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Ever wonder what kind of creature lurked beyond the green XXX door, helping create the $8 billion a year monster called the porn industry? Ever wonder how Marvel’s X-Men, the Incredible Hulk, and Spiderman himself were behind it all? Beaver Street reveals all, leaving no holes barred. Robert Rosen, aka Bobby Paradise, started writing “girl copy” and phone sex scripts for High Society in the early 80s. His boss, Carl Ruderman, had started him at $17,000 to make the magazine “crazier” than its competitors. Tapping into his earlier experience as a comic skit writer, the rookie cranked out his first HS pictorial feature: a Cool Hand Luke leather-and-lace lesbian chain gang. Ruderman declared his new recruit a “creative genius” who “would not be standing in a breadline.” By this time, the skin tycoon was clearing over a quarter million dollars a month from High Society’s phone-sex juggernaut. The computerized system logged over 500,000 calls a day, Ruderman made 2 cents per (the phone company made 7), and his best customer was the Pentagon. Like his colleagues in the industry, Ruderman fancied himself a progressive publisher not a purveyor of smut. So when Bobby Paradise described High Society to a New York Post interviewer as “porno,” the outraged smutmeister axed him. Rosen landed on his feet at Ruderman’s competitor, Swank Publications, which published hundred of titles, including the iconic Swank and Stag. At Stag, he worked with porno’s expanded Fantastic Four, “The Nasty Nine.” On the receiving end of the celebrity cocksmen were the likes of Wendy Whoppers, Candy Cantaloupes, Busty Dusty, Pandora Peaks, and Auntie Climax. Soon, Rosen climbed the equal opportunity porno ladder and took over as managing editor at Stag’s sister rag, For Adult’s Only. Till now he had been a kind of Gulliver –a stranger in a strange land. At FAO, he went native with what he calls “an experiment in participatory journalism.” He became the star of his own “$5 Blowjob” feature. But, in spite of the heroic efforts of his co-star, a Hungarian, the “newcummer” got stage fright. Otherwise known in the industry as the dreaded “waiting for wood.” Finally, Paradise became the poet laureate editor at Chip Goodman’s D-Cup. He wrote of “bodacious bazooms,”“magnificent milkers,” “succulent saggers,” and “wobbling wazoobies.” Sixteen years in the trenches, the author witnessed the rise and fall of the industry: from its phone sex Golden Age, to the Traci Lord’s scandal (“the pornographic equivalent of a Chernobyl-size toxic spill”), to Reagan’s anti-Obscenity crusade, to the free internet porn which put the final stake through the heart of the men’s mag biz. In Beaver Street, the defrocked Mr. Paradise leaves us with a new kind of X-File which creates its own genre: a confessional for-adults-only romantic comedy with a rare, thoughtful twist. Brilliant!

2022-12-17 14:17