“Stickball” is an improbably strange—and very NSFW—adult novelty record from the early ‘70s, apparently the work of singer Tony Bruno working under the pseudonym “P.Vert.” I found my copy at Downstairs Records in New York (which was actually upstairs) at some point in the mid-80s and I still have it. It’s a 45rpm single backed with another song—a pretty-sounding ballad—called “Fuck Me Forever” by Connie Lingus.
Wouldn’t you buy that? Well I did.
About a week later I was in the same store with my old friend Nate Cimmino and he scored a copy of “Stickball,” too. Nate worked part-time behind the counter of the legendary New York record store Bleecker Bob’s, which was owned by the notorious Bob Plotnik, a man who was not afraid to tell you exactly what he thought of you, let’s just say. A cantankerous fellow. Some might—charitably—describe him as an “obnoxious asshole.” (Like the real life “Soup Nazi,”he was even parodied on Seinfeld.)
One day I went into the shop to say hi to Nate and Bleecker Bob was there. He said “Metzger, you’re so fuckin’ smug, you think you know everything, but YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT. I am the mogul of moguls. Name me any record title and I will tell you the artist. Name me any artist and I will tell you at least one of their song titles.”
Nate and I looked at each other, each knowing what the other was thinking.
“Stickball,” I replied confidently. It was the single most obscure thing I could think of, sure to stop him dead in his tracks.
Bleecker Bob laughed his loudmouthed Brooklyn wiseguy laugh.
“YOU FUCKIN’ ASSHOLE!! I PRODUCED FUCKIN’ P.VERT! YOU TRIED TO STUMP ME BY NAMING MY OWN FUCKIN’ RECORD! HAHAHAHAHAHA….”
He spun around and pulled a copy right off the shelf. The producer’s credit he pointed to on the label read “D.Ment.”
What were the odds?
He gloated, but I thought that it was extremely funny and so did Nate. I mean seriously, what were the odds of that occurring? And to be bested by an asshole like Bleecker Bob in such a manner of my own choosing, ultimately? Well, try having that experience in a New York record store these days, kids! Priceless!
So I had posted the above text on Dangerous Minds back in 2010. We’ve changed content management systems since then, but not long after I originally posted it, Tony Bruno himself left a comment saying that he’d never even heard of Bob Plotnik and that he didn’t produce that single or to his knowledge have anything whatsoever to do with it, which to my mind makes the story even better.
The architect and designer Carlo Mollino had a secret life—one that only came to light after his death in 1973.
Born in Turin in 1905, Mollino first established himself as an architect designing a house in Forte dei Marmi–a seaside resort and commune enjoyed by Thomas Mann and Aldous Huxley. By the 1930s, he was acclaimed for his Fascist House in Voghera and the Art Deco concrete and glass Farmers Association Building in Cuneos. His most famous work was the Equestrian Centre in Torinese, which was demolished in 1960.
Mollino was also a designer of furniture—one of his tables sold for $3.8 million in 2005—and described himself as an adventurer, a racing driver, an athlete, a skier (he designed two ski lodges in Aosta Valley and Piedmont), a poet, a writer, a student of the occult, occasional drug addict, professor, artist, photographer and bachelor. Surprisingly for such an enterprising life, Mollino lived nearly all of his days at his father’s house, who considered his son a “fantasist,” a “dangerous erotomaniac” and “feckless.”
In the early 1960s, Mollino bought his first Polaroid camera and developed a secret passion for creating erotic photographs. On certain evenings he would be driven down to Turin’s red light district where his driver negotiated to hire “ladies of the night” for a brief photographic session at his small city apartment—a villa he actually never lived in which was designed to be a “house for the warrior’s rest,” now the Casa Mollino by the Po River. Mollino dressed the women in clothes he had bought, then posed them against specially constructed backdrops filled with his furniture designs. The portraits range from Pirelli calendar titillation through lingerie catalog to the more painterly and artfully contrived. These images were supposed to be his idea of what a “warrior” would appreciate—however, the photographs remained secret until after his death.
More of Mollino’s erotic Polaroids, after the jump…
Momo Okabe is a young photographer from Japan who has two striking books to her credit, Dildo and Bible. Dildo is an extremely personal document that tracks her own evolving relationships with two lovers, Kaori and Yoko, both of whom were undergoing gender identity disorders during the time the photographs were taken. Only 55 copies were ever made of Dildo, by hand, and it is now nearly impossible to get ahold of. It’s very moving to see the expressions on the faces of Kaori and Yoko right before, during, and right after that surgery.
