BEYOND THE IMPLODE 3 - BRITISH AIRWAYS 0

I stole my first jazz mag in 1990 ; prior to that, my only contact with pornography had been the odd dismembered rump, boob, leg, pubic clump or bad 80s blow-dry, flapping around on torn and smeared pages in areas of relative seclusion (think railway cuttings, public toilets, the few snatches of North London / Luton green space, etc). The mag was called Revelation; given that this was my first proper delve into the mucky world of filth, and considering the rather quaint pseudo-apocalyptic religion I'd been nailed into, the title was pretty fitting.

Right, I'm going to get something out of the way first. This theft certainly WASN'T a 'male rite of passage' - anyone who trots out that stale old line is basically admitting they were born to be a wanker. Secondly, this wasn't part of a 'boy's natural curiosity'. I can't explain this fully right now - Post 5 might throw up some some semblance of a plausible explanation, assuming you last that long, dearest and most sorely cheated reader (yeah, I'm sorry about the pissing rabbit thing too) - but in the name of Laura Gemser, would these hairy-palmed 'HEY BABY, JUST EXPRESSING A NATURAL URGE!' halfwits please FUCK OFF (and take those I'm into S&M for the psychological aspects, the role reversal and transferral of power interest me deeply rubber quackers with you. God, can't anyone just want an overload of kinky smut for the pure guilty hell of it anymore? If porn's not soaked in sordid guilt, then I don't want it - it's like taking ecstasy without talking shit about Osiris poking his beak through the rainclouds while laughing at Audio Two's pre-school rap)

Enough, we can pick these nits later. Anyway, to kick off this marathon of sleaze, I would like to address the nature of jazzmag pulp fiction. Since porn moved onto the Internet, this 'art form' has shuffled wearily towards the grave - unsurprisingly. After all, these mags were bought for the pictures ; the 'stories' surrounding the naked poses were little more than filler knocked out by chain-smoking hacks in snot-stained snorkel jackets, in order to reduce the costs of sourcing even more snaps from agency photo archives. Online, there is no need for these narratives.

Subsequently, while 'erotic fiction' remains the feckless slave to literary convention, jazzmag scrawl represents the ultimate in disembodiment. The stories in these wankrags (((which no self-respecting Erotic Review onanist would touch - these belong firmly to the realm of Forbuoys newsagents, Pukka pies, queuing for the 36 in the rain, Little Chef shithouses))) are credited to the girls who appear in the shots, who in turn have been 'reborn' with new fake names and identities. The girls now exist as interchangeable automatons, their 30 minutes spent in front of the camera has become the least relevant detail in the process.

Authorship dissolves, the writing is clipped and forced, 0 to 60 in 3 seconds to meet space constraints, paragraphs hacked and pasted into each other, anything to prevent them from snaking off the page or bleeding across the photos. The writing is as disposable as the mag itself, compressed pseudo-fantasies amplified and tearing themselves apart, before splitting like cells only to re-cluster a few shiny pages later.

Consequently, the effects can be ludicrous. I shall give a brief description of the contents of Revelation. The cover features a girl who looks uncannily like the Eastenders character "Dawn Miller", making an 'O' shape with her mouth and thrusting her pink pants-clad derriere outwards. The back cover features an amusing advert for an affiliated publication ; one of the previewed stories is titled "While the Cat's Away..." and features a furious looking woman glaring at a Boycie from Only Fools and Horses lookalike who's been caught, starkers, with a young dolly bird wrapped round his waist.

The first 'story' in Revelationis a 'Q&A' with 'Elaine', a 'top London masseuse', and is accompanied by pictures of a German-looking woman, who gradually strips off and rolls around over the course of eight pages. 'She' explains that The difference between a prostitute and a masseuse is that a prostitute has to sleep with whoever pays her, even if they're ugly or dirty, but I get to pick and choose my clients. After this bizarrely spurious take on the sex trade, the author hones in on the rude stuff ;

Q - Do you have any particular favourite types of client?

A- There was a time a couple came to see me...(some superfluous waffle to cover a few lines). I was sitting on her boyfriend's face while she rode his cock, and we were facing each other, so I could play with and suck on her tits. Soon we were all moaning and groaning and I climaxed at the same time he screamed out and pumped her wet pussy full of cream. It was one of the best orgasms I ever had....I hope they come again soon!

Q - Did you charge them for it?

A - Of course I did, I'm not a bloody charity!

The second story features the cover star, a self-confessed "nymphomaniac" who's not into love or sentimentality. I'm into sex and shagging. 'Her' tale begins with a recollection of the photo shoot currently assaulting the viewer's senses :

I slid off my low-cut top and immediately became wet, the shoot was really turning me on. I felt so sexy in my sheer panties, and wanted the photographer to take me right there and then but the idiot didn't even seem to notice! I couldn't believe it, he was more interested in playing with his camera than with me! What a waste. Oh Christ - not one of them!!

