Gran’s porn stash…

February 10, 2015


After my Grandfather died the family gathered (as they traditionally do at the demise of a family member) to split his goods and chattels between themselves. I remember well my father had hopes of returning home with his dad’s cherished cello.

But, alas, as is often the case in a gathering of vultures, he was to be greatly disappointed. Instead of the cello he picked up a set of golf clubs that were probably pre-1914. He also acquired a number of cardboard boxes containing odds and ends, bric-a-bat accumulated over the long years of my grandfather’s life. These boxes went straight up into the loft, and once there, they were quickly forgotten about.

I don’t recall what was the ultimate fate of those golf clubs (although I can recall J P Donleavy’s hilarious piece from “The Unexpurgated Code: A Complete Manual of Survival & Manners” entitled “Upon Being Stung on the End of your Prick by a Bee on a Golf Course”). My father had never played a round of golf in his life. But he was, if nothing else, a pretentious old sod, and was soon to be seen, clubs in bag over shoulder, wandering the links. He purchased a book: “Do-it-yourself Golf” or some such. But it was just another of his fads, like having a family, and the novelty wore off. The clubs disappeared.

With my father’s death those cruddy boxes of my grandfather’s became mine to dispose of as I wished. For years they remained in my attic (along with the bats, pidgins and whatever else rustles about up there in the unspeakable dark). Remained there, that is, until recently when I decided to have a clear out…

I of course offered a suitable libation to the Gods of household crap before venturing through the hatch into the loft space. I survived the ordeal, so the Gods must have looked kindly on me in this particularly loathsome endeavour. And, although it took most of a day, I cleared the attic of boxes.

Most were consigned to the flames of a raging bonfire. But one box attracted my attention. It was full of black-and-white photographs. Hundred of them. Suspecting some early photographic history of our clan (It is traditional in my family to kick the shit out of the goose that lays the golden egg, and I imagined here may be discovered the reason why?).

Later, at my leisure, I examined the contents of the box more closely. Here was no history of family life. Expecting the worse, I was not disappointed. Only it was much worse, perhaps, than I’d expected. Here was granddad’s porn stash!

Glancing at these sepia splinters of life captured oh, so many years ago, I couldn’t help but reflect on how transient life and its fleshy pleasures are. Words of J P Donleavy rolled through my head, as I studied the near perfect arse of some Parisian beauty, poised over a hundred years ago, to descend on an anonymous, upstanding prick:

“Blessed are they who in this sea of frailty,
climb aboard a piece of ass as it floats by.”

Ummm. And strange to relate that, despite the chasm of years separating the young women in these photos and myself, seeing them undraped, their pale bodies exposed and their legs spread to expose bushy vertical smiles, I felt stirred to a state of intense tumescence. Here were depicted blow-jobs, cunnilingus, sodomy, threesomes, foursomes…young girls passed to dapper elderly gentlemen by fierce-looking matrons for ‘deflowering’; mock (?) priests spreading the buttocks of a flaxen headed young woman recently widowed and “down on her luck”. An Arab sheik and his harem. A young boy and his first love. These girls, so beautiful in all their parts, probably dead now for two generations, still had the power to arouse lust and desire – a magical power transcending time, a form of sexual immortality, that made me feel so intensely glad that they would never really die…almost as if they were recent and intimate acquaintances of mine, who were waiting just next door for me.