Bible, which is published by Session Press, is about Okabe’s everyday life in Tokyo, Miyagi and India that addresses “the alienation of the transgender community” in Japan as well as her own relationship with a man who “used to go crazy and commit crimes, but I didn’t think he was evil or bad inside.” Okabe’s work has an emotional immediacy that is similar to the work of Nan Goldin.
In a 2014 interview with Dazed, Okabe said of her first book, “I made Dildo because I truly loved my two boyfriends. I really wanted to cherish the time we spent together. I wanted to take photos just like everybody makes a family album. I wanted to preserve fun memories of dates with people I really love. So my work can be compared with a precious family album, just like everybody has at home.”
Bible compiles all my recent works, including many unpublished photographs taken in Tokyo, Miyagi and India between 2010 and 2013. I took photos in that period without any real reason for doing so. However, last summer I met a new man and things changed dramatically. He used to go crazy and commit crimes, but I didn’t think he was evil or bad inside. Whenever I was with him, I felt tremendously sad but I could take a lot of beautiful photos. I felt that I could finally become free from my history. Bible is not a record of memories but a mental landscape that people can attain only after a long dark struggle in their past. It is an elegy for people who have experienced pain. When I finished compiling the work, I felt like I had been reborn. I felt I could finally become myself to the world appearing in front of me.
It goes without saying that these photographs are NSFW.
There’s a Donald Trump sex doll called the Blow Up Trump which is made 100% in CHINA and sells for $39.00. Now I’m not seeing any, um, er, orifices, so perhaps this blow up Trump would make an awesome pool float?
Political leaders are our own personal sex dolls. We need them to fulfill a certain undisclosed pleasure. We purchase a humbled vinyl body and blow it up into a leader.
With each breath, we exhale expectations. With each expectation, we exhale power. Then that power shapes into a figure.
As we stare directly into the painted eyes of our new saviors, we realize that they cannot see us. Although we’d like to think more of them, our blown up leaders are filled with nothing but air, and they are a needle POP away from going back to the hollow vinyl exterior they once were.
“I’m putting the people on notice that are coming here from Syria as part of this mass migration. If I win, they’re going back” Donald Trump stated during an evening rally held in Keene, New Hampshire.
I can honestly say I’ve never been aroused by the thought of having sex with a politician. Not just because most politicians are middle-aged guys with halitosis, bad hair and ego problems, but because politicians are on that “no fly zone” of occupations (along with dentists, proctologists and genitourinary doctors) who for me can never ever be hot, sexy, or remotely attractive. I know, I know, it’s my loss, but you know, I don’t mind—I can live without their alleged charms.
However, it would appear that I am in a minority—as there are many, many people out there who do fantasise about politicians and how they’d like these SOBs to fuck ‘em till they bleed, or reciprocate by tonguing and fingering their oval office. If that’s the party you’d vote for, well three cheers, for there’s a place where you can cast your vote and ‘fess up your secret political desires.
Once it might have been an App, but now it’s a Tumblr—this time a page called Playing Dirty, where peeps anonymously share their “Dirty Political Confessions.” These secret soundbites are plastered over a suitable image of the fantasy object and posted for everyone to..er…enjoy. Admittedly a lot of the naughty secrets involve British politicians like Prime Minister David Cameron—even after all that pig-fucking nonsense—and Margaret Thatcher (apparently someone’s idea of a “MILF”) but there are plenty of unbridled fantasies about Mitt Romney, George W. Bush, “Tricky Dicky” and Hillary Clinton.
It begins with me being hired to have sex with Bush Jr. I discreetly enter his hotel suite where I find him laying in bed wearing nothing but his socks. I start by tonguing his sweaty taint and asshole until he can’t take it anymore and shoves his cock down my throat, calling me a slut while I gag on his forceful plunges. He then throws me on the bed and fucks me in various positions throughout the night.
I want to sit Hillary Clinton on the desk of the Oval Office and make her come with my tongue and fingers so many times she wouldn’t know her own name any more.
Paul Ryan is a sexy beast. The moment I laid eyes on him I wanted him to fuck me. The way he fights for control and resists his angry urges is a huge turn on. I want him to tie me up in shackles and whip me, bite me, and fuck me till I bleed.
More wet dreams of our noble leaders, after the jump…
From “Miss Beautiful Ape” to “The Diaper Queen” of Chicago in 1947, there there are a seemingly endless variety of strange beauty contests that have been crowning queens since early 1900s.
Miss Beautiful Ape contest, Century City, California - 1972
Take for instance the “Miss Beautiful Ape” contest that was held in Los Angeles back in the early 70s. Put on by disc jockey and television personality Gary Owens (whose golden pipes announced the comedy variety show Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In) in Century City, the contest was a promotion vehicle for the Planet of the Apes film franchise. The winner of the contest, Dominique Green (contestant number two on the far right) was awarded a role in the fifth (and final) Planet of the Apes film, 1973’s Battle for the Planet of the Apes.
