Old timey pornography was rough. You couldn’t just hop on the internet and search for two-to-eight people boning in your preferred model of bus to help you speed-milk the poison out. Back in the day, tawdry magazines still needed to pretend at legitimacy, and that meant finding increasingly elaborate excuses to write two thousand words about ethnic titties. One such tawdry magazine was called Exotic Adventures.
The short stories of Exotic Adventures devoted equal time to masturbation, male impotence, and wild animal attacks. That’s why we nearly lost a generation of men who responded to bear maulings with flagging erections. And that’s just not gonna cut it. You better be at full-sail if you’re hoping to kill a Grizzly with that three-and-a-half inch shank, Schultzy.
These erotic tales of danger were named things like THE STRIPPING WOLVES OF BULGARIA or DEAD AND STILL HARD IN DETROIT or…
“Sex orgies, Schultzy! This ain’t no carpentry orgy, no orgy of savings for this guy — this here is a sex orgy! The best kind of orgy! Followed by an orgy of violence: the second best kind of orgy!”
Every single one of these stories followed an adequate white man as he fucked his way through a National Geographic before the articles tried to kill him. Men of the ‘50s needed more adventurous foreplay than your dangerslut of a mother, so bear with me: we’ve got like 1500 words to go before anything sexier than a rampaging Grizzly gets penetrated.
Indigineous people love it when colonizers show up to gawp at their “barbaric customs,” that’s why dozens of them surrounded your party while banging gongs — it must be a sign of welcome! The 1950s white man never met a party he wasn’t invited to, including the one in your pants. If you told a 1950s white man “no” he’d try to finish your sentence — “rth Carolina leads the nation in pig farming? Keen, honeygash! Hey, speaking of harvesting the ol’ hog…”
Also please note what a big deal the author makes of his crew protecting and keeping the cameras with them, which is a repeating motif throughout the story despite it not featuring any photographs whatsoever.
I convinced a girl to write the words “I’m lying” on her tits just so she could flash them at my confused roommate at the end of a long rambling story about how I once met Randy Quaid, and that anecdote itself isn’t true, yet this whole ghost-camera thing is still the craziest way I’ve ever seen to warn your audience that you’re full of shit.
The heroes in these stories are supposed to be viewed as hardened men of adventure — square-jawed mooks who smuggle opium into The Darkest Orient and black market apes out of The Darkest Congo, but our guy absolutely loses his shit when a woman with stained teeth grazes a boob across his shoulder. Where I’m from we call that a disappointing Tuesday at the Boom Boom Room, but this dude is about to have an aneurysm for something that warrants a crinkled single, at best.
None of these men would survive a horror movie. These are the guys in the cold-open whose deaths set up the real cast. It just never dawns on them that anything could be an omen of their doom. They think ‘foreshadowing’ is when you use a flashlight to make a dickpuppet on the wall and ‘portend’ is where you’ll get to put it in Suzy Collins if she appreciates your art.
Back in 1956, admitting to things like frolicking and prancing earned a man the Pink Letter and a summary dismissal from his place of work, lest his gayness somehow spread communism through the pneumatic tube system. So for our hero to drop a few hundred words about how he once let it all hang out and actually minced, it means he has gone terminally boob-graze crazy and must be put down.
Finally we get to the fucking, and it’s four short paragraphs where the sexiest word used is ‘undulating.’ Our protagonist had to travel thousands of miles into the heart of an uncharted jungle to find a woman that didn’t even have a word for the language he spoke just so he could make love in a dark room in up to two positions and it exploded his brain forever. If some desperate teenager actually orgasmed while reading this textual styrofoam, it was the weakest climax in history and yes, I do remember Battlestar Galactica.
The ladies immediately turn on the men, driven into a murderous fury by one minute of awkward thrusting in the missionary position, and thirty seconds of vigorous pounding in ‘missionary but a little sideways.’ Somehow most of our heroes manage to escape the wrath of three anemic women powered only by sexual frustration, and return to society, where they discover the truth of what happened.
So everybody in the area knew about the orgy murders, and they only said something about how maybe you shouldn’t attend the orgy murders when you miraculously came back alive from the orgy murders.
Maybe you should tip better, Schultzy.
Clearly this was all a work of fiction by a horny 15 year-old with up to two encyclopedias at his disposal. That little fact was given away the first time our rugged hero touched a boob and came so relentlessly he ejaculated dust. But if we’re going to publish teen DIY erotica can we at least find an author with delusions of grandeur? Even in this guy’s wild fantasies, the women will only bang him to undo a curse and that makes me too sad to finish.
So the story ends with our protagonist sadly confiding that he never had sex again. Which is not at all surprising, but is certainly a shame since he could have brought woman-on-top to the western world several decades early, and utterly shattered American society.
