(Prior posting from my old webspace)
I remember it well. It was in lower grade school in Ottawa, where I reside.
I , along with some little friends of mine, were nosing around the gymnasium, up to no good I suppose, and we found the storage cupboard unlocked.
Well, what is a self respecting kid supposed to do, ignore that?
So, in we went. There were basketballs, and medicine balls, and the like. And, me being a total electronics junkie, found a PA system and record player. And what lay on top of it.. but Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass’s album of “Whipped Cream and Other Delights”. Like any pre pubescent boy, and there were a few there that day, we were totally stunned by this artful use of blatant sex that lay before us.
It was a defining moment in my life. I realized just how beautiful something naughty could be.
I was always as twisted a shit as you could ask for. I was forever getting into trouble over my sordid misadventures as a child.
Fuck it.. I was WARPED! This album cover was SOOOO cool! I never ever forgot how I felt when I saw it.
By any standards of today, this album cover would be something you’d see as artwork for The Mormon Tabernacle choir’s release of standard hymns on CD. But back then, it was just plain DIRTY.
I loved it. I wanted SOOO bad to steal the damned record cover. I could care less about the vinyl, and I loved music. So that’s saying something.
It kind of validated me as a pervert.
I mean, I’m the twisted fuck that took my sisters upper anatomically “sort of” correct doll, ripped off her head, punched pins through her hooters and filled her full of powdered skim milk in order to experience that “Real Girl” thing. I knew NOTHING about sex. NOTHING. I didn’t know what a vagina was. I didn’t know what to do with a penis, or where it went, or that it went anywhere, for that matter. But I did know jugs. I watched “The Price Is Right: when those women came “bouncing” down to contestants row. I saw Mary Anne in those bikinis on the deserted island. And I knew a tiny little bit about lactation.
Add one album cover, and stir.
My sister helped with the doll, BTW. She was as bad, if not worse, than I was. We both laughed and sniggered until Mama Killjoy investigated and promptly put an end to my “anatomy” class.
I was nailed for it, as par usual, and out came the Hot Wheels tracks.
Man, those things stung. I still have nightmares about being flogged with orange plastic. I’m probably the only boy on Planet Earth that cried when he got Hot Wheels at Christmas. It was a bit of a Dress Rehearsal for later. I knew they would never survive long enough for thier intended purpose. I ended up thier new purpose. I saw them bent in half, and liberally applied to my arse, day after day, for years.
I was so thankful to say goodbye to my childhood.
I finally had clearance to be the corrupted little shit of my dreams. Funny thing, though. I wasn’t as interested in “Milking Time” as I once was.
It’s not to say that I am not as twisted. Au Contraire.
Herb.. I can never thank you enough for her. She gave me permission to be as fucked up as I am. I know this was not your intent, and I know those over 6 million albums sold will guarantee that here and there, I will see her, in all her creamy glory, for the rest of my unnatural life.
I am a man of great sentiment. In honour of her creamy white hooters, I have erected a shrine in my automobile. It’s a pair of fuzzy hooters, hanging from my rearview mirror.
The only Gay Man on planet earth with a set of them. Of that, I am certain.
While I might not care to revisit those moments of my misspent youth today, I can still remember the really nasty and fun way I felt when I made all these demented discoveries. I might have paid for some of them with my hide, but it was a price I paid, gladly!
I’m so thrilled I can remember that “Taste Of Honey”.
May I never forget.