It's after 2AM Eastern Standard Time and I just got finished hanging out in town with a couple of pals. Sonya, being one of them, is the ultimate female friend, a woman whose unmatched skill at telling hilarious stories has made her one of my favorite people. The OMGs were really piling up, let-me-tell-you. The thing that makes her who she is - the thing that has lifted her to the apex of everyone I know - is that she has no filters. None. She reads like an open book. It's kind of refreshing, really. She’s so charismatic, she’ll get you up and dancing and make you wanna’ take your clothes off. This evening she was going on about how when she was little, she and her girlfriend would rummage through her mom's romance novels for the well-written storylines and the seemingly endless kinky-sex scenes … minus the well-written storylines. She uncovered tons of tales brimming with shirtless pirates and rugged cowboys and politicians in the midst of their silly, silly corruption scandals. With the protagonists consisting of only the finest trollops with heaving bosoms and knees that would melt with even the slightest promise of a wet kiss. And, according to Sonya, any writerly attempt from the author to create a plot ended up being a joke.

The only similar situation I can think of from my childhood, and it's a bit of a peccadillo from my past, if you will, was when I was seven-years-old and found one of my dad's Penthouses in his underwear drawer. I knew exactly what it was the split second I laid my eyes on it. I got chills and dropped down to the floor, interrogated every page, and brimmed with little moments of awe and wonder. There was a lifting of the heart, as naked woman after naked woman touched something deep inside. That magazine gave me a new purpose in life, it did. I most definitely wouldn't have complained if finding a new Penthouse became a daily event. I felt propelled forward somehow, a door had opened. I distinctly recall getting a whiff of my dad's cologne as I flipped through the sordid images. Even to this day I can't smell Old Spice without the image of a woman's landing strip popping up in my head.

A lot of people would write me off as a drooling, sex-crazed kid, but I'd like to make one thing clear. Deep into my journey, I also read all of the articles. Mainly Penthouse Forum, sure, but some degree of intellectual energy was exerted that day. Everybody here is familiar with Penthouse Forum, right? You know ... the accounts of sexual exploits that all started the same way: I've always been a big fan of your stories over the years, and I never thought anything that wild could ever happen to me, BUT ...

Unfortunately, I've become desensitized to erotica, but every word in that issue on that day was new to me. Nuzzling? Where on earth did that come from? I ran to the dictionary to look it up. It involved the nose? Who does that?? Isn’t it wet down there? Why would you want that glaze all up in your nostrils like that? Jesus, I can’t wait to try it.

At long last, it dawned on me that the unexamined life was not worth living. And the kind of prepubescent life I was leading was not complete without a peak into porn, believe me. You seek sexual wisdom ‘cause you know you haven't got any, at least not until you turn that first page. As would be expected, I had to share my findings with my best childhood friend, Jimmy. He still thanks me for broad-ening his horizons to this very day. All it took was inviting him over and saying, "Hey, take a look at this," and I slapped Bob Guccione's publication right into his sweaty little palms. He couldn't comprehend what he was holding, as if this was his most complete triumph. It was a great joy. When I play that moment back in my mind, I can still hear the catch in his throat as he stared at the centerfold with the rounded knockers. They were like medium-sized balls of dough as she laid on her back. What a way to jumpstart only the horniest impulses. Made Playboy look modest by comparison - we even got to see labia! I suppose that's for more sophisticated tastes, mainly because we weren't clear as to what one would do with them yet. Back then, it was all about the breasts. Our lives were enriched from that day forward. Never mind the fact that several of those moments were also spent in terror, afraid that we were going to get caught at any instant.

Things have changed these days. Pre-internet, we had to be pretty savvy to get a hold of spank magazines. Nowadays, all it takes is the click of a mouse (and a friendly gentleman's visit to our favorite web site, NN. God bless America!)

Anyway, Jimmy and I couldn't wait to soak up all those pictures once again after only a few days - hell, after only a few hours - and when the coast was clear to check it out again, it was gone. Gone! Gone, gone, gone. It was the first and last time my father ever had an adult magazine on the premises. And he never talked about it. He was a classy guy in that respect.

When I finally turned 18 I felt like I was able to get a second chance. My childhood dreams had finally come true: I legally was allowed to purchase Playboy. I highly recommend that every college-bound man get a subscription at least once in his lifetime. It’s a right of passage. Hell, at the end of my sophomore year, I had stacks of them sitting around – for years – but they ended up being like newly hatched turtles trying to make their way into the illusory safety of the sea, in that they kept getting picked off by their surroundings. First there was the great flood of '00, which demolished half of my supply. Then my brother’s vulture-like friends lifted some of the issues. The lousy thieves! Off with their heads! Both of them!!

It’s sad, but this is what the circle of smut has come to. Losing those magazines affected everything I did from then on out ... my dreams, my aspirations ... my religion.

(sighs)

C'est la vie …

Hi, NNer's. How's your weekend going for you thus far? I don't mean to ruin it, but I just received some shocking news ...



I just learned that the Snooki book made it on to the New York Times Bestseller list.



#24



Now normally when you have 'Snooki' and 'book' in the same sentence, there's usually some laughter involved. Lots of laughter, actually. Yet it's somehow managing to do gangbusters. (Must be all that helpful life advice she's so willing to dole out, I-don't-know).



If you ever find me sitting home alone, feverishly flipping the pages of a book (barely) written by a tanned, big-haired spitfire from New Jersey, then you, my dear NNer's, must put me out of my misery. No, seriously. Throw me out the nearest window, skin me alive, boil me in oil and then make me sit and watch - Clockwork Orange-style, of course - a 24-hour marathon of Keeping Up With The Kardashians. That oughtta' do it.



OMG!



Now on to more pressing matters ...




Can anybody out there lend me a couple extra bucks?



(The new J-WOWW book doesn't buy itself, ya' know).

Today I was nearly attacked by an angry mob at Borders when it was discovered that they were out of the Snooki book.

OMG!



(Then came the explosions and dismemberment).