A Porn Pastogram: Memories, Meat, and a Movie

Porn is like a persistent rash that you take to the grave.

Jim and I contracted said rash more than 40 years ago. It has mutated significantly, and remains with us.

We prowled a beat those many years ago, one best left unexplored by most people, the two of us indulging experiences now vigorously condemned by members of the morals squad, often with good reason; we shared unusual adventures, and we’ve somehow lived long enough to tell of them.

We completed a yearlong, crazed trek together, through a netherworld colored by monumental substance abuse (mostly mine), engagement with both certifiably dangerous and achingly sad characters, and exposure to enough sleaze to lube a legion of Sybarites.

How is this?

Jim and I owned and operated a notorious underground publication, The Rocky Mountain Oyster, and in so doing we descended from the high board to the depths below. Our dive received a score of 9.5 from the judges.

Most people with similar experience would keep this information private given the current cultural climate. To do otherwise is to tempt an onslaught by agitated avengers, intent on exposing their target’s tawdry core and subjecting him to abuse.

We’re unconcerned. Our cores are sturdy, with impressive patinas, and we don’t care what anyone thinks about us.

Why?

Jim and I are old, each struggling with cancer that will get the best of us. We aren’t going to beat this shit, so if we offend you, give us your best shot; we don’t care. Whip us if you will, thrash us mercilessly, attempt to humiliate us before the court of internet opinion. We’ve got better things to worry about.

Like it or not, like us or not, the facts are the facts. Or, rather, fact plays a part in what we remember. This is a story, after all; memory is malleable, and storytelling involves a degree of invention and exaggeration.

The tabloid rag, The Oyster, was created by Jim, me, and Kip, a beloved and now-in-the-pale artist pal with whom I shared a studio and failing contemporary art gallery in downtown Denver in the ‘70s. Jim sold ads for a local jazz radio station, and worked as a promoter of jazz concerts.

The How Ya Doin’? dipstick showed each of us a bit low on luck.

I taught at a local college, working whenever they needed me. No one had yet come up with the term “adjunct” to provide academic slaves with a snappy title in lieu of job security, money, and benefits, so I labored as a “part-time instructor.” I was also trying to sell paintings, with little success.

Jim made his way around town in a gold Monte Carlo, hustling to sell jazz as the disco craze peaked, and the market for gaudy leisure suits and platform shoes boomed.

Kip whiled away profitless hours carving a huge block of marble set in the middle of the gallery, chipping away with the help of his “atelier assistant,” Alain – an androgynous Paris street urchin who lost his left forefinger to its second joint after failing to remove it from beneath the block of stone as it was set in place with a portable engine hoist. He displayed his bandaged, bloody stump like an 1830 revolutionary waving a flag atop the barricade in a Delacroix painting, all the while jabbering in machine-gun-fast gutter French, and fluttering around the gallery clad only in a pair of well-worn cotton briefs.

Kip and I were reduced to eating foodlike materials purchased at a freight-damaged goods clearance store, and consuming handfuls of crumbly, Mexican white crosses — sucking down the insect-riddled amphetamine to help us maintain the illusion that we were at the forefront of avant-garde culture in the Mile High City. Of course, there was no avant-garde culture in Denver but, prompted as we were by south-of-the-border head juice, it was easy for us to imagine.

Jim walked through the front door one day, and quickly became a regular. We three harmonized.

These were very different times.

During one of our talkathons at the gallery, Jim waxed nostalgic about Bachelor Beat, a lowbrow, soft-core “adult” tabloid he procured during a stay in Phoenix. Kip and I added the speed-spiked dimension to the conversation; Jim didn’t need speed, he was naturally jumpy. Additional amplitude would have blown away the back of his head.

On his next visit to the gallery, Jim brought a copy of the Phoenix tab, and we had a good laugh: the publication was sophomoric, packed with badly written How to Make Her Cum copy, and plastered with cheesy stock photos of partially clothed, pouting women.