Naturally, all of these “contests” were means for some sort of revenue generating scheme, and not so much the prestige associated with being crowned “Miss Diaper Queen” (contestants were required to wear cloth diapers), “Miss Lube Job” for the local auto repair shop or “Miss NRA” for which contestants sported a huge fake “tattoo” of the National Rifle Association blue eagle emblem on their back. In some cases, NRA contestants placed a stencil of the emblem on their backs while sunbathing so the logo could be displayed by way of their tan lines. Wow.
Miss NRA contestants being judged in Miami, 1930
Miss NRA contestants with blue eagle NRA logo tan lines, 1930
More images from bizarre beauty contests of the past, after the jump…
Happy Crowleymass, everyone! Aleister Crowley, thee Great Beast 666 was hatched from a dragon’s egg on October 12, 1875. The eccentric English mage, poet, painter and gourmet rice chef would be 140 years old today if, um, he could like live forever or something…
As somewhat of a noted Crowley buff, I’m often asked “Where is a good place to start reading Aleister Crowley?” and this is a difficult question to answer because, in truth, you have to read, pretty much, all of it to make sense of any of it. Going down the Crowley rabbit hole is comparable, I think, to being a scholar of James Joyce because achieving a proper understanding of the subject takes years of study, decades even (and then what are you going to DO with all that arcane knowledge, anyway, smartass?). But one source that I will point curious folk to is the late Tim Maroney’s excellent “Introduction to Crowley (in Five Voices)” which I published in my Book of Lies anthology back in 2004.
Below, I discuss Uncle AL on the History Channel TV series, How Sex Changed The World. I had fun doing this show and I got to explain a general concept of sex magick to middle America! Good times! The Crowley segments starts around 19:30.
Even the ancient art of origami—the process of creating three-dimensional objects by folding paper which originated in Asia in the late 1600s—is not devoid of renegade artistic deviants that have mastered the craft. There are even a few books that have been published hoping to spread the good word about porn-y paper folding. Erotic origami, where have you been all my life?
Erotic origami by Nick Robinson
In 2004, London-based artist Nick Robinson put out a book called Very Naughty Origami. In it, Robinson provides step-by-step diagrams of how to create titillating folded paper figures such as his “Schwanstucker.” Robinson’s “schwanstucker” (named for Terri’s Garr’s use of the word in Young Frankenstein to describe the size of Frankenstein’s monster member), is an anatomically correct folded paper penis. That, according to the description in Robinson’s book, also happens to move when you squeeze it.
How to fold an origami penis by Master Sugoi
Later that year, an artist going by the name of Master Sugoi coined the excellent phrase “pornogami” for his book, Pornogami: Original Erotic Origami. In the book, Sugoi teaches aspiring pornogamists to fold paper into erotic shapes like a penis, vulva, and boobs, among other things.
Then, in 2008, artist Marc Kirschenbaum put out his take on sexy paper folding with his book, Erotic Origami. Kirschenbaum is fond of creating paper figures in various states of getting it on (pictured at the top of this post and below). Nice.
“Doggy style” origami by Marc Kirschenbaum
If this all sounds good to you (and I’m pretty sure it does), check out some more examples of “pornogami” after the jump. Since pornogami has the word “porn” in it, I think it’s safe to say that the images are NSFW.
Many longtime DM readers will recognize the name of Bradley Novicoff, a founding editor here at Dangerous Minds and one of my dearest friends for over 25 years (we met when we were… um… babies. 25-year-old babies, but babies nonetheless). He was also my producer for the Disinformation TV series and Bradley’s now applying a few new reality-bending techniques to his latest project, Dead Bedrooms, an innovative drama/documentary hybrid that examines sexless relationships. The script, to me, plays like a kinky Catfish meets the 80s Belgian cult favorite Man Bites Dog.
The below clip is part of the ramping up for the film itself. In it, an unnamed “hobbyist” walks a Dead Bedrooms producer through a typical “happy ending” massage parlor, pausing to reflect on his own sex-for-pay experiences. Pretty much everyone takes these places for granted in L.A.—they’re everywhere—but it’s not too often we civilians get a behind-the-scenes look at one of them.
“What did you and Jack do?” Allen Ginsberg asked Gore Vidal one cold January night in 1994.
“Well, I fucked him,” Vidal was pleased to reply. On the night of August 23, 1953, the two men of letters had banged one out in a Chelsea Hotel room following a Greenwich Village bar crawl. Kerouac published a fictionalized account of the assignation in The Subterraneans but, aside from a morning-after moment of “horrible recognition,” he left out the sex. Vidal was annoyed, and said so:
I challenged Jack. “Why did you, the tell-it-all-like-it-is writer, tell everything about that evening with Burroughs and me and then go leave out what happened when we went to bed?”
