Disney's "TRON" was maybe the first great video-game based movie. In the SF paper one day, Tron's creator said he based the film on the revolutionary psychedelic light shows by Jerry Abrahms and his Headlights Productions (JAHL) at the Fillmore West in the very beginning of the SF rock scene.

I knew Jerry fairly well and called to tell him what the man had said and Jerry asked if I'd bring him that paper. I drove over from Walnut Creek and as I sped into the Caldecott Tunnel at high speed, a huge semi carrying gasoline zoomed up right beside me and then let off on the gas to match my speed and we went side by side into that tunnel with abutments and armagedon a few feet away and us in a wide turn at high speed, locked in, no chance to back off, no way to outrun the xxxxx.

As we approached the tunnel mouth, I saw a ghost come from my back seat to look at the side of my head and when I frantically glanced that way, unable to take my eyes off my lethal problem, I actually saw the ghost swiftly duck back behind me!

This happened again, and then again -- each time I took the risk to glance toward the ghost because it was so astounding that I should be in two such situations at the same time, and I couldn't help but look, if that was a ghost. Gasoline tanker explosion with me in the middle of it colliding with a bridge abutment or not, I had to see that damned white shade but it was too quick to duck back each time.

Suddenly, the ghost pounced and enwrapped my whole head in an instant, so tightly that it was being sucked into my mouth and nostrils as it blocked my breath. I grabbed it, ripped it off my head, screaming "NO!!! YOU'RE NOT KILLING ME!!!" and when I had it in my hand and again took the mortal risk of glancing away from the onrushing tunnel edge and the bomb beside me, I saw it was a damned plastic laundry bag that had been on my sport coat a while before.

When I got to Jerry's, I handed him the TRON article, which covered the entire front page of the entertainment section of that day's paper for that very hip city and as I watched him read it, I saw his eyes fill with tears. I was very happy that I had been able to find it and bring it to him. I had a feeling he had not gotten credit for a truly radical new form of art, and that article might have been the highest validation he would ever receive.

He read it, then clutched it to his chest and asked me if he could have it. I said "My pleasure." Later I saw he'd framed the whole page and put it up as the centerpiece of his house, on the hill above the Haight.

Abrahms, though: once that was accomplished, I told him about the "ghost" attempt on my life and he said "Too bad." I said "'Too bad' what?" He had a sour look. He specified: "Too bad it didn't kill you."

He did a lot of porn loops after the death of the SF rock culture. He should have done pornographic psychedelic light shows.

I survived.

My favorite porn star was Robin Everett. Daughter of a Stanford professor, I heard. Beautiful like a small Farrah Fawcett in her glory. Saw her one night sucking off a bedraggled hippy man, flat on his back, raised up on his elbows to see the vision making oral love to him. He wanted to watch, but he felt so good, his eyes were rolling back and closing, overcome with pleasure.

They were a greatly contrasting couple, and she sucked him sweetly. Took him all the way.

She still shines in a video called "Deviations".

One night, she wanted me, and I -- I was too high, and that has made all the difference. I never understood what it was to look into smoldering woman eyes until I happened to see her smoldering at me!

The last "Hollywood" porn film (shot on Cineflex cameras) was "Virginia", made by John Seeman, actor and gentleman, and written by Lili Marlene, herself one of the stars.

The crews were Hollywood regulars, from set builders to makeup artists -- this was true of all porn films. The people who made "The Shining" look right made "Virginia" shine. Now these guys were good. When Hitler was giving instructions for his gigantic rallies, he ordered that they be made to the standards of "the Egyptians, or Hollywood".

The male stars were Olympic sexual athletes. Amazing men. Viagra must have occurred naturally in them. The women were unique among females; many of them a blessing on the race. Kurt Vonnegut wrote "Pornography is bad, because it presents an impossibly hospitable world."

I asked one of the ladies if she had another career outside the underground economy and she said no, and didn't want one. "I can say," she added, "that I am honestly cock-hungry." Said it in all honesty.

Was it Shakespeare who wrote "Cock was made to be eaten"?

I thought not.

I could only sleep when I was supposed to be awake, so I saw a lot in the dark.

I came back to sunlit hours, but Night Man and Woman are still Out There.

It was hot. Late. Had to have a fan in the window, so had to have the shades up. Had to have light, in order to read or handle the music.