The enterprise was nothing more than an ad slate for adult businesses, hundreds of which were operating in the Southwest — excluding Utah, where a male either, 1) lived in Colorado City with seven wives and 30 kids, justifying his excess and abuses with reference to nonsense pulled out of thin air by old Joe, or 2) avoided sex until it was time to tug on the special underwear, marry his high school girlfriend in the temple, spasm atop her rigid form in order to produce another non-bigamist or five, then adjourn in order to stock canned goods in the cellar in preparation for the end of the world.

After checking a story in Bachelor Beat about women desperate to fuck men who dance without restraint to Earth, Wind and Fire tunes, and with two of us very much under the influence of the previously mentioned stimulant, we decide we can execute a parody of this kind of publication. It is funny as is, but why not double up?

We can do better, we say. Much better. There is no such publication in the Rocky Mountain West, and nature abhors a vacuum. Let’s fill it!

Shame we don’t have any money, says Kip, it would be fun. He is game for anything — an indication of his regular, deranged state.

I’ll get the cash, says Jim.

Yeah, sure, we reply. Let’s eat another wedge of runny Brie that smells and tastes like a dirty diaper, crush and snorf another couple whites, and get back to the business of being destitute.

Jim, however, is excited (he’s always excited), and leaves on a mission, promising success.

I am skeptical.

I am wrong.

A week later, the Jazz Man returns with a fistful of bills — an eye-popping amount of cash, enough to fund the startup of a 16-page tabloid, 10,000 copies, ready to hit the streets. He has also located a greedy printer who will fire up a web press for the job. This Trenton-born, jazz-loving ex punk means business; we are going to produce a rag that pokes fun at the very people who support it!

This is when I become the editor of The Oyster, Alvin “Call me Al” DeTerio, as well as staff writers Carla Fursburg, Renata Santini, and Merle Box. Propelled by tainted skull bangers from south of the border, and a load of high-grade Thai sticks, I set to work writing the copy on a battered Selectric, while Jim — as Jim Steele — courageously prowls the dark underbelly of the city in search of more cash, and Kip — as Spazzio Spazzatura — creates a world-class masthead with a Rapidograph, takes photos, designs ads, and waxes the flats.

Soon, according to many folks in the greater Denver area, including the District Attorney, we are pornographers — a naïve reaction considering nothing vaguely obscene appears in the paper, but numerous innocents, political opportunists, and vicious evangelicals echo the charge. Prudes, puritans, and mini-Machiavellis become agitated and active when threatened by the prospect of titillation; they reach a fevered pitch when stormy waters churn in their brain tubs, and they sense the prospect of a tingling in their nether regions.

A favorite bit of copy produced in my amphetamine haze: a front-page piece about space aliens abducting and ravishing local massage parlor employees. It features a photo of a provocatively-clad woman wearing a tinfoil hat — a sociopathic Mafia button man’s girlfriend, who works as the madam of a brothel in a decrepit motel just north of Denver. Her last name means “onion” in Italian. The article causes quite a ruckus in the parlor and escort community, and a surprising number of sex workers are convinced they carry implants in their Fallopian tubes.

Another fave: a serial relating the trials suffered by Al and his short, rotund, and feisty wife, Carmen, during their imprisonment in a reinforced refrigerator box stashed in the dank basement of a suburban church. The saga includes descriptions of the couple’s prolonged torture by a closeted minister and his gang of scripture-spouting, casserole-obsessed lesbians. And a confused, but dependably aggressive Rottweiler.

And, of course, there is Al’s column: “This Is My Turf.”

After two months, Kip tires of what becomes real work, and goes back to his marble, and Alain.

Jim takes on a sales assistant — the Reverend Rodney, a failed standup comic who wears a clerical collar, and drives an Opel sports car that burns at least two quarts of oil per day. Rodney is unstable in his natural state, and the overload of whites I press on him nudges him over the edge; he is useless, and not the least bit amusing. There are few things as wretched as an unfunny, incoherent standup comedian.