“I forgot,” he said. The once startlingly clear blue eyes were now bloodshot.
Palimpsest, the first of Gore Vidal’s two memoirs, fills in the lacuna with a detailed record of the evening’s events. It began with William S. Burroughs. Kerouac and Vidal had met before, and in a 1952 letter to Kerouac, Burroughs expressed interest in meeting the author of The Judgment of Paris:
Is Gore Vidal queer or not? Judging from the picture of him that adorns his latest opus I would be interested to make his acquaintance. Always glad to meet a literary gent in any case, and if the man of letters is young and pretty and possibly available my interest understandably increases.
Gore Vidal on the back cover of The Judgment of Paris, 1952
The three writers met at the San Remo bar the following year, after Burroughs’ return from Mexico. Kerouac, Vidal writes, “was manic. Sea captain’s hat. T-shirt. Like Marlon Brando in Streetcar.” Burroughs asked about a Turkish bath in Rome that Vidal had described in The Judgment of Paris. They moved on to Tony Pastor’s, a lesbian bar; afterwards, Kerouac swung around a lamppost out front, “a Tarzan routine that caused Burroughs to leave us in disgust.” Vidal was ready to go back to his father’s apartment uptown, but Kerouac had a different notion:
“Let’s get a room around here.” The first law of sex is never go to bed with someone drunk. Corollary to this universal maxim was my own fetish–never to have sex with anyone older. I was twenty-eight. Jack was thirty-one. Five years earlier, when we first met, I would have overruled the difference, but I had also arbitrarily convinced myself that Conrad’s “shadow line” extended to sex: So from the age of thirty on, a man or woman was, for my purposes, already a corpse–not that I ever had much on my mind when it came to sex with men. In my anonymous encounters, I was what used to be called trade. I did nothing–deliberately, at least–to please the other. When I became too old for these attentions from the young, I paid, gladly, thus relieving myself of having to please anyone in any way. But now here I was stuck with Jack, who had certainly once attracted me at the Metropolitan when that drop of clear water slid down his cheek. Now there was real sweat. I stared at him. We were the same height and general build. With some misgiving, I crossed the shadow line.
At the nearby Chelsea Hotel, each signed his real name. Grandly, I told the bemused clerk that this register would become famous. I’ve often wondered what did happen to it. Has anyone torn out our page? Or is it still hidden away in the dusty Chelsea files? Lust to one side, we both thought, even then (this was before On the Road), that we owed it to literary history to couple.
I remember that the bathroom was near the entrance to a large double room. There was no window shade, so a red neon light flickering on and off gave a rosy glow to the room and its contents. Jack was now in a manic mood: We must take a shower together. To my surprise, he was circumcised. [...]
Where Anaïs and I were incompatible–chicken hawk meets chicken hawk–Jack and I were an even more unlikely pairing–classic trade meets classic trade, and who will do what?
Gore Vidal, 1948
“Jack was rather proud of the fact that he blew you.” Allen sounded a bit sad as we assembled our common memories over tea in the Hollywood Hills. I said that I had heard Jack had announced this momentous feat to the entire clientele of the San Remo bar, to the consternation of one of the customers, an advertising man for Westinghouse, the firm that paid for the program Studio One, where I had only just begun to make a living as a television playwright. “I don’t think,” said the nervous advertiser, “that this is such a good advertisement for you, not to mention Westinghouse.” As On the Road would not be published until 1957, he had no idea who Jack was.
Thanks to Allen’s certainty of what Jack had told him, I finally recall the blow job–a pro forma affair, which I put a quick stop to. At what might nicely be called loose ends, we rubbed bellies for a while; later he would publish a poem dedicated to me: “Didn’t know I was a great come-onner, did you? (come-on-er).” I was not particularly touched by this belated Valentine, considering that I finally flipped him over on his stomach, not an easy job as he was much heavier than I [...]
Jack raised his head from the pillow to look at me over his left shoulder; off to our left the rosy neon from the window gave the room a mildly infernal glow. He stared at me a moment–I see this part very clearly now, forehead half covered with sweaty dark curls–then he sighed as his head dropped back onto the pillow. There are other published versions of this encounter: in one, Jack says that he spent the night in the bathroom. On the floor? There was a shower but no tub. In another, he was impotent. But the potency of other males is, for me, a turnoff. What I have reported is all there was to it, except that I liked the way he smelled.
Alas, there is no sex tape, but you can watch part one of the fascinating Omnibus profile of Vidal below (part two here).