Thursday, February 13, 2020

Ten Mainstream Movies I’ve Shamelessly Fapped To

Celebrating Valentine’s Day in the most romantic way imaginable — by reminiscing on all of the PG-13 and R-rated movies we’ve jerked it to over the last 60 years


By: Jimbo X

With it being Valentine’s Day and all, I could give you all a heartfelt, stomach-trembling article about the ecstasies and torment of love, but eh, after being in a monogamous relationship for 10 years, I kinda’ forgot what either of those two things feel like anymore. Which, naturally, turns the discussion towards the most globally-appealling love-adjacent topic there is, good, old-fashioned S-E-X. 

The problem, though, is that I’m just not that thrilled about writing about my own sexual escapades. I have no regrets whatsoever informing the general public that I’ve only had sexual intercourse with three women in my lifetime, but on the upswing, I’ve been blown by, like, eight or 10, so that kind of helps with whatever the penis equivalent of a QBR is. The odd literary thing here is that while sex is pretty much the most fun thing you can do as a human being outside of eating deep dish pizza and playing the Sega Saturn, from a writing standpoint it’s pretty boring. I mean, you can only come up with so many homilies and metaphors and synonyms for “putting my ding-dong in, taking my ding-dong out” before you run out of ideas, and unless you’re doing the nasty in some really weird places or with some really weird people, pretty much every sex story you could possibly tell are identical. And let’s face it, I highly doubt there’s that much social demand for details on my sordid sex life — and no, Angela, I am NOT sending you a dick pic, and you’re one of the reasons why I quit Facebook in the first place.

So instead, I’m trying to cater to my target audience here this Feb. 14. If my market research is any indication, most of the people reading this are virgins who MAYBE have tongue kissed a person consensually once, so perhaps our widest lowest common denominator involved the sex talk boils down to communal pop cultural experiences. Which, of course, boils down to a conversation about masturbation, more specifically, ‘batin to non-pornographic forms of entertainment, which is something ALL of us have done at some point in our lives. 

For me, it was a necessity, ‘cause we didn’t get the internet around my parts until, like, 2000. So if I wanted to churn up some teenage love spit, I had no choice but to palm my pecker to whatever was on basic cable or a lucky video store rental. Alas, even in the post-WiFi revolution, I must admit, there’s been a time or 17 where I’ve been watching a non-pornographic production and visuals contained therein were so sexually stimulating, I couldn’t help but milk my monkey to them out of sheer reproductive compulsion. And today, especially with it being St. Valentine’s Day and all, I reckon such movies deserve praise and recognition more than ever. 

Again, I ain’t exactly proud to have polished my pecker to these 10 motion pictures below, but by that same token? In today’s hyper-liberated sexual society, I suppose I don’t have much of a reason to be ashamed to, either — and hell, odds are, you’ve probably squeezed your diddly to at least one of the following flicks, yourself, so consider this a mutual memorial to the mainstream movies we’ve masturbated to, as a collective peoples … 

Depending on your perspective, this is either the classiest jerk of my life or the absolute most shameful.

Persona (Ingmar Bergman, 1966)

Yep, I’ve polished my knob to a Bergman movie, and I don’t feel nary a shred of pity over the fact, neither. As one of them writery people, I’ve always been more impacted by the written than the visual, and a lot of times, what spikes my sexual energies isn’t so much the immediate aesthetic appeal of something as it is the subtext. So if something like Jim Wynorski’s The Wasp Woman or Witchcraft II: The Temptress is the cinematic equivalent of a Target bra ad, then Persona is kinda’-sorta’ the closest thing you’ll get to ritzier, more sophisticated erotica in the medium. In particular, there’s this one scene where near-perfect Aryan goddess Liv Ullmann is just sitting there, her face front-in-center view of the camera, suckin’ on a cigarette while telling similarly near-perfect Aryan goddess Bibi Andersson about this one time she got gang-banged by a bunch of sods on the beach and how much it excited her to feel the random riff-raff coom inside her. While the scene has no nudity or doesn’t depict ANYTHING even remotely sexual, just hearing these two Scandanavian princesses yammer on and on about performing fellatio in that delightful mystery meat language was enough to have my Johnson throbbin’, and let’s just say there was this one point in time where I was REALLY lonely in college and … well, long story short, I jerked, and I jerked feverishly. YOLO.