We then get some examples of her vivacious sex life. While dining in a restaurant, she spots a famous rockstar. She unbuttons her top and makes her way to his table, to get his autograph. He ends up fucking her bandy in a public toilet. However, as she emerges semi-naked from said convenience, she bumps into a cop, who decides he'll let her off a charge of public indecency, provided she sucks him off. I'd better not give away his identity she says of the famous muso, I've got a lot of respect for him, and I love his music. He's very big...in more ways than one!

However, it doesn't take much detective work to suss that she's obviously referring to Ian Astbury, lead singer of The Cult, whose 1987 LP Electric remains one of the few UK heavy metal albums worthy of praise, and one of Rick Rubin's best productions to date.

Obviously realising that he's...sorry, 'she''s spent too much time dawdling over these 'memories', the author goes into hyperdrive to bring the story shuddering to a carcrash of a conclusion. There's so many other things I could tell you. The time I seduced every 16 year old boy in my street in three days flat. Or the time two lesbians locked me in a room all weekend, and wouldn't let me leave til I'd taken their dildos, tongues and licked their pussies dry. Or the time I was invited to an S&M party and got to torment and humiliate submissive men all night long. Hey, who knows, maybe we'll bump into each other one day and I can add you to the list!

The third story concerns a woman who's just booked a holiday, by herself, to Africa. I was desperate to get away from the office for a while...and especially away from that prat Philip, who couldn't make me come! I'll refrain from reproducing any of the tat that follows, but it should come as no surprise that she ends up getting shafted by a couple of black blokes.

Story 4 is reportedly a 'true story' by a porn model who, while out hitch-hiking, gets picked up by a psychopathic rapist who takes her back to his foetid bedsit and attempts to attack her. However, he ends up bursting into tears, with his head in his hands- it transpires that he's impotent. Tempted to stove his head in with a lamp, the chick instead takes pity on him, and before long they're both splashing around in his bathtub. She soaps up his plonker, which miraculously stiffens, and gives him the blow job of his miserable life.

The 5th story is a fairly dull account of some weekend swingers who play a game of 'strip tennis'. There's a rather unpleasant description of one of the women running the wire of the tennis racquet over her friend's husband's bellend ; for some inexplicable reason this story is accompanied by pictures of a Neneh Cherry lookalike with her twat out, eating a hot dog ; a streak of mustard slithers down her forearm.

Ian wasn't impressed with the bukkake vids, not one little bit - he removed his raven-feathered Russian hat and peered at the screen. We'd been slumming it in Hotel Stern, slap bang in the middle of the Reeperbahn ('room features - opening window') and had fallen on hard times ; Ian's leather trousers were flecked with schnitzel crumbs, my throat was cracked from St Pauli chants and too many Marlboro Reds and Dunkelweissbiers.

On the screen, Nanami Kurasawa was licking globs of manfat out of another model's armpit, while 2 Japanese hobgoblins clawed and strangled their pixellated joysticks, mere inches from her face. What was in that look she flashed the camera ? Was she taunting the viewer's distance and seclusion? Some hidden sexual knowingness? "Filmed bukkake breeds real bukkake", I whimpered to Ian. "She knows the viewer gets as much as her co-stars do - a nod and a wank. Only the viewer soaks the carpet, not live flesh. But he gets as much a spectacle and as little physical contact as the 'real' wanker. It's a simulation of a simulation...", but then my voice went for good.

Was she only squinting to prevent the babypaste from ruining her contact lenses? Nanami dribbled some cum onto another model's tongue. "This isn't very rock n roll," Ian harumphed, turning back to his paperback Jim Morrison biog

I needn't quote any more examples from Revelation, I'm sure you've got the gist. From such lazy British hackwork the likes of On the Busesdoth spring. I won't stray off on topics such as "Why the fuck do so many porn models wear those hideous shoes with clear plastic heels?" ((my ex once asked me this very question and demanded to know what sort of men considered them a turn-on; "I don't know, I've never read one of those mags, I prefer the real thing!" I roared triumphantly. Honestly though, I told her I didn't have a clue but agreed they were vile)).

Scrawls spiralling into madness; what became of these pulp hacks? Porn's permeation of straight society swung the door back into their mugs - unable to compete with mainstream absorption of erotica, they became as anachronistic as the pamphleteers who used to mooch around Tyburn flogging the last confessions of condemned cow thieves ; victims of their own cannibal industry. The splayed glossy shots these hack writers had temporarily puppeteered would smile back at them, grins between bare calves and puckered arseholes, while overglossed lips, once animated with bike shed chat and hastily cooked slang, would form perfect 'O's, before being ripped into legs, boobs, rumps, pubic clumps and dumped in areas of relative seclusion, like here.