Jim and I move the Oyster headquarters from the gallery to an office suite in the same building as Denver’s premiere topless/bottomless “show club.” The music emanating from beyond the wall and its flocked, red wallpaper, features bass lines that vibrate our spines, and shake the gold cherub light fixtures dangling above our heads. We smoke a lot of weed, and watch The Gong Show on a small black and white TV as the action on the other side of the wall grows frantic, the testosterone-crazed moron/man-child customers bellowing like bulls in the rut.

The Oyster provides Jim and me with little money, but a heap of insights into the sex industry, and the subterranean structure that supports it. We travel the back streets of Sleazeville, becoming familiar with porn stores and theaters, topless/bottomless strip clubs and champagne hustle operations, swingers groups, massage parlors, whorehouses, prostitutes, madams, bondage queens, johns, and pimps. The whole, sordid mess.

On occasion, I make forays to parlors, stores, and clubs with Jim Steele, in the guise of the intrepid but wide-eyed Merle Box, confused journalism school dropout, and nightlife reporter for The Oyster. Merle is mystified by what he sees.

During his voyages on the Sea of Sleaze in the gold Monte Carlo, Jim does more than milk Mafiosi and ugly thugs out of up-front cash: he discovers some of the best cheap eats in the city. His crowning moment comes when he stumbles onto Lolito’s Burritos — my nominee as a World Heritage Site — a humble joint in a former gas station on 88th in Adams County, serving remarkable green chile. Steele and Box sup well there.

These long-gone days have one thing in common with current times: in neither is there a place for satire when it comes to sex. The advertisers, as well as the customers who purchase The Oyster from news boxes and at tawdry outlets around the region, are unaware they are handling amusing material. Goofs buy the paper for the “pitchers” in the ads, and the advertisers count on the “pitchers” to bring them goofs as customers. Nothing else matters, not even Renata Santini’s sexual astrology predictions. It is difficult for Jim and me to maintain enthusiasm.

Hard to believe but, despite our less-than-best efforts, The Oyster fails to turn a profit. Finally, we procure the same copy and photo pap peddled by the tabs in Phoenix and Vegas, transform the best parody in the West into a salable commodity, and get rid of it, breaking even in the process. Or, close to even.

After all is done, Jim and I know porn — its producers and participants, its purveyors and consumers. We have been witness to cheap ecstasy and serious misery — our own, and that of others. We each know far more than any reasonable person ought to know.

I go on from there to genteel poverty as a writer, journalist, and painter; Jim, with an iron will and an on-the-streets education in business that equals a degree from Wharton, moves on to enormous success in the IT world. He is, by his own admission, a “sales genius.”

This is no idle claim. He is that.

Last year, Jim and I reconnect, via e-mail.

Once we link, we rekindle memories, and it’s been a treat: two alarmingly decrepit old men, each suffering from metastasized prostate cancer, most of the tread worn from their tires, trading quips and observations, yellowed Polaroid photos of long-gone denizens of the deep, observations, and…porn.

Yes, we’re still into porn.

Only now, it’s food porn.

This week, thanks to the gift of some advice from Jim, and his directions to a resource, I experience the ultimate in food porn. I make another dive. I receive a 9.5 score from the judges.

The porn arrives in a delivery from DeBragga — New Jersey-based provider of high-grade flesh to the best restaurants and the most discerning private consumers in the hemisphere.

Discerning customers like Jim.

Jim tells me: “I gotta guy.”

In this case, the “guy” is Lydia Liebchen, DeBragga’s chef, an expert in all things edible.

As native Jerseyites and connoisseurs of fine eats, Jim and Lydia have formed an other-than-commercial friendship, and Jim tells me to contact Lydia. He wants Lydia to provide me entrée to Ubermeat.

Where some folks consider a Hummel figurine or a subscription to Female Bodybuilder Monthly a suitable gift, my man Jim understands that a meaningful gesture should reflect a keen awareness of the recipient’s predilections.

The recipient: me.