We were young and strong, lean. She had naural definition of her abs and triceps! She broke the boys' record for the obstacle course at her high school. So outraged the captain of the football team, he asked for a chance at her in a match race. She not only beat him, but he injured his knee trying desperately to catch her at the end.

She got wetter than any female I had ever touched between the legs. She would get so aroused, her eyes would cross like a cat's will do when they are full of desire. Her pussy was literally hot, as if she had a lethal fever, but only between her legs. She was a very good girl. The best. People thought she was Untouchable, unreachable. The first time she spread for me to see, she had to cover her face with her hands.

The first time she sucked for me, she went down on her own, licking my balls and further down, licking under my balls, tongue and lips like snakes high on pussy adrenalin. She ran her pristine tongue against my anus, then began trying to insert her tongue as hard as she could possibly push with it. Her tongue wasn't as strong as it would get to be.

Still, the effort and her volunteerism brought her to orgasm. I was amazed, and asked if she had cum. She could barely whine "yeah" in a tiny, broken voice.

Still took me 2.5 years to decide if I could stand to be married.

We lived late and naked in our night chamber, the fan sucking dark air in one window, across our bed and out the other. We did everything in the nude, and so, naturally, we developed a peeping tom, like a tree will develop an apple.

I heard him a few times. I didn't mind him looking, but felt a little paranoid, knowing nothing at all about him. Or her. I found shoe prints in the dirt between the bushes outside the windows one day when I was caught in daylight.

The heat persisted, and we persisted naked throughout the season. The sounds kept coming from just outside the window, until I took the watcher for granted. She liked being seen nude, though I reminded her it could be anyone. A classmate. Her brother. Her father, checking up on us. Anyone. That's the thing about anonymous sex. And the women who do it don't mind who it is.

The great unspoken part of sex anon.

When in the course of human nights, I had to pee, I hated walking through the house to the bathroom. I didn't want to get dressed. I didn't want to wake anyone.

I began going out onto the dark porch to relieve myself.

One night the urge hit me and I hopped up briskly and swooped along the porch, hung from the pillar with one hand, swung out over the bush and began pissing like a horse.

I pissed in a great volume, and for a long while, and still had plenty to go when suddenly, from the very place my pee was cascading down into, between the bushes, a man erupted and ran.

I never saw anyone run that fast in my life. He was young, well-dressed, and all the way down the block and around the corner and gone! When he went out of sight, I was still pissing where he had been hidden.

One of the more memorable incidents of my life.

It dawned on me that I had been peeing on him as if with a purpose, and that he had probably thought I was doing it knowingly.

"What a Bad Man he must be!" I imagined him thinking, "to skip right past the ass-beating session and simply hose me down with his awful meat and that yellow water, enough like to wash my car with!!! A Bad Man!!!!!!!" he must have thought, as he ran off under my superior gaze.

Years later, I thought "it was probably the strangest incident of his life, and he has not been able to tell a soul!" I have told, but I am telling it from a different position than his. Event of the millenium in the house of his mind, and he must keep it secret all his life. Not even on the deathbed can he reveal The Secret.

I never was so bad as The Night I Stood There With My Dick In My Hand.

Now everybody knows.

I put a note on my door asking to be allowed to rest for a few days.

Within a few hours, the door opened silently in the dark and a tall, slim girl was silhouetted in a sheer dress as she entered and closed the door behind her.

I said nothing as she stripped and when she crawled onto me and took my hard-on inside her, I asked her not to talk, and especially not to tell me her name.

That was so good. We were supposed to be enlightened. Her great grandfather had founded Linguistics, and she held her tongue.

We walked onto our first adult film set January 5, 1982. I fled the Bay Area Sodom September 22, 1986, dragging her with me like she was Lot's wife (who also didn't want to go. You don't hear that part, from Hebrew history.)

Long time fly by slowly.

Last winter, I find on a porn history site that 1982-1986 is considered The Golden Age of adult film history.

Idea Man.

I realized that pussy was the thing!

And yes, I am referring to the thing "of it".

So I gets a little older. I says "whoa!" Then I says "hey!" I'm beating off 5, 7 times a day! I'm thinking "this must be why I'm here." Or it might be what I'm here after."

The Here After!

I have a teacher, Miss Somebody, and she is all hot ass and panty crotch, when she sits up there on that high stool. Every guy in class spends the whole hour leaning over to the side, and she knows that.