Admit it: if she was your Satanic sorceress sister, you'd get her pregnant, too.

Excalibur (John Boorman, 1981)

Good lord, was prime Helen Mirren one of the finest women who has ever walked God’s green earth. Even at the ripe old age of approximately 103, she’s still one of the only legitimate GMILFs still getting work in Hollywood these days, and if you never caught her oeuvre back in the day, my goodness, did you miss out on a LOT of primo ‘batin fodder. I mean, she voluntarily starred in both Caligula and The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover, so you just know she’s the frisky type IRL, too. While I’m tempted to name 1969’s Age of Consent as Mirren’s finest work, from a purely masturbatory vantage point, the one that probably has the most innate nostalgic appeal for me has to be Helen’s performance as mega-magic bitch Morgana in Excalibur, where despite not popping her top out of that tin-can bustier, she nonetheless scored all-time whackin’ it brownie points for the scene where she uses her weirdo mystical powers to seduce King Arthur into not only sleeping with her, but cajoling him into milking his mighty royal seed into her inviting ovum just so she could give birth to a biological heir that would kill him dead 18 years later wearing a goofy, gaudy metal Halloween costume. Of course, one could see the scene is somewhat icky considering, canonically, Morgana and King Arthur are technically brother and sister, but let’s face it — if incest was REALLY as gross as the purtianical watchdogs of morality claim it to be, there sure are a lot of make-believe sister-fucking videos on Porhbub, ain’t they?

So, uh, any suggestions on how to get my girlfriend to try this sometime?

The Hunger (Tony Scott, 1983)

This movie has a little bit of everything to tingle my nether regions. A buncha’ scantily clad, chain-smoking goths? Check. Softcore lesbian smooching involving prime Susan Sarandon and Cathereine Denievue wearing way too much lipstick? Check. A buncha’ androgynous proto-twinks running all over the place, making my question the concreteness of my heterosexuality. CHECK. But for me, the thing that ROYALLY screwed up my loins was a scene towards the end of the picture, where the vampiric Denievue gets so tired of Sarandon resisting her undead charms that she decides to convert her to the living dead by jamming a knife through her own throat and French kissing the tainted zombie blood down Susan’s gullet. Of course, I never told anybody in my circle that the scene give me a perverse stiffy, but the truth of the matter is it did, and all these years later I feel nary an ounce of shame for having beat off to a horror movie depicting two New Wave skanks gurgling plasma back and forth through one another’s mouth holes. I mean, it’s not like I was spanking my rod to that part in Hellraiser II where that one weirdo doctor starts making out with Julia’s skinless ass, was I? 

Between this and Paramore's music video for "Misery Business," I've got my go-tos for my utterly indescribable "getting Frenched by some random skank in heavy makeup in front of my significant other" fetish. 

Trading Places (John Landis, 1983)

Oh, Trading Places — a.k.a., the one where Jamie Lee Curtis FINALLY showed the world her tit-tays. As the case with many youngsters who grew up in the late 1980s and early 1990s, I believe Trading Places was one of the first movies I ever saw that featured full on, uninhibited, uncensored, unpixelated nude mammaries, and while JLC might have the kind of face you could strike a match against, there’s no denying that at this point in her life, she had some fantastic areolas. Alas, while the iconic “freeze frame” topless shot is probably most people’s go-to fap flashpoint, for me, the scene I begrudgingly polished wood to was a decidedly less sexual sequence where Jamie Lee — in full-on prostitute garb and hooker makeup — runs up to Dan Akroyd right after he gets out of the pokey and starts sucking all over his face right in front of his wife and demanding he give her dope right then and there. I guess you could say this spoke to my inner reverse-cuck fetish, because hot heck, have I always thought it would be downright neat to have some random broad play uvula lacrosse with me in front of my other of significance. Granted, I have no idea how to type that into PornHub, so yeah, this scene usually has to suffice whenever I get those atypically particular genital yearnings. 

