not a trick. If anything, it says too much.

* Don’t ask me how, but I could only get the cursed cassette to play through a hÌŽÌĄÍÌ™ÌÌ‰Ío̶ÌșÌ„Í›l̟̩͍̎̈́̓ę̞͖͍͐̄ in a 1995 hunk calendar.

We open on Warren Scott, nudely practicing his “What I Did Over Summer Vacation” speech. Warren is 31 years old, so this is either a 4th grader who was held back 22 times or a strange way to frame your sex boat video.

With the oratory skills you’d expect from someone who saw this set and decided to take off his clothes and stay, Warren asks, “Can you imagine… five rowdy guys? All alone. In the middle of nowhere?” Then he pauses. Much longer than you’d think. Longer than it should take to imagine even six rowdy guys. “I’m not going to be able to tell everything that happened in this report,” he finally adds, the emphasis on all the wrong words. He wants this to suggest all these best pals were fucking, but the real subtext is, “Reading is a struggle for me; I’ve always been more of a moist hole learner.” The important takeaways are these: these idiots are really committing to the creepy school report bit and all sexual intimacy will be, at best, vaguely implied. Welcome to THE HUNK BOAT.

“No hardcore action.” It’s the final sentence on the back of THE HUNK BOAT‘s box, and it inadequately prepares viewers for its chaste, almost childlike approach to nudity. It’s like someone at a Lake Mead Tourist Board meeting jumped up to suggest, “Let’s add more taints, right? Confused, naked dummies and the backs of their balls!” before remembering they were the entire Lake Mead Tourist Board.

Before we get to that, let’s do a hunk roll call.

Warren Scott you’ve met. His four “frat buddies” are Michael Golden, Joshua Matt, Robert Allen, and Tico Cordova. That’s five men, eight first names, and zero romantic chemistry. This video looks like five dudes having a normal weekend at the lake except they said yes to a guy at the water ski rental place who offered them eight hundred bucks if they did it naked and let him film it.

I’m not sure why they’re so coy about things. Maybe it was so they could market this obviously softcore gay pornography to stupid women? But, I mean, this was 1995, not 1992. They could just make gay pornography. There was no need to create this secret beef code to sneak it into a fishing video. The entire first ten minutes is a series of excuses to get them, five regular joes, to take their dicks out. For instance:

They get the dongs started by having Warren stand on the deck of the U.S.S. Beefcake, waving wildly at a couple on a nearby boat. “Hi, guys! Hi! I’m Warren! I’m 31 and three quarters and I got a B in vocabulary! Sometimes my friends pull down my swimming trunks to show everyone my no-no tube! Uh oh! Like I was say-ing!”

And look, I’ve been on enough lake trips to know how hard it is to transition into a boat orgy. You can’t just rip the shorts off the dumbest guy and hope for the best. And sure enough, Warren’s flopping hog does nothing to get things going. The bros and dudes go back in the cabin and play a few hours of no-stakes, platonic man poker. It is objectively bad television, but then they come up with the inspired decision to have the guy with the worst hand get naked and “get out there and do some jumping jacks, bro. Right now.” Which means we are two penises into an all-male adult film and everyone is still pretending to have never heard of Gay.

Here’s what’s crazy. The couple in the boat are still there! Have they been hanging around for three hours while the hunks played poker hoping to see some more dick? If so, a naked Robert bursting into the sunlight to shake his junk at them has to be a better-case scenario than they could have hoped for. Think of the victory this must have been for one of them. “Honey, leave the anchor where it is. We’re not fighting about this anymore! There are five studs on that boat and it’s only a matter of time before another one of them gets out on that deck and shows us what he’s got. I don’t care when your mother was expecting us ba– see!? See, right there! Look at that fat dick! I fucking told you so.”

And that’s it for the first day of this erotic houseboat journey. They cut to the next morning, where Warren is sleeping alone. He has no covers and like Winnie the Pooh, he is wearing only a t-shirt and a boner.  Through voiceover, he jokes about how his big, dumb erection gets in the way as he sleepily gets some juice. He says he isn’t embarrassed, though; because he learned on this trip that the other guys get them too. So holy fucking shit, these 30-year-old gym buddies are… what, learning about their bodies?

I can’t keep track of this fiction. They know they are gay men, the viewer knows they are gay men, the consumer was hoping they were gay men, and here they are pretending to be The Straight Bro Puberty Squad solving spooky clues in “The Case of the Sticky Erection.” Like, the box made it clear this wasn’t going to be a poop deck view of a Lake Mead suckfest, but I figured the stars of THE HUNK BOAT wouldn’t be learning about their penises for the first time. This is the first and last erection of the film and Warren presents it to us like a shy girl ordering a corndog. It’s pathetic. Quaker pediatricians paint sexier pictures with words than Warren Scott narrating his own throbbing cock.

