Every guy worth his papaya-like nutsack remembers his first porn experience, and mine left me reeling. Frustrated, angry, and sweating profusely because I was forced to share the experience with no fewer than a dozen other high school freshmen, I watched in amazement as cocks actually entered assorted orifices, unlike the “safe” intercourse of the semi-scrambled Playboy channel that had been responsible for my previous dick-stiffening episodes. Here were fully-fleshed members, engorged like ticks, spraying stunning hotties with loads so intense that I felt the first twinge of inadequacy that would come to define my life. After that fateful day, I watched and re-watched said porno at least 100 times, and can safely say that scenes and partial scenes were enjoyed over hundreds of other, onanistic hours. The film was Breakin’ It: A Story of Virgins, and while production values have rendered this early Reagan era classic obsolete, and even a little embarrassing, I will always go back to the source.

The production opens with an impossibly hot blond being probed by a nitwit surfer boy, and while their scene sets the tone (and gives us a somber, yet authoritative voiceover by Paul Thomas), it is easily the lamest of the bunch. The young man pleads to steal away the chick’s cherry, and while she is hesitant, she gives in after only token resistance. He pretends to have trouble inserting his uncircumcised penis (remember, she’s supposed to be a virgin), but after pushing for perhaps 2-3 seconds, he arrives at paradise, and the look on her sweet face is akin to having be shot in the ass by a BB gun. He then pounds away like he’s being paid by the thrust, the camera pulls out, and Mr. Thomas seduces us with breathless commentary about the sanctity of the untapped vagina. We close back in briefly before the dude screams that he’s about to pop. The girl, ever-conscious, pleads for her man to refrain from blasting away inside her, because she simply can’t get pregnant. He obliges, and coats her stomach with enough seed to fill a small jug. And so begins the most brilliant sociological study of virgins yet conceived for the silver screen, or at least the small b&w screen in your dark, stinky bedroom.

Time has been unkind to my memory in that I don’t recall the remaining order of the scenes, but they’re a virtual who’s who of classic adult performers. First, there’s the infamous Traci Lords as a nasty little wench of a high school student (both on screen and in real life) who lusts for her sex ed teacher, Mr. Warren, and demands to be tutored after hours. She stalks him while jogging, and while he’s cleaning up, she sneaks into his bedroom and pulls out her tits. In a complete break from reality, he screams for her to “cover those things up” and commands her to leave the room. He gets a call from his girlfriend about seeing an art exhibit, and the determined Traci hangs around and starts to play with his cock. He’s hostile to the idea of a virginal student getting naked before him, but after running his hand through his hair, he submits to her desires. Citing “educational purposes” he rationalizes his statutory rape (and blatant cheating) by insisting that pounding the young tart from behind is all about ensuring that she will pass his class and learn key details about human sexuality. Two things stand out about this scene. One, Traci is adamant about tasting Mr. Warren’s jizz, and he denies her this time, though states, “That’s your next lesson….I’m gonna let you eat it.” Second, throughout the session, a fly buzzes near Traci’s crotch. And again, she is remarkably loose for a virgin, and if memory serves, two or three more cocks could have been inserted with room to spare.

Next, Tom Byron — he of the Louisville Slugger — is seduced by a saggy-titted whore who acts as his guide through the minefield of love. Tom has been set up by his friend, who thought that it was a shame that a 20-ish man with a 9-inch cock shouldn’t have to spend his evenings alone. Oy, to have such problems. Tom is embarrassed, and even claims that he once “came 15 times in a day,” although she sees through his obvious lies. Before you know it, she has his bat in her mouth, and his reaction appears to be that of a man who just ingested expired milk. She then asks to be pounded, and never before (or since) have I stood before such cave-like beef curtains. Why Tom didn’t crawl inside and rest for a spell remains a mystery. The pounding is standard, even a bit dull, that is before he bangs her tits. It shocked me at the time, because I wasn’t aware one could do that. But he does, and sprays her like he’s handling a fire hose. Once again, we have observed a stuttering virgin perform the deed with vision, dedications, and unparalleled experience.

And then, there is Peter North — so very young and innocent — though still in command of his fluids like no one on the planet. His victim is young Tracy, a naďve little waif who wants to be porked, but is afraid of the pain. Peter sets her up to be arrested by his cop friend, taken by force back to a dingy warehouse (she still thinks it’s a police station), and stripped naked, which prompts the cop to cry, “My my, we have a little cherry here!” She insists that she’s saving it for Peter, who then pops out fully naked. Tracy doesn’t seem to mind that he first services two of her friends, but she’s too busy being held down by the flatfoot. Peter is drenched, and he then moves on to Tracy, who is so ready that she’s bucking like a rodeo bull. He slams his meat into her tight-as-a-drum vagina, which surrenders faster than Vichy-era France. “How do you like not being a virgin?” her friends playfully inquire, and she pants, “Oh, it’s grrrreeeaaatttt!” before resuming a scowl that approximates someone being stabbed about the torso. And then the fountain. I had never seen porno before this day, but assumed that dribbles were the best man could do. Mr. North changed all that in a few brief moments. One shot was followed by ten more, and when he finally stopped, the counter on the VCR had run fifteen seconds. He had been across the room for pete’s sake, and yet her face and chest were blanketed, as if by the morning snow. I was floored.

The film wraps up with the mysterious narrator, the gentlemanly Paul Thomas, who looks like everything you’ve ever imagined about a porn star, up to and including the defiant moustache and curly mop. But he’s a charmer, and his duty is to deflower his hot niece, who apparently didn’t think to shave her Burt Reynolds’ toupee-like crotch before playing strip poker with her uncle. Naturally, Uncle Pauly wins every hand (even managing to pull out a hand better than a straight flush), and she’s naked inside of four hands. So is he, but it was never his intent to play by the rules. Announcing that “it’s time,” he takes her over to a couch and rapes the fuck out of her, but with such loving care that we applaud his decision. She’s at least 13, and it’s time for her to become a woman. His seduction is pure genius, and should be repeated by all those who claim to be masters of the bedroom. He states, “Insert piece, retract. One piece more, retract, One piece more…..” She then lets out a guttural cry of pain and regret, but is quickly silenced by Paul’s retort, “Tell me if it hurts….I won’t take it out, but tell me.” He pounds like an Olympian, cooing, “Oh, my sweet baby,” before preparing to pop. Sweating like Robert Hays in Airplane!, he wisely pulls out and drenches her hairpiece. “What was that for?” she asks, prompting Paul to say, “A little coitus interruptus is better than nothing at all.” That’s right, she remembers, she’s not on the pill — which makes sense, as she didn’t expect to be fucked by her father’s old-ass brother.

And so it ends. Paul’s face is frozen in contemplation, and I went home to fuck my couch. With silk, always with silk.

About Matt

Matt is the site’s Longest Serving Critic and chief misanthrope. He divides his time between classics of cinema and the most ridiculous movies he can find on Redbox.
Follow Matt: @mattcale52