My son has published a gentleman’s magazine that’s far more erotic than mine, and even though that spells the end for my gentleman’s magazine, I couldn’t be happier for him.
I, the distinguished publisher of the gentleman’s magazine Lusty Dreams (named Most Erotic Gentleman’s Magazine seventeen years running by a committee of successful entrepreneurs in adult entertainment, and some local perverts), thought I had done all there is to do when it comes to distributing adult male entertainment. But my son has made a gentleman’s magazine that is more sensual, more titillating, more phallic-ly exciting than anything I have ever put to paper, and I am so proud that I could burst—both figuratively, and (thanks to some steamy pictorials) quite literally.
I had no idea my son knew anything about the fine art of mass-circulated erotica, let alone was publishing his own gentleman’s magazine. Running “Lusty Dreams” is a twenty-four-seven job, and it’s hard to make time for family when your art designer needs approval on the waist to bust ratio on April’s “Bimbo of the Month” and your associate editor wants to change everything to a Century Gothic typeface. But one flip through my son’s magazine and the fact is as plain as the nipple on the boob—his gentleman’s magazine is significantly more erotic than anything I could ever hope to achieve with black ink, tawdry photos, and the occasional cartoon of an anthropomorphized rabbit grinding against a lonesome steer.
Titled simply Rod, my son’s gentleman’s magazine’s mission statement is “to rev the engine that throbs inside every American man’s briefs,” and I can lovingly say it accomplishes that task more than admirably. From the very first letter to the editor—regarding a racy romp in a hot tub with three college coeds in Malibu—to the scandalous spread of a former fitness trainer on the Santa Monica pier, to the Marlboro cigarettes ad with a lady cowboy in assless chaps and nothing more than a single sheriff’s star across her bosom, I knew my son had created an erotic masterpiece for the ages. He has taken the formula of Lusty Dreams and brought it into the twenty-first century with bawdy bravado and lecherous zeal. And, most importantly, he got some hot babes to take their shirts off and photographed the results. I cannot compete with that.
Sure, some of you Cyprian idealists will say there’s no need for me to cease publication of my gentleman’s magazine—there is room in the marketplace for both father and son; a prosperous dynasty of the obscene. After all, does Hustler not compliment Playboy? Does Penthouse not stand cheek to cheek with Swank? Are Score and Thrust not equals? Could one live without both Insertion and Pump? Do men not pleasure themselves to Eating It and Lady Drippings alike? Maybe so, but I can see the writing on the wall. Rod will flourish and blossom, ushering in a new generation of libertines, debauchers, and creeps. Lusty Dreams however, will wither and die, like a rose plucked from its stem, no longer masturbated to. But do not shed a tear for me! For this is not some random pornographer ousting me from my smutty throne, with one hand firmly grasped ’round my engorged, crusted crown. This is my son—and I love him more than words can say. Every father who runs a gentleman’s magazine knows this day inevitably comes, that all racing horses must be put to pasture. I am more than willing to have my son take me out back, and with his mighty wad, shoot me clean between the eyes.
So I bid farewell to the weirdos, the deviants, the sexploiters and the sexploited, to whom I have peddled my filth for the last three decades. It is time for Lusty Dreams to stand down and let Rod take hold of the reigns. I remember when I was a boy, I used to play basketball with my father out on the driveway. For years he would beat me, often without letting me get as much as a single shot on basket. My father was a competitive man, with strong values, and despite my begging, he would never let me win. “No,” he used to say, “you have to earn it.” I tried so hard, spent so many nights outside taking free throws, so many weekends in the gym lifting free weights, to no avail. No matter how much stronger or technically sound I got, my father would always win. So how did I beat him? When I published the Lusty Dreams 100th issue spank-tacular and stopped giving a shit about basketball. Because it’s pornography, not basketball, that truly determines the measure of a man, and if my son knows this, well—I’ve done my duty as a father.
I lubed it up for you, son. Now drive it to the hole. You earned it.
Matthew Brian Cohen is a writer and performer at the UCB Theater in New York. He has written for Saturday Night Live's Weekend Update, College Humor, The Onion News Network, and McSweeney's. His podcast, Lifescrapers: Tall Stories of American Lives, can be found on iTunes and BreakThru Radio. He also wrote a novel called Danny Disaster, available on your Kindle or Nook. Follow him on Twitter: @TheMatthewCohen.