SAUCY from HAPPYLAND

Spent a polar June morning (fuck you, Chicago!) finger-banging (fuck me, Chicago!) my way through another unearthed paragon of the early self-publishing career of my Beloved. As Selwyn Harris' seminal (semenal?) HAPPYLAND zine dictates almost non-stop that it be read one-handedly, my catamenia-soaked digital tribute was just. Plus, this HAPPYLAND toadying is as likely to cause pain, emotional changes, breast tenderness and fatigue, so what's the bloody difference?

Crux of Selwyn's long-lost musings: I laugh hard, wince hard, think hard and come HAHHHHHHD.


The sticking point being the tales of obsession and heartbreak surrounding a certain teen-aged golden calf. Somewhere between Travis' feelings for Iris and Traci Lords' complicated relationship with her stepfather lies the truth of something I really have no business over-thinking or applying the logic of to modern times. BUT, that doesn't seem to stop me. And to clear up any confusion, yes, I'm referring to an ex-girlfriend of Selwyn's from 18 YEARS AGO. Bear with me.

Here's my truth: This PEARL of a girl was everything that made a fair-to-middling creature like myself at her (under) age feel like a zip, a zilch, nada. Goose egg. By that definition, you can imagine the exact opposite sensation blessed upon the suicidal megalomaniac granted boundary-less carnal permissions with such a gem. The Big Shot moment to which all future Big Shot moments would be compared (and fall desperately short)? With or without cocaine? I spent my adolescence as a mess in the mid-west who would have sold her baby brother to be a 6-foot-tall, blonde-tendrilled boner-breaker with an older equally-perverted boyfriend. For real. A blue-eyed, tow-headed, white American male newborn, no less!

Let's revisit the early 90's zine craze itself for a spell.
I was there. I had my own self-published perversion (SAUCY, "4 Girls, Bi Girls") that turned me temporarily into a low-level local celebrity. Sold through each issue, got recognized in public, paid very rarely for drinks, drugs or shows (except karmically). Had a zine partner whom I hated so badly that I insisted on keeping his dick in me as much as possible, no matter how his girlfriend felt about it. Such an ideal relationship comes with so many sweet memories. Like one night in particular that started with my first 'surprise' anal sex, immediately followed by being told that we couldn't have sex anymore & ending with my first screening of MEET THE FEEBLES. The movie was kind of a blur with my sore, stunned ego and butthole. I think it made me horny. Without the middle part of the evening, it may have qualified as a dream date. My co-editor liked to torture me because I liked someone else more than him that I couldn't have. Eventually, I fucked his roommate. We were very mature and sophisticated.



What can I say. Those were weird days. So many of us creeps were superstars of our own creation with the fan mail to prove it. It was awesome. And it goes away.

17 years later, a girl and boy meet with a lot in common and a lot not in common. A year after that, the girl can sit (or whatever) in their apartment and laugh and cry and jerk off to every line the boy wrote at 23 about every porno theater, peepshow, girlfriend, hooker, popeye, Budweiser, roommate, bartender, movie and record as if they were scrawled for her, her of the understanding that 18 years is a long time, life is fucking magical most days and some of us find our 6-foot-tall, blonde-tendrilled boner-breakers in the form of a middle-aged self-loathing Brooklynite with big dumb blue eyes you could just die in.

God. How fucking gross is that?

My Nips are Still Hard for Early 80's Cable

As a young, moderately innocent girl in the throws of puberty, my rapidly-filling sweater and perma-pulsating panties led me di-rectly to a modern mid-western miracle. When my so-called suburban youth became exploded with burgeoning feminine ripeness, I devoted my nights to soaking-in and rubbing-down to Fabulous Soft-core Bounce-Fest Sex-A-Ramas, Cheap Goofs and Star-Filled Fantasies provided by my brilliant and wonderful new-found best friend, Early 80's Cable Television.

Whether 'live', or Betamaxed obliviously by my elders to keep me sedated with the sweet opiate of celebrity, the delicious horrors I encountered on the finally-literal Boob Tube would educate and stimulate to an unprecedented degree (and could be arguably to blame for prompting my own cups to runneth-over). Short summer nights lost to teen/forbidden/historical sex led to dreams of swelling chest blossoms and fuzzier young lady bits, and hopes of proper fondlings... from coeds and fathers of friends alike!

