The box of porn

Whether it's packed underneath your bed, stuck in the back corner of your closet or hidden under the loose floorboard five paces from twelve feet across the second red dot on your back wall... if you're a male who hit puberty before DVD's and the internet, somewhere in your room exists a dusty box labeled "Memories of Grandma."

But inside the only grandma that can be found is the one getting double stuffed, possibly by a midget or ebony princess.

I'm talking of course about the box of porn. Depending on when your collection began (mine dates back to the fall of 89), inside this living time capsule of sketch exists a decades long compilation of wondrous filth.

In preparation for my upcoming move, I happened upon my own box this weekend while cleaning out my closet. As I turned on Beethoven's symphony number 9 (the Herbert Von Karajan composed version) and proceeded to slowly open the box, a tear slid down my cheek.

Seeing the early 90's work of legends like Jasmin St. Claire and Wendy Whoppers, I felt like I was in my own version of "A Christmas Carol." The last twenty years of my life were suddenly flashing before my eyes.

And for a moment I wondered what to do with the box. Maybe it was time to say goodbye to the past and move on to a bright future filled with HD. But then I thought of the one day when I would sit my own son down and hand him this very box, just like my father did before me and his father before that.

And while that statement is not entirely accurate (both my father and his father never gave me any porn and/or a porn box of any kind) I can think of no better father son bond. (Unless of course, my son turns out to be gay in which case the moment might get a tad ackward.)

And so, as I wrapped the box with a fresh piece of tape and changed the fading label to "My African Vacation," I said goodbye to Jasmin and Wendy.

For now.