The Horrors of Erotic Writing: Gallery Magazine

Gallery Magazine as it existed in the early 1980s occupies an interesting space in the men's magazine continuum, sort of a low-rent cousin to Hustler, with its "girl next door" amateur photo contests consisting of exhausted- or strung-out-looking swinger wives, articles on muscle cars, and interviews with B-movie celebs.  Much like the reader of Oui might fancy himself a continental jet-setter, the reader of Gallery is a red-blooded American man's man, greasy handprints on his coveralls and ice-cold Coors clenched in a meaty fist, hungry for accessible neighborhood pussy.

I'm not a big fan of Gallery, but when I received a copy from that dear pal of the Tenebrous Empire, Joey "Smut Enabler" Zone, sent under the guise of containing  a vintage interview with George Romero, I couldn't not read it cover-to-cover.  Because--trust me on this--based upon the models in a magazine like Gallery, I can assure you that I *am* reading it for the articles.

Each issue of Gallery features letters to the editor, some of which may be legit, but most of which wind up devolving into the kind of ghost-written "I Never Thought This Would Happen To Me" pablum the likes of which we've seen a hundred times (if "we" happen to read adult magazines, which *I* most certainly *do*).  These are best appreciated when read aloud, with extra points being awarded for the reader's ability to maintain his or her composure.

Let's just say that I was docked at least a hundred points when I came upon the following paragraph, which marks perhaps the least erotic passage ever committed to paper:

The garbage truck, the picnic food comparison, the Old Testament allusion... I can just imagine the hard-up author, pounding away at the typewriter, most of the way into the bag, guided by some higher power of pornography to elevate his faux-confessional above the others in that particular magazine.  

Genius?  Perhaps.