Up next is the outdoor shower Robert rigged up for a fourth flimsy excuse to get naked. So far we’ve gotten nudity from a pantsing, a dare, and a man discovering boners. Now we’re watching a man act like it’s normal to clean yourself by shivering soaplessly under a rain gutter. Robert paws at himself with the exact sexuality of an eyeball in an eye washing station. Who knew it would be so hard to make the thing after they came up with the idea of THE HUNK BOAT?

Still struggling to figure out a way to get this party started, the boys go back to playing cards. This time they don’t even remember to make it hunky. They just each draw a card and the low man has to clean the place. Tico loses and gets to work in the kitchen. Not for an insane amount of time, but much, much longer than it takes for a viewer to think, “Are they really going to stand here and film this guy doing the goddamn dishes?”

But after a few minutes, Tico gets an idea on how to make it sexy:

And with Tico’s butt, they are now 25% done with the video and completely out of ideas on natural ways to get men nude. Jumping jacks, showers, housework… that’s it. What else do hardbody studs do naked? Oh, right! Snorkeling!

The bros flap around the lake like beautiful mermaids, as close to free as their manly hearts will let them soar. Warren has long since run out of things to say, so this part is set to five minutes of jazzy saxophone while their waterproof camera, which should have air quotes around both those words, does its best to center everyone’s balls. You know the difference between art and pornography when you see it, and while this video is never pornography, it is now finally art.

Okay, enough swimming. Let’s heat things up. It’s time for Mike and Josh.

Warren explains, “Mike and Josh would often go off on their own.” Then he playfully waits a deranged amount of time before adding, “We never knew exactly what they did out there.”

He pauses again, thinking he’s building some kind of tension. “Together,” he coos, so long after saying the previous sentence they don’t even seem related. I know I’m making fun of Warren’s narration a lot, but he is worse at implying gay sex than Tim Allen in a Kevin Spacey biopic. I can barely tell what he’s getting at like a joke about Tim Allen starring in a Kevin Spacey biopic.

Back on the boat, the other three studs are blowing it with frisbees. So let’s check back on the ocean of passion crashing against the cliffs of Mike and Josh.

Oh. I guess Josh dropped Mike off on some barren shore and left him there to jerk off? He gets naked to his boots and builds a little chimpanzee nest out of his clothes and rocks. His heart is not in it and it looks uncomfortable. For everyone involved. No one in the cast or crew seems to know if we’re here to watch this man pleasure himself or lay down and die in the gravel, so he gets up and lumbers off, pawing at himself as absent-mindedly as his wandering. And I get it, this is weird. I didn’t know I would have so many notes about how Mike masturbates either.

Mike never finds anyone or anything, which is lucky, because a nude hulk with a third of a boner climbing onto your property is exactly what Nevada gun laws were written for.

Far from Mike’s beefquest, Warren, Tico, and Robert are back on the boat trying to figure out organic ways to get each other’s clothes off. Warren suggests jumping off the boat again, but naked this time. “Naked alrightalright let’sdoit,” someone replies, very naturally. They nudely climb the ladder with the exact same sense of personal space and desire to be there as a human centipede.

After another long underwater penis sequence, we go back to Mike who is dressed and waiting for Josh to pick him up. Whatever he needed to do is done, and all we know is that it was something he had to do by himself, he couldn’t wear clothes for it, and it had nothing to do with masturbation. Which rules out everything other than witchcraft and coyote sex. Anyway, he climbs aboard and gets naked again so he can read some old magazines Josh found in the boat debris.

Warren had a kitty cat purr in his voice when he said these two kept running off and getting up to God knows what, and I guess that could legally include “absolutely nothing,” but from the intended audience’s perspective, this is bullshit. Half of their speedboat time was spent apart, and the rest was spent adrift, flipping through old Fisherman Quarterlies. Straight, gay, or first cousins, it is very weird none of these bored, naked men have put forward the idea of having sex. I’ve never seen anyone this not horny, and I spent the last two days telling my wife about THE HUNK BOAT.

Speaking of, back on the houseboat, the other three hunks remain nose deep in each other’s buttholes as they climb to the roof for more naked diving. They all towel off, sharing small talk about the beautiful day. Aside from the hanging balls, it’s pretty uneventful. So uneventful I was starting to think these hunks weren’t even bad boys. But then it faded out on this shot:

Oh, SHIT.