Thanks a lot, Uma, for giving me the thickest dong I've ever experienced at Walmart.

Batman and Robin (Joel Schumacher, 1997)

You know, we could berate B&R for being a horrible piece of cornball camp-shit that almost killed the superhero genre, or we could celebrate it for giving us Uma Thurman’s spank-tastic performance as Poison Ivy. Pretty much everybody agrees that Uma’s  vampy performance as everybody’s lethal-lipped ginger was the highlight of the flick, if not the only thing about said picture that wasn’t 100 percent embarrassing. Alas, for me, I’ll always remember B&R for the notorious “rebirth” sequence, where the geeky Pamela Isley emerges from her floral tomb looking like a super skanky, vine-covered sorority girl, which I just so happened to witness for the first time while it was being screened on about 400 TVs at once at Walmart. Naturally, I sprang an immense ‘rection during the part where Uma starts death kissin’ the shit out of that wacky-haired scientist, and even now when I reflect on the movie, the first thing that comes to mind is “oh shit, should I just hang out next to the Hootie and the Blowfish CDs and close my eyes until the chub goes away?” Of course, when the movie started making the straight-to-cable rounds on TBS a few years later, I have no apologies for waxing my beige carrot to said scene — and neither should anybody else, you horrible, horrible kink-shamer, you.

My thoughts exactly, Kevin Bacon. My thoughts, exactly.

Wild Things (John McNaughton, 1998)

Believe it or not, back in the late 1990s, watching girls swap spit with each other was considered kinda’ taboo. Of course, nowadays Hollywood don’t have any scruples about showing actual middle school-aged actors engaging in lebsian smoochin’, but in 1998, even watching two 30-years old pop-kissin’ was considered risque business. Alas, the same guy who brought us Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer and The Borrower (easily the finest movie ever made about an alien homeless person who rips people’s heads off and wears them as hats starring Rae Dawn Chong ever made, in my humblest of opinions) decided to knock the cultural barrier down once and for in 1998’s torrid, high-class Showtime sexcapade Wild Things, which is famous for exactly two things: a shower scene apparently showing Kevin Bacon’s wang-doodle, and the two scenes where prime Denise Richardson and prime Neve Campbell slather on their classiest pre-Columbine brown lipsticks and play ookie mouth with one another. Personally, the post-catfight pool makeout always made me hotter than the infamous threesome sequence, where Denise famously sprang out them gollywhopper-sized jugolas — I mean, who DOESN’T want to watch Sidney Prescott and that one ratchet from Starship Troopers get all slippery and sloshing on one another, anyway?

... and an entire generation develops a saliva trail fetish in three, two, one ...

Cruel Intentions (Roger Kumble, 1999)

The first time I saw this movie was right around the time my household got one of those illegal cable boxes that unscrambled all of the PPV and premium channels. For the first 40 minutes or so of the movie, I was completely unabsorbed, but that’s when I was hit out of the blue by a scene that — by all objective measurements — I have subsequently squandered liters of jism on. While Sarah Michelle Gellar and Selma Blair’s pseudo-lesbo liplock in Cruel Intentions wasn’t the first major girl-on-girl snog featured in a mainstream Hollywood production, what it was was the most intense in a movie to date, and the fact that it involved a big name celebrity like Buffy made it all the more impactful. This was no lame-o movie kiss, oh now, for this movie, they made those bitches REALLY use their tongues and lick on each other like amateur porn stars, and it was, in a word, beautiful. Even better, the half-minute long makeout concludes with what is probably the first major cinematic depiction of legitimate spit fetishism, with SMG and Selma Blair ending their buss with a long drizzle of saliva stretching eight-feet across the silver screen. And if you don’t think that has had a major impact on the cinematic form, just think about this — a mere 16 years after Cruel Intentions came out, they started making movies about Jena Malone hocking loogies in corpse’s mouth for necro-Frenchinand Rachel Weisz and Regina George herself dripping spit droplets on each other for sexual gratification in The Neon Demon and Disobedience, respectively.

A little known fact is that Liz Huley's middle name is literally "HNNNNNGG."