If Early 80's Cable Television were here right now, I'd slowly move in close so that our nipples just barely brushed up against each other and mash our shiny lips together. She'd insist I show her everything I learned. I, of course, would wear something see-through..or maybe just panties and tons of lip gloss. How would she recognize her tireless apprentice otherwise? Digging deep into the recesses of my unclean mind, I'd conjure the ghosts of twitches past...

In The Beginning, I was blessed with Kentucky Fried Movie (1977). A cable TV standard amongst the 'best friend's older brother' set, introduced to me via sleepover in a dark, familiar finished basement.
Most of the brief spoofs I found boyish and boring, save appearances by Cleopatra Swartz, Big Jim Slade, and the life-changingly masterful Bold and Busty sexploitation uber-parody, Catholic High School Girls in Trouble! The announcer warns, "You will cream in your jeans!"- and I surely would. This spectacular gooey phrase itself, previously associated with a certain jiggling teenaged babysitter of mine expressing love for Kiss' Gene Simmons and speculating the nature of his hyper-extendable tongue, would henceforth become tied to BRRRRRRRR-BOOBIES. I was growing quite a pair gym-suit genies myself and welcomed the opportunity to gawk brazenly at the parade of purrfect pillows presented by this skintillating sketch. There is practically nothing finer (or funner) than unapologetic indulgence in parody boob. I mainly wanted my middle school more-than-mouthfuls Uschi Digard-ed against a Plexiglas shower door. Hard.

My first literary exposure to DH Lawrence came from a horny middle-aged high school English teacher who graded on a cleavage curve and infamously dated students. Comparatively, my cinematic introduction to Lawrence years earlier via trusty late-night cable TV proved to be a much grander lesson. Lady Chatterley's Lover (1981) gave me my stroke. Sylvia Kristel and her creamy dreamy sensuous ways provided a stark contrast to my beloved oversexed bouncing cheerleaders and whatnots. Kristel was my classic beauty, my subtlely curved and perfectly symmetrical anatomy model, and I followed her self-exploring example to the letter (which would be "O"): I stood in front of the full-length mirror, guided my fingertips in the slowest lightest manner possible all over my milky virgin skin until i was about to burst. Then I slipped onto my twin bed and continued the Braille study, brushing over new firm blossoming breasts and steadily trailing downward, finally reaching the honeypot. Wowza, Sylvia Kristel was even left-handed, just like me!

Nicolas Cage may have played a fake-ass punk rocker in Valley Girl (1983), but the humidity in this girl's valley was like, totally real. Way.
Many salacious scenes effected me deeply, but the hottest moments of this SoCal teen classic were a testament to ingenious costume design. The Peeper's Choice Award goes to: Elizabeth 'E.G.' Daily's super rad zip-front jumpsuit. Omigod! This simple outfit raised my nubile nips and my mental bar for slutiness. Not only was she alone with her friend's boyfriend in an upstairs bedroom at a party, she had on the most bitchin easy-access ensem of all time. Dirty Daily possessed the only gnarly nakie knockers I'd noticed that appeared larger and perkier while reclining. Accident my first bra was nearly identically to the one she wrestled back on in this scene? Ha. Ha. Ha.
Although the main Hollywood-meets-the-Valley love story between Cage and immaculately dimpled Seventeen Magazine model Deborah Foreman was precious and adorable, the grudge-humping and tittie-tasting Cage did with a sexy club-trash girl (Tina Theberge) against the mirror in the loo of the future Viper Room sent waves of wonder through my newly awakened nether regions. Not wet? I'm so shur!!