The romantic leads of THE HUNK BOAT can barely tolerate each other and no one else seems to have heard of sex, so at this point of the video it seems like everyone has given up. “Are we still doing this? I’m trying to read,” says fully-clothed Robert. “Oh, that’s good. We’re leaving that shot in,” says the editor.

It feels more like we’re embedded with nudists than making smut. At this point Warren himself says, “In a couple of days, nobody even seemed to notice we were running around naked. As much as we were dressed.” So then what are we doing here, Warren? As if to answer, Warren smiles and says, “When Josh and Mike went off on the speedboat. Doing who knows.” And then there’s a long pause here for whatever reason. “What. The rest of us would get our turn.”

Okay, so that sexy boat from earlier that gave us a madman wandering the wastelands in only his boots and another one regrowing his hymen is now in the hands of the bad boys! Ladies! It’s! Time! To! Fuck!

Wait, no, they’re tubing. To be fair, he is only wearing a life vest, so if you’re into it, know that somewhere in the bouncing blur of that VHS footage are some unsecured testicles. Meanwhile, the hottest couple on the U.S.S. Beefcake, Josh and Mike, are back to doing what they do best: going their separate ways and not fucking. There’s a moment here I want to share with you at about 33 minutes in, where the director seems to finally remember what they set out to do and they ask Josh to make it sexy. It’s a hilarious disaster:

If there was an award for revealing your pink thong in the sexiest way, Josh would not only never win, he would be arrested for sarcasm crimes. This is, without question, the worst I’ve ever seen someone take off pants, and I spent the last two days trying to pantomime THE HUNK BOAT for my wife. Josh makes taking a nap in a chair look like a goddamn Irish famine documentary. And while I’m giving notes on his butt, some of these closeup decisions should have been made after verifying all of Josh’s holes were camera-ready.

A synth piano plays “Somewhere Out There” while a camera man pervs out on Josh’s hairy buns, and I simply can’t bring myself to add joke elements to something so already absurd. The video is now maniacally jump cutting between slow pans down Josh’s flaccid penis as he does the splits to three bros getting their bottomless water ski on. We are watching reason and sexuality die together, here on the fading magnetic oxide particles of this hunk tape.

I admit I don’t have the keenest gaydar, but the Straightness of this video can’t be overstated. Aside from the hairy dick flapping somewhere in that spray, this would look like three guys out on the lake in between the times they spent never kissing a boy. Warren constantly tries to make things sexy, but no one takes him up on it. For instance, when Tico comes in from the bottomless tube ride, Warren asks, “Did you almost reach an orgasm!?” And instead of saying something cute like, “Maybe you could help me, hunk,” he goes, “Ha ha beat up my balls too, man!” They literally have no idea this was meant to be sexy. Robert only uses his penis to open beers. If you sat down and explained to Tico what intercourse was, he would ask if it’s coming out for N64.

Unfortunately, it’s time to go home. Warren says, “Like all good things… My summer vacation.” And then after some time he adds, “Finally had to come to an end.” The gang says goodbye like all bros do after they were hired to fuck on a boat for a weekend: with every single type of handshake.

I love it. It’s such genuine, secure masculinity from such a weird mix of buff virgins and gay porn actors. They’re all going home with some great shared memories and very even tans. Then we are brought back to the grim reality that all of this is taking place inside the show n’ tell presentation of Warren, a 31-year-old grade schooler.

We cut back to the shot of him on his bed where he says, “We all had so much fun. We decided to do it again.” And after some time he continues, “Get together over Christmas Break.” A pause. “I think we’re gonna go snow skiing.” An unexplained hour of silence goes by. “Up in the mountains,” he adds. Still not done, he waits a good amount of time before emphasizing, “Snow skiing. Naked.”

“What a rush!” he decides after a long deliberation. Then he rolls over onto his back and starts massaging his flaccid penis to no effect. Like a gorilla accidentally killing her pet caterpillar. The perfect ending to 1995’s Most Failed Boat Orgy, Hand Stuff & Under Division.

Bonus Content for Hunk Lovers Only: There’s an ad on the end of the VHS for the production company’s flagship series, America’s Hunkiest Home Videos. It is nothing more than amateur footage sent in from nude maniacs splashing water on themselves. Most women recognize this as their least wanted Instagram DMs, but in 1995, it was a thing you could buy! Nude dads mowing lawns, lonely guys in bathtubs… it even featured Unnamed Ginger Creep Making Love to His Garden Hose!

And splish splash, ladies! It’s fan-favorite, Unnamed Mook Swatting Bath Water Onto His Dong! Speaking of, I know we’ve all sort of reached our limit for flopping penises today, so I’ll carefully censor this one. Thanks, everyone! Hope you enjoyed the hunks!