Bedazzled (Harold Ramis, 2000)

Late 1990s/early 2000s Elizabeth Hurley was pretty damn close to being my dream woman. An exotic accent, brown hair, piercing blue eyes, a goddamn marvelous rack — just everything about the dame screamed “knuckle pudding” to my teenage brain, and when Bedazzled starting making the HBO rounds, you better believe I was gonna’ be pounding knob like a professional door handle cleaner. I don’t think there was any one scene in particular in the movie that I used as fappin’ go-to, rather, I was pretty content just making baby batter whenever E.H. was onscreen, ESPECIALLY during the parts where she was wearing that absurdly tight red leather ensemble, which almost assuredly sparked my sexual proclivities for latex wardrobe … well, that, or the music video for “Oops I Did It Again,” but since that ain’t a feature-length production, I suppose it doesn’t count. Hey, there’s an idea for a follow-up article, “Ten Music Videos I Choked My Choad To Back In The 1990s” — although, admittedly, I think I’d have a pretty hard time narrowing said listicle down to just ten.

Now that's what I call a touching mother-and-son bonding experience. Get it, because she's schlepping her own offspring?

Savage Grace (Tom Kalin, 2007)

Oh, Julianne Moore — my MILFy redheaded fantasy made flesh. Ever since I saw her playing that bitchy grad school student in Tales From The Darkside: The Movie, I’ve wanted to her to do very, very kinky things to my genitals, and possibly my rectal cavities, and that’s the kinda privilege I just ain’t gonna’ afford to any dime-a-dozen Jezebel out there with an auburn coif. And while her role as a canonical coom dumpster in Boogie Nights definitely got my teenage testes a tumbling (who could ever forget the scene where she demands Mark Wahlberg pump a hot load in her?), I don’t think I’ve ever jerked my Jerkola to her visage as much as I did in the concluding scene of Savage Grace, a movie that was already pretty hawt because J.M. spends half of her screentime schlepping random guys with mustaches and smoking cigarettes all sluttily-like. For those of you out of the loop, the flick concludes with the MILF-tastic Moore unbuckling Eddie Redmayne’s britches, being startled by his apparent erection and proceeding to hop on his tuber like she was trying to turn her ovaries into microwaved pudding — and upon learning he didn’t evacuate his bollocks during the encounter, she then gets a running start and hand shandies him to completion. Of course, you might think the scene is kinda’ gross since, technically, the two are supposed to be mother and son in the movie and all. But you know what? I spanked it anyway, and I’d do it again willingly, voluntarily and cheerfully, regardless of the incest vibes — and so would you, you freaky, freaky motherfucker. 

I'll give you a hint: she's not wiping Sprite off her chin, that's for goddamn sure.

Nymphomaniac Volume I (Lars Von Trier, 2013)

Well, if we’re going to start the countdown with quasi-embarrassing Criterion Collection-tinged self-pleasuring, we might as well wrap up the setlist with a more modern arthouse production — which, as a total aside, I’ve whipped up some baby batter to on at least one particularly lonesome evening. The epic, genre-bending, modern day masterpiece from arthouse virtuous Lars von Trier, as the name implies, is about a young woman who just can’t get enough of the cock, and from a young age she has no problemos getting her jollies by having the sehks with as many random partners as possible. For me, the piece de resistance is easily the sequence where Stacy Martin and her oddly alluring eight-head tag teams a train with her gal pal for a contest to see which one of them can get their coots pounded by a complete stranger first. Eventually, this leads to an incredible scene where our pseudo-succubus heroine finds a middle-aged man with impotency issues prepared to inseminate his wife later that evening with his seismic semen load he apparently only gets once every four or fives years, only for that saucy little minx to seduce him into a seed-stealing beej of biblical proportions, complete with a downright Pornhub-tastic shot of Miss Martin gulping down a massive mound of man juice without any remorse whatsoever. It’s the kind of scene that mixes the sensual with the sociopathic so seamlessly that I couldn’t help but rub one out there on the spot — and if I know Lars like I think I do, he’d probably applaud me for doing exactly what he wanted me to do as a filmmaker, soiled Calvin Kleins and all. 

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