My predilections: cooking, and eating well.

The gift: Jim steers me to a 24-ounce slab of A-5 Miyazaki Wagyu Ribeye, Kobe style, from DeBragga.

The Philosopher’s Stone, become flesh.

“Call Lydia when you’re ready,” says Jim. “You need to do this at least once before your lights go out. Be careful, though,” he cautions, “a little goes a long way, and it’s too fatty for most people.”

And far too expensive for people who aren’t sales geniuses.

Fortunately, the recent run of a play was extended. I received the industry standard playwright’s per performance fee, along with 2 percent of the gate as a residual, so I am somewhat prepared to absorb the blow.

I go to the DeBragga website, dial up the recommended cut, and stare unblinking at the photo as I struggle to maintain my composure — much as Merle Box struggled 40 years ago as he stared, unblinking, at a blond, totally deaf woman named DeVonne, as she danced nude on the stage of The Tipsy Tiger, on East Colfax, in Denver, the beat of the music transmitted through the floor of the stage to her feet.

I have seen and experienced many other magnificent things in 71-plus years: Giotto frescoes; the interior of a Mercedes 190SL convertible, at 95 mph; the triumphs of the 1960-61 University of Denver hockey team; a wisp of smoke above Vesuvius, observed from a boat on its way from Sorrento to Capri; a voluptuous German girl in a bikini, puking her guts out over the stern rail of said boat; French matrons of considerable means inspecting and discussing edible underwear on display in a Rue Clichy shop window; a Lucian Freud retrospective; a pint jar full to the rim with uncut Peruvian flake, a teaspoon taped to its side; a Kent School for Girls field hockey player, beskirted in plaid, damp, panting, wearing saddle shoes and kneesocks, silhouetted against a descending sun on a warm autumn afternoon in 1964; Bernini’s Death of the Blessed Ludovica Albertoni; a massive yellow English Labrador muscling his way through the frigid waters of a mountain lake to fetch a stick; the young Joni Mitchell, seated in the corner of a room at the Hotel Albert, guitar on her lap, singing a newly-penned song; fruit and vegetable stalls at the Arles market; bare bodies on the beach at Barcelona and the fish at La Boqueria; Soutine’s waiters and bell boys; a Gutenberg Bible; braised filet of horse in Lugano; the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields Orchestra, in concert; my newborn grandchildren.

These and others are to be joined by a hunk of cow from Japan.

I turn from the computer screen, pause until my pulse rate slows and I am sure I will not pass out, then I call Lydia in New Jersey.

I take an immediate liking to Lydia. We talk about bees.

Lydia and her husband are beekeepers, and she is concerned about the condition of the hives, given spells of cruel weather on the East Coast. As Lydia explains it, condensation in a hive is deadly. She laments the recent loss of a hive, and is determined to prevent any further damage. I sense strength, resolve.

Since I do nothing of similar value, I tell Lydia that I live at 8,000 feet above sea level. She allows as how this is probably higher than any place in the state of New Jersey. She is correct: High Point, in the Skylands Region of the Garden State, tops out at 1,083. One day on High Point would give me access to more oxygen than I encounter in a year in Siberia With a View. If I lived atop High Point, I could think clearly.

We cease the introductory small talk in order to speak of Wagyu, and its proper disposition.

Lydia makes herself perfectly clear, and does so with a Jersey accent — an accent that commands attention, and requires obedience. Lydia’s accent is similar to that of a Jersey vixen I met in 1967, after a performance at The Balloon Farm, on St. Mark’s Place, in Manhattan. Bernadette hung around the dressing room exit and attached herself to me as I left, announcing that the two of us were going to have the best time imaginable. She added that, if she did not have the best time imaginable, her brother and cousins would seek me out and avenge her soiled honor by breaking my legs. She was one of the happiest people on the planet when she returned to Hoboken.

That kind of accent.

“You get the meat, you thaw it in the fridge,” says Lydia. “You take it from the cryo (this is industry lingo, but I realize she refers to an airtight, plastic package) and you let the meat come to room temperature.