The catapult that truly launched me lovebox first into ladyhood was not a theatrical release at all. It was a music video, an uncut music video, a sleazy sticky, dripping, groping, wrestling, lousy with lingerie, funbag-flaunting soft core uncut music video. Duran Duran's Girls on Film (1983 in U.S.) had been heavily promoted as being featured in it's full version on the infamous Pre-MTV cable music clip show and Church of the Sub-Genius vehicle, Night Flight. I may never know whether my former key-holding Playboy Club member grandfather Betamaxed it for himself or me.
In these early 1980's, I had underage super fandom for Duran Duran, specifically, for John Taylor. Taylor and the idea of forbidden pg+ video sex had me moist with anticipation. It so delivered. After an intro of workers and make-up artists prepping for what appeared to be a runway show (and glimpses of the band) a sheer black nightie-clad twosome slinked into a boxing ring holding hands with actual pillows in tow. They approached a shaving cream covered horizontal barber pole, straddled it facing each other and slid up the pole a good 18 inches into regulation pillow-fighting position. Upon calling the brief fight that I assume ended in a tie, the video vixens kiss. ON THE LIPS! The real money shot is the perky pair exiting the ring, again hand-in-hand, with white cream smeared between their thighs and up their underthings. And there's like 6 more minutes of hot action left of the video! After half a life of bedding bass players, still waiting for my barber pole moment, pillows in hand

I was always a smart cookie, but I was no nerd. Revenge of the Nerds (1984) left me wishing I were. The tech savvy these dorks conveyed in their peeping and creeping was awe-inspiring. Just when the tit, bush and tush exposing panty raid seemed a raging success, those mini Bill Gates' delivered big-time with sorority house spy cams! The morning after 'pulling' an all-nighter, the geeks became positively wolfish ogling the delicious white satin-covered wiggling ass of a sleeping coed. I immediately learned the value of a well placed booty shot (after pleasing myself, of course) and the knowledge still serves me well today. "Oh! I accidentally fell asleep on your couch with 4 inches of silky butt peeking out from under my skirt? Silly me. Sure, we can get naked now!"
Betty Childs (Julia Montgomery), lean and lovely coveted college cutie, impressed me with her versatility, revealing both normal nip (panty raid) and elusive 'puffy nip' (Eat a Pi for Charity pic) on her itty bitty tee-pee tittes. I also have nothing but respect for a girl willing to change boyfriends after having bait-and-switch costume sex with a random Nerd. Heh

When experiencing the first lusty pangs of adolescence, a maturing miss often finds herself crushing on an much older gentleman. That's biology. At least that's what I tell myself as I reflect on my early obsession with Blame It On Rio (1984).
Two best friends and business chums in raging mid-life crises descend upon the exotic topless beaches of Brazil on holiday, accompanied by their teen daughters (Michelle Johnson and Demi Moore. Yep!), who are also best friends. Just as the Devil dictated, the fast and loose daughter (Johnson) fully pursues the Other Daddy (Michael Caine) in an intimate fashion. In turn, Other Daddy treads the path of least resistance. I. LOVED. IT. Was I too young to know better or was the casting that good? Michelle Johnson showed almost a tomboyish, unsophisticated comfort in nothing but bikini bottoms on the public beach, possibly because she was underage herself. Her tasty top-half however,amply oozed girlish sophistication. I was e-lated and I re-lated. Demi Moore's brief bare mini mams, circa Ashton-Kutcher's-sixth-birthday, packed less punch.


If there existed a single heavily-rotated cable feature that at once turned me on to prostitution as a glamorous part-time job and freaked the bejesus out of me, that film would be Crimes of Passion (1984).
In my hormonally-charged, naive young brain, this movie was 'The Kink.' Kathleen Turner, with sultry voice & perfect posture, portrayed a scheming design-house employee by day, filthy hot sex worker with a body built for lingerie by night. Oh yeah, her whore-tastic streetwalker name was China Blue. Damn!
China's call girl costume consisted of platinum blonde wig, blue eyeshadow, red lipstick and the clothing equivalent of cheap sizzling sex (80's style, natch). As the camera slowly pans her flesh, my mind and curious preteen load were blown over the 'all-nipple' nature of Turner's otherwise flat-chest situation. I mean, these stunning suckers were like Tootsie Rolls or something, maybe the strawberry ones I used to get trick-or-treating.
Anthony "Psycho" Perkins as the porno-preoccupied pervy preacher added a whole new level of 'seedy' deviance for me. A possibly too-realistic peepshow visit and subsequent freaky blow-up doll fantasy intrigued and befuddled my poor forming mind.
China Blue at her best: white wrist gloves, purple silky dress, off one shoulder, Tootsie nip exposed and being worked over by the husband-half of a paying couple, in the back of a limousine, totally disinterested while the three engage in country club chat. Sublime.