We’ve all seen those steamy letters published in a certain sort of “men’s magazine”—the stories that begin with “I’m a student at a small liberal arts college in the Northeast,” or, “My girlfriend Gidget is a redhead with a body so aerobicized she can crack walnuts with her butt,” and so on.
Like many of you, we, too, have often questioned the veracity of such stories.
In the Spring 2012 issue of the men’s magazine Yankyer Doodle, one such letter, titled “Jacuzzi Doozy,” appeared. It was attributed to an “A.W. from Derby Hills, Montana.”
We decided to investigate what, if any part, of the the letter was true.
Derby Hills is a town of approximately 1,000 people, any number of whom, as it turned out, were more than happy to give us directions to A.W.’s ramshackle abode.
Though wishing to remain anonymous, Andy Winkling the author, after much coaxing and four Budweiser beers, was persuaded to reveal to us the true story behind his porn letter.
“I don’t know why I wrote the thing,” he told us. “Just bored, I guess. And I’ve always had a really good imagination. And God knows I read and look at enough porn. So I figured why not make some myself?”
Below is the first half of Mr. W’s letter, as published, broken down sentence by sentence. The first sentence of each pair (marked Letter) appeared in Yankyer Doodle. The second (marked Reality) is the truth, in Mr. W’s own words, of what really happened.
Letter: I’m a student at a small liberal arts college in the Northeast.
Reality: I live in a utility shack in the back of my grandmother’s house in Derby Hills, MT.
Letter: While I enjoy an active, healthy sex life, nothing like what I’m about to tell you has ever happened to me before.
Reality: My idea of a really hot date is to dress up my bed pillow in red lingerie and call it “sweet thing.”
Letter: For the record, I’m six-feet, three inches tall, weigh 190 lbs., and, being on my college tennis team, have a pretty good body.
Reality: For the record, I’m five-feet, three inches tall, weigh 180 lbs., have size 16 feet, and wouldn’t know a tennis racquet from a fly swatter.
Letter: I’ve been told I look a lot like Elvis Presley.
Reality: I’ve been told I look like a beach ball with acne.
Letter: Anyway, last weekend me and a couple of my buddies from the tennis team were lying around in the jacuzzi at our friend Mike’s apartment complex.
Reality: Anyway, last weekend I was lolling around with my dog in a kiddie pool in my grandma’s backyard, farting up a storm.
Letter: We were just kicking back, having a good time, when suddenly a group of stewardesses came around the corner of the building, giggling and pulling their suitcases behind them.
Reality: I was just lying there, coming down off a beer buzz, when suddenly a group of my grandmother’s cronies came around the corner of the house, yakking and dragging their card table behind them.
Letter: My eyes popped right out of my head!
Reality: I kept my eyes closed.
Letter: I’ve always loved stewardesses, with their blue and white uniforms, and those legs like long, smooth willows.
Reality: I’ve always hated my grandmother’s friends, with their blue and white hair, and those legs like short, veiny bratwursts.
Reality: These creatures from Jurassic Park spotted me, and plodded over to the side of the pool to crab at me.
Letter: One of them, Cheryl, who had luxurious blonde hair, moist red lips, and a body built for the bedroom, told us that she lived in the complex, and that she and her friends were only staying over one night before flying out the next morning for Rio de Janeiro.
Reality: One of them, Agnes, whose has thin dingy gray hair, lips moist with slobber, and a body built for the bathroom, brayed at me that she and her friends where supposed to meet my grandmother there to play pinochle, but that my grandmother wasn’t home yet.
Letter: I can tell you, that kicked my imagination into high gear!
Reality: I can tell you, that made me wonder if it was possible to croak from boredom.
Letter: Then Cheryl asked if we would mind if she and her friends joined us in the jacuzzi, because, as she put it, “There’s no fun like hot, wet fun!”
Reality: Then Agnes announced that she and her friends were going inside the house, because, as she put it, “We’re sweating out here like hogs on a spit!”
Letter: I could barely believe my ears!
Reality: I could barely believe my ears!
Letter: Could this really be happening to me?
Reality: Could this really be happening to me?
Letter: “Please do!” I said enthusiastically. “Would you like us to help you change into your swimsuits?”
Reality: “Please do!” I said sarcastically. “Would you like me to come in and shuffle your cards for you?”
Letter: “My, aren’t you a nasty little boy?” cooed Cheryl in her playful, seductive voice.
Reality: “My, ain’t you a big fat pain in the butt?” bleated Agnes in her grating, honking baritone.
Letter: And what’s that growing in your swimsuit?” she giggled.
Reality: “Jesus, Andy! Fart much?” she cried.
Letter: The girls turned and pranced off towards the apartments.
Reality: The old ladies turned and shuffled off towards the house.
Letter: In no time at all they were back, looking, in their thong bikinis and bare feet, like nymphs from an island paradise!
Reality: In no time at all they were back, looking, in their giant mu-mus and flip-flops, like something a volcano god had barfed up.
Letter: It sure hadn’t taken them long to change!
Reality: It sure hadn’t taken them long to figure out the house was locked!
Letter: “Move your muscular bodies over, boys!” said Cheryl happily, stepping into the jacuzzi with one long leg.
Reality: “Get your scrawny ass out of that thing, ya bum!” bellowed Agnes, kicking the pool with one ham-like foot.
Letter: “And let the party begin!”
Reality: “And let us into goddamned house!”
Letter: I knew right then that I was about to have the time of my life.
Reality: I knew right then that I was going to have to move out of my grandmother’s house.
The letter continues on from there, of course. But that’s enough.
Trust us. It is.
So remember: pornography isn’t always—in fact, we would warrant to say, is never—what it seems to be.