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jerk-off,” disclosed Wanda, whose knowledge of such things was rarely questioned (alone among us, she had an older brother, you see). But they didn’t need to be any longer than that, because there was more “action” crammed into one ten-minute dirty than you’d catch in a lifetime of watching Hollywood blockbusters.
    I remembered reading a review of Last Tango In Paris that said how realistic the sex scenes were meant to be, and when I saw it, I agreed. They were realistic. But realistic isn’t real, and no amount of fancy lighting will ever be a substitute for a close-up of a hard, thick dick slamming into a gaping, wet pussy. So why even bother faking it?
    The most amazing thing of all, though; the one question that has remained with me longer than almost any other puzzle from my past—how was it that four barely legal teenaged virgins, all giggles and curls and noticeable curves, could sit week-in, week-out, in a darkened room full of masturbating men and not get hit on even once?
    It’s not as though nobody knew we were there. In fact, on
more than one occasion, guys actually got up and moved to another seat when they saw us trooping down the aisle. Maybe they were worried that we’d put them off their stroke? Masturbation is a solitary occupation, after all. Occasionally you’d catch a surreptitious glance out of the corner of your eye, and you’d find yourself wondering what the guy was thinking. Was he looking at your tits while he was beating his meat? But that was it.
    Except once. One afternoon, the action crept off the screen, slipped down the aisle past a dozen or so rows and began playing out so close to me that I could have reached out and touched it. And I might have, as well. Except Wendy got in before me, and she wasn’t the sort of girl who shared. I think she was an only child.
    I remember the movie like it was yesterday: The Sexorcist, a blatant attempt to cling to the coattails of the post- Exorcist boom in supernatural chillers, shot through with a series of extraordinarily explicit sexual encounters, most of them led by the delectable Lilly Lamarr.
    What ever happened to Lilly? I never once spotted her in any other movie…maybe she burned out making this one. It was pretty heavy going, after all, and her character comes to a very grisly end. But still she remains my all-time cinematic heroine, the one girl with whom, as I sat watching the movie, I would have traded places in a flash. And why? Because when she sucked dick, I saw my every dream and fantasy come true.
    The problem with Deep Throat, I always thought, was that no matter how into it Linda Lovelace seems to be, the fact is, she really doesn’t look good while she’s doing it. Her face is all screwed up; there are veins and tendons sticking out. She’s not sucking the cock in, she’s vomiting it out. It’s just not attractive, and any guy on the receiving end of that is going to be thinking,
Well, it feels great, but does she have to pull those faces?
    There’s a visual aesthetic to blow jobs that goes beyond the actual act, and most guys will tell you, a girl who relaxes into the experience and looks like she’s having the time of her life, is a lot more exciting than one who’s straining and spluttering and looks like she’s coughing up a hair ball. Lamarr fulfills those criteria and then keeps on going.
    She’s an artist, an expert, the Bolshoi of blow jobs, and when her man comes, she opens her mouth just wide enough for all the juice to come dribbling out, simply so she can have the fun of sucking it all back in again. And again and again. I was watching her relish every inch of those dicks, and you can forget wet panties. I was soaking into the seat itself…and wouldn’t that be a treat for the next guy to sit there? “This movie’s so hot I can smell it!”
    Anyway, I’m sitting there, literally flooding myself, when someone sat down just two seats away from me. I didn’t pay any attention at first, but