“Here’s what you do, Karl. You season the beef with kosher salt. You heat a really heavy skillet, cast-iron if you got it, until it is super hot.”

“Steel furnace temps, Bessemer levels,” I interject.

“Hot, Karl, hot.” Lydia is undeterred by silly asides delivered by oxygen-deprived pinheads. She’s from Jersey, first-gen Italian American, kin to chefs and restaurateurs. Her zone, like Bernadette’s, is a no bullshit zone.

“Then,” she says, “you put the meat down in the pan, two minutes, no more. Turn it over. Two minutes on the other side, no more. Take the meat from the pan to the cutting board; let it rest three minutes, then cut it into strips. That’s how we do it. Sometimes, we finish it off right there on the cutting board; it doesn’t make it to a plate.”

I appreciate the idea that a diner can be so excited by a chunk of barely-seared cow that they don’t care to be seated as they devour it.

There is to be a delay in the shipping date, due to a massive storm hitting the northeast. This meat is not going to end up stuck for four days at the airport in Newark. There’s no room for error in the no bullshit zone.

Finally, Jim notifies me by e-mail that the ribeye is in transit. He has been monitoring my transaction.

I wait by the front door.

For two days.

I shadow the threshold like a gargoyle at the entry to a cathedral, frightening Kathy’s piano students as they arrive for their lessons. Seven-year-old kids are not prepared for a door to be hurled open by an old, bearded fat man dressed in paint-spattered flannel pajama bottoms and a threadbare American Academy of Dramatic Arts sweatshirt, as he shouts, “Where’s that fucking Fed Ex guy?”

Heedless of the damage done to the next generation, I remain at DEFCON 5 until the Wagyu is in hand. I consume stupendous amounts of coffee in order to remain alert (I lost my Mexican whites connections decades ago), and I consume stupendous amounts of Tanqueray in order to temper the caffeine overload.

Finally, a box appears on the front porch: a DeBragga shipper, white, sturdy, with a lovely logo, and “PERISHABLE” printed in black block letters on two sides. I hope the neighbors witness the delivery. They should suffer, knowing what’s in the box … that they can’t have!

I scurry to the kitchen and open the package. I need to look away for a moment, to keep from weeping.

I remove the steak from atop the ice packs in the box; the packaging is somewhat cloudy, but I can see the meat well enough to recognize a stunning fat-to-lean ratio. “Marbled” does not do it justice. I imagine the flesh around my midsection will look like this during the autopsy.

I set to planning my menu.

I decide this will be a “tasting” experience, despite the fact I want at least half of the ribeye, for me alone. No, I tell myself, I will share; it will hurt, but I will share. For once in my life, I will not be a total asshole.

I invite BFD and the Gallery Bitch to join me for dinner, as well as daughter Ivy, and son-in-law Jon. The ribeye will be split five ways. A taste for each of us.

There’ll be none for Kathy, since she wants her protein to be incinerated. A noble Asian ungulate did not gorge itself and give its life to have as much as a molecule of muscle tissue and fat overcooked, so Kathy gets no A-5 Wagyu. Neither will it be shared with my grandsons since, at 9 and 4, they have not yet developed suitable palates. They’ll consume veggie burgers and stale Fritos with their grandmother.

I decide to whip up a couple pans of potatoes dauphinoise. I figure if the beef is basically high-grade fat, why not add extra fat to the load? The cream and butter in the dauphinoise should do the trick. I make a mental note to rent a defibrillator.

I suppose some kind of green vegetable should be present, if only for appearance’s sake. The asparagus at the market has been decent of late, the first of the season. This, coupled with the beef, will provoke gout attacks in several diners, so I make a mental note to score a scrip of colchicine. A few tabs will serve as dessert.

Braised leek agrodolce is always nice, as is a simple salad of dressed greens and herbs to mollify the weak-minded members of the crowd. Salad will enhance the Instagram photos.