She KNOWS that!

She's not FOOLING nobody!

When she comes down the aisle, passing out our papers after some test or some homework or what, her ass raises the temperature ten degrees as she passes. I can see her ass with my eyes closed, through infrared sensing.

Don't worry bout the technology. Young boys have GOT the technology.

So I.

She gets married, halfway through the year, and it dawns: they is some man laying on her EVERY NIGHT now!

Now her name is Mrs. Bender. haha. I don't have to tell you.

Well.

This girl, she is in my class. She is much more developed than me. I still don't have no ass. I still live on my bike. She has a hairdo. Wears nylons. Gives me looks.

What's a hard-on to do?

I get invited over, and I.

I go over there on my bike, only.

When I get up next to her yard, she is there, laying on a lawn chaise in a black bathing suit. A girl is sitting on each side of her on the grass. They are fully clothed, so her thighs outshine the sun from at least a block away. The yard and the girls and the world is like a setting and she is like a precious stone, glittering for me. I am way overmatched.

I slow down and come cruising in, like a bird about to land, only when I get within about 50 feet, I see something.

And the closer I get, the more of it I see, until it is ALL I can see. There IS nothing else but her pubic hair, fluffing out of her bathing suit crotch on both sides. A luxuriant growth, all black like her hairdo, and highlit against her white thighs, coming out of that black bathing suit.

I ease to within ten feet. Not a word say I. Eyes drilled on that pussy, because if I can see the hair of it, then I can see the pussy.

And I drift on by, tongue too hard to try. Swole up like a cork plug, rammed in my throat. My dick is babbling in tongues. I glance maybe one time in her eyes, and she all like she shamed, or sumpin.

I all like I shamed, too, but I'm on my bike, so I goes on by, and down to the end of her street. I'm bout to make my getaway, only there is a fence, and I just about try to throw my bike over it and climb after, but it has bob wire, like to keep her contained from pillaging the adult male population, and I think I will just abandon my fucking bike, and -- what? -- I decide to close my eyes and disappear.

It used to work.

I'm hit. I got to ride back up past her to get out the trap.

I start pumping the bike hard, like somebody cool would have been doing her, and I.

I FLY on by her and her court, my eyes glued on that pussy hair, in case I don't ever see her pussy anymore. Never look in her face. Why bother? I know. I lose.

Nobody says anything as I whoosh past, but then.

Something get ahold of me and turn me around and I run back past. Got to see some more of that POOTTY! And they watch me fly by, back down into the trap.

And I turn and run back, eyes still on the main thing, and hell, I go back and forth maybe three times, round trips, six passes all told. It is one of the great moments in young peter buffoonery, I guess, but fuck it. At least I got my eyes full.

Spent all year in class with her and we didn't talk again. We'd pass sometimes, and once or twice I glanced and she was looking at me, same way she looked when she was showing me her she-pussy. Look like she SHAMED, or sumpin.

I don't know what I looked like. Glad of it, too.

Don't TELL nobody!!!

.

Director Ralph White's masterful series of adult films, Diamond Collection, opened the door for the era of the admitted whore. Ralph's brilliant lights, stark contrasts between surfaces -- velvet of various royal colors; studio tan white skin and later, the first intense focus on black hand and organ against creamy whiteness -- gave his work a look like no other in the skin trade.

When I met him in his living room, which was his set -- an upstairs apartment in what looked almost like a converted motel in or near Walnut Creek, California, near SF -- I told him his work in many respects reminded me of Rod Serling's "Twilight Zone". Ralph smiled and said "Finally! Someone can see what I'm doing."

This man is a prophet without the acclaim he deserves.

At a time when the other directors / producers were almost violently strict against drug use by the people who were fucking for the cameras, Ralph let them do as they liked, and that made all the difference.

He did so many things perfectly. Look for the forerunner film "Posthole." The male star was as muscular as a professional cowboy and as handsome as James Dean with a long, large prong. The lady was pure peach, and happily xxxxxx for all to see. The title comes from what he did to her when he turned her belly-down. At that time, the uninhibited pounding of a huge machine in a delicate, pretty anus was so rare as to be possibly unique to that film.

Her swooning behavior after taking such treatment made it all the better.

Ralph knew what he was doing. Where is he now?

There is more to this story, and I'll pass it along.