Latex gear, an old steam trunk, a four-foot crawl space, and an LA heat wave.
Never a good combination. Especially for coconut oil. Celibacy had prompted this little tyke to tap into the old toy trunk and, to my horror, I found cotton fiber bags and melted blobs of ultra-realistic UR3 material.
A travesty.
But soon I discovered a simple box with very distinct camo tape. Identifiable to any enthusiast. And inside the box, a brand new 9-by-8-inch real deal dong labeled “8.0.”
Yet another travesty, because clearly, it is the mold of one very famous Jeff Stryker.
I’d deem it the end of an era.
Jeff Stryker belonged to an era when porn stars were actually stars. Muscular, mustached, and unapologetically masculine, he became an archetype of gay male desire long before an endless scroll could produce a new one every thirty seconds. His image became recognizable enough that even his anatomy became merchandise. The mold wasn’t simply a sex toy; it was a little piece of gay cultural history sitting in my trunk.
Millennials fuck everything up. Well, technically, it is not our fault; we simply existed in the transitional age of the internet, catalysts for a changing culture unbeknownst to us. The culture that preceded ours is merely history, and who cares about that? Darwinism happened, and amateurs, among other frustrating culprits, killed the porn industry.
Anything can be porn if you try hard enough.
When I was growing up, at first glance, rural hometown Texas seemed wholesome and pure. But in the shadows, about a dozen adult venues of glory hole bookstores lay hidden in plain sight. Even an infamous drive-in theater where you pull up your car to adult films projected on a massive screen. I remember listening to its AM radio station audio as a hormonal adolescent who got off in 30 seconds to the dubbing of moans and groans along with brown chicken brown cow music.
At 18, intrigue struck, I’d discovered the culture within: theaters of straight and gay porn. Little rooms and booths with screens you can feed dollar bills into, an adult arcade. Inside, holes in the wall connected these booths where unheard-of promiscuity occurs at all hours. I deemed the culture: when he didn’t get the girl, you got the load.
Anonymity. The concept became conquest. I’d found myself in situations curated by the fantasy where I would be sought out by a guy who needed it so bad he was bending his social status, matrimony, or religion, because most who seek it are bound to family or are of a devout frame of mind.
Jeff Stryker had a film, a Gino Production, titled Underground, and it depicted this prominent conservative man who, after work hours, would fall into this deviant, sexually driven force that took place at a sex club. The kitsch and camp of it caused instant erections among those who are infamously and posthumously forgotten in the Pornhubs of today. Residing in the category of “vintage.”
Folks just like to see other normal folks get it on. Self-made porn. Who hasn’t made a porno or taken a dick pic themselves?
Once upon a time, I made a production porno. It was terrible; a random dude sent me a text message, and then it was shot at some random dude’s house in the Valley, who wasn’t aware that there would be a porno shot at his house that day. The director argued with his assistant, and I had to show the cameraman how to set his white balance. I was terribly out of shape and ironically played the role of an assistant. I cringe when random folks are like, “Is this you?”
Eventually, I prevailed in a small claim to fame. This is why I know a Banksy approach to artistry is possible in some form. It all came from the notion of oral fixation and anonymity, and it was cloaked in none other than a mask. Two pieces of plywood and a center hole, collapsible and attachable to my bedroom door. Try explaining why to the lumber cutter at Home Depot… In an instant, I was an amateur porn star getting upwards of $800 checks. All for curating a fantasy of anonymity.
Glory Hole + Endowed Co-Stars + Quality Video = Supplementary Income.
And success. However, minute fame and fortune, like all things, must come to an end. The action and geographical area became oversaturated with others seeking the same fantasy, and the funny thing is, the only business venture I’d succeeded at was getting paid to suck dick.
Gross, right?
Like a boy playing with his toys, they eventually get old. So, they move on to the next thing, the next level of excitement and thrill, and that doesn’t change as an adult. You still sit there playing with your toys with this intense, vivid imagination about moving on to the next thing. It’s escapism in every form.
So sometimes sticking to classics works. A Jeff Stryker mold. And when you’re done, you clean it up and place it back in your toy trunk until the next playtime.
And within the same trunk over the years, you’ve accumulated all the gadgets and gizmos, gear, custom-made chaps, jockstraps. I counted 28 the other day, and for what? Worn only to clean the house or for a needed boost of confidence. They say wearing something that makes you feel sexy underneath bolsters confidence; I can attest to that. I even have a Jeff Stryker action figure, in mint condition, still in the plastic.
But that Stryker mold became legend. Even if folks have no clue whose penis mold they are sticking up their butt. It set a standard.
What becomes of those things when they surpass the category of “vintage,” or the folks or movements or eras that set standards? In this day and age, what is the relevance of the past?
We are what we see, and we roll with trends and fads as much as we subconsciously attempt not to. Uninhibited primal instincts allow us to get off and move on with our lives. The origins are irrelevant and surely obsolete.
But boy, did a man clad in leather depicting moral-bending scenes of sex and vice change a little boy’s deviant secret life.