I don’t give a shit about any of the feeble, green add-ons; the meat and the spuds will sit front row center on my altar.

Lydia is adamant: the Miyazaki miracle must thaw in the fridge. I obey. Into the fridge it goes, with its elevation to the divine scheduled 30 hours later.

The moment of truth arrives, along with the guests. I time the preparation of the addenda to the flesh so that everything is finished and ready to hit the table before the Wagyu meets the heat. The two pans of dauphinoise are out and resting, the other crap is assembled and cooked where necessary. The guests are at full speed, drinking cocktails, champagne and wine, consuming various preliminary tidbits: olives, smoked Gouda dip, crackers, whatever. The snacks don’t interest me.

I lean above the counter, transfixed by the Wagyu, like a barely literate Franciscan novice gazing at what the abbot swears is the ulna of the founding saint.

The Wagyu is pink, unlike the alleged ulna. The muscle tissue, such as it is, has a reddish tint, but the white of the fat pitches the spectrum pinkward.

I liberally salt the slab, then let a couple drops of water fall from my fingertips to the surface of the pan where they jump crazily one, two times, before they vaporize.

All is ready. Get ready to fly, my beloved.

Meat hits metal. Extraordinarily hot metal.

And fat goes fucking crazy.

I ask Jon to time the exposure. He does fairly well, considering how much weed and gin he’s consumed. He watches his iPhone and, at the proper moment, cries out: “Two minutes. It’s been two minutes,” the clock his unforgiving master.

Fat is flowing from the meat like water from a faucet as I flip the beast. I can’t believe the amount of melted fat; it is as if someone had jammed me into a tanning bed, and set the control to Thermonuclear.

Two minutes later, Jon shouts: “That’s it, that’s two minutes. For god’s sake, it’s been two minutes!”

I lift the ribeye out of the pan, and place it on the cutting board.

“It rests three minutes,” I tell Jon. He doesn’t hear me; he’s assembling another triple Bombay Sapphire East G and T, and has turned to deliver a monologue concerning the intricacies of running the Wolf Creek Ski Area Ski School to the Gallery Bitch. She, in turn, is pounding down a fourth flute of Veuve Clicquot.

I check the microwave clock, and count down the seconds as I eye the protein. Bergson was right, time is duration, and a particular duration can seem endless.

Finally, three minutes. The knife comes out, the protein is sliced, the slices delivered to the table.

I solicit comment.

“It’s like putting a stick of beef butter in your mouth,” says Ivy.

“Wow,” says Jon. “It’s OK, but I like elk tenderloin better.”

“Holy Moley,” says the Gallery Bitch, “that’s a lot of fat.”

“Never had anything quite like this,” says BFD. “I’m not sure I can eat much more. Well, OK, maybe one more piece. Pass the potatoes.”

My 9-year-old grandson, Banzai, is seated next to me. He gazes at me with puppy eyes.

“You want a taste, don’t you?”

“Yep,” he says.

I cut a piece off the end of a strip and he pops it in his mouth. Up go his eyebrows.

His observations are the most detailed of the evening. The kid has sat on a stool next to the stove and cooked with me from the time he was three. He remembers things; he’s aware of things.

“Hmmm,” he says. “The texture is the most interesting thing about it, Umpy (that’s me). It kind of melts as I keep chewing and I keep it in my mouth. It tastes one way when I’m chewing it, and leaves grease in my mouth that tastes another way after I swallow. Plus, I like the salty edge. I’ll have another piece.”

I take a bite. I chew. I savor. I down a massive amount of Sang des Cailloux. I put another strip on my plate, cut off a chunk and put it in my mouth. I chew. I down a massive hit of Sang des Cailloux. I move more meat to my plate; I pour more of the legendary Vacqueyras. My vision blurs. I begin to sweat. There is beef fat in my sinuses. The room spins, and goes dark.

That’s the last thing I remember until Kathy grabs my arm and shakes it. I am slumped in the big leather chair in the living room, a string of drool dried on my chin and on the front of my sweatshirt. My PJ pants are down around my knees. I moan.

