Thursday, April 06, 2006

Ample Annie's Treasure Chest



For two decades leading up to yesterday, when I finally Googled her, I had mistakenly remembered Miss Annie Ample as “Ample Annie.” As in Ample Annie's Treasure Chest, a saddle-stitched booklet of esoteric objects so bizarre and intriguing to my eleven-year-old mind that I can still recall the nervous tingle of surveying its well-thumbed pages back in the eighties.

Implements and contraptions, pouches and slings, tubes and spheres, potions and lotions, powders and pills, ointments and oils, creams, masks, boots, gloves, diagrams and detailed depictions of startling things. Plus the incredible Pocket Pussy Pal. Strangest single item I'd ever seen.

Turns out that the Treasure Chest was merely a mail-order sex catalog that my boyhood friend had lifted, presumably from his folks, and squirreled away in his bedroom for quiet study. The product selection was probably rather pedestrian and low-tech by today's standards. In fact, a friend sitting with me now would like us all to know that the Pussy Pal of yor has yielded to a novel crotch-emulator called The Flesh Light. She hasn't seen one up close so I'll leave it to you people to investigate further as you like.

The boy who introduced me to Ample Annie's Treasure Chest was the same precocious youngster who tempted us with the naked Hades-harlot in Suckle Me, Succubus. And it was on his television that I saw Angie Dickinson's mystical, magical soap-lathered breasts in Dressed to Kill, a psycho-sexual thriller that provided the first TV sex content I ever watched. I vaguely remember a taxicab scene in which a guy rips off Angie's undies and I thought, Geez, do we get to do that?

So this neighborhood kid -- who eventually became an attorney and married a New Orleans stripper -- was the first source of sexually-explicit material in my youth. Did you all have someone specific who opened your eyes to these things? Not your first sexual experience, per se, but your first experience of erotic media. Was it a sibling? Was it the neighborhood troublemaker? Was there a girl who led the pack? Was it YOU who discovered and spread the gospel to your peers? Also I was wondering if you have lucid visual memories of the content...

P.S. I couldn't find an image of the Treasure Chest, just this 1984 cover photo of Her Highness the Queen Mam(s).

13 Thoughts:

Anonymous GM said...

Sorry, a bit off topic here. (Although no insult to Annie is intended)

Did you guys see this?

http://news.nationaljournal.com/articles/0406nj1.htm

Fitzgerald filed papers that say Libby got permission from Bush and Cheney to leak classified info to the press.

Thursday, April 06, 2006 12:41:00 PM  
Blogger pawlr said...

Ugh, you know how I feel about silicone and a vicious blow-dry tease.

Thursday, April 06, 2006 12:52:00 PM  
Blogger supercat said...

Lord, that is dated. Can't quite make out the month/year. Is that '84?

A set of fake Libbies on a lass don't bother me. As long as they're not leaking.

re: the articles: Some how the phrase "Gator Gash" seems less than appetizing...

Thursday, April 06, 2006 4:08:00 PM  
Blogger Manola Blablablanik said...

Now, that -- my friend -- is what I'd see in the country (see my previous comment in the last post) -- TOTAL UDDERS, DUDE!

Thursday, April 06, 2006 11:21:00 PM  
Blogger N said...

Udders? Her hair certainly gives off the impression that she's been standing in an open field all day. :)

Friday, April 07, 2006 7:23:00 PM  
Blogger iBegToDither said...

Greetings, gang. Thanks for your comments on the preview image. Now that I've posted, I guess my inquiry could seem redundant with Suckle Me, Succubus. It's just that I'm still interested in those early discoveries of erotic images and ideas, and the kids who had a "head start" and passed it on.

Pawl, I think they're real.

Supercat, February '84.

Manola, get a good long gander and move along, then :)

n, kind of like the windswept heifers along the Cliffs of Moher?

Monday, April 10, 2006 5:50:00 PM  
Blogger supercat said...

Great post.

Okay, my earliest encounter with erotic (er, well, pornographic) imagery. One memory stands out.

A friend from Catholic elementary school invited me to stay the weekend at his family farmhouse. I was twleve. We were not close, me and this kid. He was sort of the tough guy of the class and our relationship seemed built solely on our highly skilled playground reenactments of the Planet of the Apes movies. So I was really flattered he asked. Plus, he said, he had something really cool to show me.

At the farm, Jeff and his twin brother proudly whisked me to a place they called "The Shack."

The shack was an old dilapidated toolshed behind their barn. They opened the door and ushered me in. I could hear them whispering, anticpating my reaction.

I was stunned. Speechless. Every piece of available wall and ceiling space was papered with with torn out pages from Playboy, Penthouse, OUI and Gent. The afternoon sun, shot through the slats of the shack and the lens of those glossy pages lit the room up like a cathedral. If a cathedral could built from ass, boobs and nipples.