“Arrrrgh.”

“I checked the will and made sure I had the key to the safety deposit box at the bank, before I decided to see if you’re alive” says Kathy. “You’ve been pretty much absent since you had that fourth slice of meat. Banz said to tell you thanks. He took the two remaining strips home, and says he plans to dunk them in hot beef broth and eat them. God, you are an embarrassment.”

That night, I toss and turn, fuel tank filled with meat and alcohol. Finally, I sleep, and I dream.

The dream takes the form of a vintage, cheap porn movie — the kind of crap shown in seedy theaters during The Oyster days.

The film is extremely brief, and begins with the title and credits rolling scroll-like from the bottom to the top of the screen.

First, the title: Beefapalooza. The font used for the title is one of those rounded, balloony sorts, perhaps Xenois Soft, a gentle graphic tease that belies the content to come.

Next, the credits, delivered with a straightforward, authoritative font, perhaps Ariel Hebrew Scholar, one that signals the sober, studied dispositions of the creators.

The credits:

A film, by Alvin “Call me Al” De Terio.

A production of Oyster Studios Direct to You Tube Division, Jim Steele, Sales Genius and CEO.

Script advisor: Lydia Liebchen.

Starring Merle Box, and Toshiro Miyazaki.

Then, to the matter at hand: fade out on the credits.

Fade in on a pastoral scene, suffused with an unnatural, golden light. Is this the afterglow of a supernova?

The camera tracks up the slope of a hill; grasses sway gently, caressed by a whisper of warm breeze.

At the top of the hill stands a massive Polled Wagyu steer, its demeanor catatonic, the creature caught in a moment of Kantian awe as it regards its idyllic surroundings. It is, at that moment, the luckiest damned cow in the known universe.

The camera pans to a path at the side of the hill, up which ascend seven prayerful Japanese girls in a line, each in her late teens, each clad in a short, white toga, the breeze pressing the garment’s sheer fabric against her nubile form. Each girl carries a Kutani porcelain pitcher and a 16th century funnel painstakingly carved from the stump of a zalvoka tree by a masterful Muromachi period craftsman.

Though there is no specific indication provided, a savvy film buff knows the girls are virgins.

Camera follows virgins to cow, whereupon the nymphs, one by one, feed the animal with pitchers full of high-test beer, then proceed to massage its massive flanks, as they sing, “Big boy get happy ending” (in Japanese, of course, Kansei dialect).

It is then that I realize the cow has my face. Wagyu Karl is experiencing pleasure of indescribable intensity. Birds are tweeting, there is Koto music in the background.

I, as cow, breathe deeply, utterly relaxed, transported. My eyes are shut tight as I succumb to the touch of fourteen tiny hands, fingers skittering across my groomed hide.

I do not see the short fellow clad in a long rubber apron approach from my rear, bolt gun in hand.

Cut to black.

The credits roll again, with the addition of a parenthetical promise to reveal the year the film is made, in Roman numerals. I haven’t yet figured out what those numbers might be.

I haven’t made it past XXX.

 

 

 

 

 

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5 Responses to A Porn Pastogram: Memories, Meat, and a Movie

  1. Milton Lewis says:

    MMM A triple threat. And I don’t mean Micheal Martin Murphy. Quite a love story.

  2. Milton Lewis says:

    Get my post in early before the crowd gathers. Hate crowds.

  3. wm musson says:

    great story, Karl…..i remember you describing your oyster days to me when karen and i stayed with you that winter in n. denver, and remember you and i eating at a greek place on e. 13th ave…….i once wandered into you your gallery long ago, too, and still have it pictured……miss all of you

  4. Sharon Goldhirsch says:

    Great story! I’ve been a friend of Jim’s for many years and never knew about the gold Monte Carlo! Best to you!

  5. Sally Ball says:

    Another here who’s been friends with Jim for multiple decades. Love this story and hope to read more!

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