Jeff and his brother stepped in quietly behind me. Nothing was said. What was there to say? I drank in the unreal, distorted images. The random, glorious, idealized body parts. The sundappled blonde and brunette hair. The narcotized stares. The front teeth sunken into lower lips.

I remember there was a little bit of prono mag text mixed in there too. A scrap of boldface type they stuck to the door: "Sex," it declared, deadpan, "is a physical need!"

After a while, we grew bored. After all, the shack was old news to Jeff and Dave. They got more joy out of showing it to their unsuspecting friends. The most unassailably cool adolescent toruist attraction ever.

So we went into the barn. We found a mouse in a grain holder. I watched as Dave killed it with a with a rusty pitch fork. It wiggled around and died and made the thinnest and saddest of sounds.

Jeff demanded we go into the hayloft. When we got up there he took off his T-shirt, lay down, and started rubbing hay on his chest and stomach. "Let's pretend we're Playboy girls" he said, "And be sexy and rub hay on oursleves!"

So I lay there, and Dave and I rubbed hay on ourselves. I can't remember if my shirt was off or not. But I remember being on my back, staring at the peaked roof of the barn. I felt peaceful, like I'd just been let in on a strange and powerful secret. Then Jeff jumped up, shirtless and started kicking hay around the loft. "Sex!" he yelled, "Is a physical need!"

I lost touch with Jeff after eight grade. We ended up going to different junior high schools. I later heard he and his brother joined the Marines.

I don't what happend to the Shack.

Or the hayloft.

And I never knew the names of the girls in the magazines.

But I saw what happend to the mouse.

What was the question?

Monday, April 10, 2006 8:56:00 PM  
Blogger Medea22 said...

Two dimensional fodder:
Aside from fingering through my fair share of Playboys and Hustlers found in many a bathroom and closet, there was also a little something called ESCAPADES. When Cablevision first came to New York back in the early early 80's - all of a sudden there was porn on the tele...it was soft but it was porn. We'd wait 'til the folks were in full snore and then on came ESCAPADES.

three dimensional:
a dirty little girl taught me the wonders of the shower massage. older boys always wanted to play "Star Trek"with me casting me in the role of some tricked out alien sexpot. Then there was the time when CBs and truckers were all the rage - i don't know the year. I remember Queen was playing. Bicycles...bicycles in my friend's older sisters room...i was suckin on my girlfriend's titties when her sister burst into the room -screamed bloody murder and kicked me out of the house. Two partially dressed sexually aroused 12 year old girls touching eachother was not what she expected to see. I think she still thought we were trying to fit Tiffany Taylor's big ass doll body into Barbie's Dream home. I never went back to that house again...though I did go back to titty:)

Tuesday, April 11, 2006 2:53:00 AM  
Blogger iBegToDither said...

Many thanks for the story, Supercat. In my experience a roll in the hay can be real scratchy and scritchy. Hurts so good. Anyway, feel free to admit it if you're shirt was off, we're all friends around here.

Hi, Medea, isn't it amazing how that phrase never gets tired? Repeat after me:

suckin on my girlfriend's titties
suckin on my girlfriend's titties
suckin on my girlfriend's titties

Tuesday, April 11, 2006 10:05:00 AM  
Blogger Medea22 said...

put a g on the end of suckin' and it's just not as catchy...Ibegtodither, the way you made it a triplet almost gives it a choral quality.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006 1:19:00 PM  
Blogger iBegToDither said...

Yep, I already laid down a guitar line and sang it over the phone to a friend. The words just repeat over and over. You can play it in the key of A, B, C, D or DD.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006 4:09:00 PM  
Blogger Manola Blablablanik said...

I lived in Venezuela for three years when I was about 9. Playing spin the bottle with some friends, I had my first french kiss by a guy named Romulus. I swear, that kiss spurred me on to a very early onset of puberty!

Wednesday, April 12, 2006 9:53:00 AM  
Blogger iBegToDither said...

Who could resist a French kiss from a Venezolano named Romulus? Hello, 911? There's a fire in my pants!

Nine years old is ahead of the curve. My first Frencho was also in spin-the-bottle, age 11 or 12. The bottle missed the girl I wanted to kiss, a bookish blonde with rosy cheeks and thick bottle-bottom glasses that created anime eyes, gigantic and dark and liquid. The lass I got was the one that scared me. She was pretty and very forward and had been telling everyone for weeks that she had a crush on me. She didn't have glasses and her last name was Goodsight. The kiss was soft and warm and exciting enough. Just beforehand, in a demonstration of experience and technique, she'd sprayed her mouth with minty Binaca and handed it to me to do the same.

At the end of the party the girl with glasses confessed that she'd wished my bottle had picked her. This launched weeks of anticipation nervousness and distraction.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006 8:47:00 AM  

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