The Teeny-Boffer – D. Barry Linder aka Linda DuBreuil (Greenleaf Classics #359, 1968)
I’ve had this one on the shelf since doing my interview with Earl Kemp for Sin-a-Rama in summer 2004, a strange hot summer where I was going through a transition in my life (breaking up with my live-in girlfriend to be with another woman) and beginning another round of obsession for vintage sleaze.
D. Barry Linder was one of Linda DuBreuil’s many pen names, this one for Greenleaf Classics. Earl Kemp calls her “the queen of porn” in those days.
She was a real doll…the pornography grandmother…wise beyond her years and younger than springtime. She had curly hair and was rather small and built around a tightly wound, tiny skeleton. She was one of those amorphous types who could be 30 as easily as she could be 60, but was really somewhere in between.
Linda lived in Zapopan, a suburb of Guadalajara that was directly opposite all the way across town from Ajijic, the Guadalajara suburb where I lived. Fortunately there was a long, wide-sweeping bypass highway known as the Periferrico for people who had rather not do all that city driving. In those days in the absolutely free and uninhibited ‘sixties, it was quite a pleasant drive through the countryside just getting to her house.
The Teeny-Boffer is told by a man in his mid-30s, Benjamin — ben to sme, Dick to others, Dickenson to his 15-year-old lover, Clair. He is an architect in Sa Francisco who has a thing for underage girls. He recently had a thing with the 14-year-old daughter of a man he worked for, but fourteen is too old for him; the girl
wasn’t like some of the little ones I have gotten. Small, a little well filled, and saucy. They’ve all got hot cunts, as little as they are, and they’re all out to get their kicks. I like them much better than the ones who feel a little guilty about the whole thing and are frigid at such an early age. I guess they grow out of that. They get to playing with themselves, rubbing that bursting clitoris with soft fingers and they start having orgasms. Then, they figure out men can do that better, so they give it a try. A REAL try. Then they find out what it’s all about… (p. 11)
The girl who lives down the hall with her security guard father, Clair, is his next target. She sees him as a cool friend, even a type of father, so he has to be crafty in his seduction. She tells him about her dating life, that she’s a virgin, and informs him when she loses her virginity to her boyfriend. The next day, he takes her t the beach and they happen upon a thirteen-year-old boy and girl having sex in the bushes; this sight turns them both on and so he makes his move on Clair, and she succumbs to him. admitting she’s been wanting this to happen as much as he.
He’s obsessed with young girls, his thoughts always wandering to them, like after having sex with two hitchhiking young women:
I kept in shape playing tennis and riding horseback. Adolescent girls always love horses…I looked down at my prick. A hint of dried blood stained the skin just in the back of the head. Maybe one of the girls had been a virgin. ore likely cose to a period, the way they fucked. Like little wildcats. (p. 36)
When he inspects a building under construction that he designed:
I imagined a Lolita-type sex star in every cold-cemented room I entered, almost looking into the small storage room to make certain that I wasn’t missing something, then realizing the fantasy of it all, I tried to become bored with daydreaming. (p. 113)
He even equates the sound of a bus’ screeching breaks to the sounds a teen girl makes during sex.
His daydreams and fantasies start to overwhelm his life, especially as he smokes more marijuana. He imagines a secretary at work not wearing panties and taking her; then he grabs a jogger in the park and rapes her and she likes it and then she smashes her head in with a rock. This is a wild fantasy, right? Or has he been doing these things? We slowly start to realize that Ben is going insane like some kind of Barry Malzberg character.
There’s a lot of graphic sex, but the writing is superb. This is a combination erotic and serious literary novel, diving into thoughts and philosophies abut “the New Left” and the pros and cons of the hippie lifestyle”
“The Hippes can’t face what is going on, so they dropped out. They take acid…LSD, and smoke more pot than anyone. In general, they are just big, far out heads, and they don’t care whether the world is still here when they wake up in morning or not. The New Left is militant. Not military, like army with uniform, but militant. They want to blow the induction centers, while Hippies want to blow people’s minds. (p. 98)
Or this thought on pot:
I began to realize a cultural thing that hadn’t even occurred to me before: there was a strange organization to the world of grass. Music was geared to it, acid rock…Hippies I had met on Telegraph and at the University had told me that television commercials were being made that intrigued the “turned-on” individual, and even movies [...] had colors and sounds that excited the mind of the head. (p. 80)
Consider what Kemp has to say about the author’s attitude toward pot back then in the 60s:
There was something very special about her that I had never encountered before. She had an extremely casual approach to handling weed…the local mota.
Several of us were seated at her kitchen table, her most favorite of all gathering places, eating pie that was still hot and far from humble, and smoking a bunch of really good joints. There was weed and debris scattered on the floor, seeds and stems all over that table, and elsewhere in the kitchen. A constant cloud of sativa smoke had been gathering in the corners of the kitchen and wafting outside for hours it seemed.
When we made a move to leave the kitchen, I began my California routine of gathering up the weed. Linda laughed at me when she realized what I was doing.
“Don’t bother with that,” she said. “All the servants know where to put it. They’ll clean it up.”
The fact that this “pedophile” novel was written by a middle-aged woman attests that such literature is not relegated to a male writer’s fantasy, and that women tackle the touchy subject with the same type or ardent sensuality as men do. In the late 60s, such things were not the social stigma today, but we need only look at the current novels by erotica author Valerie Grey to see that women still address the subject of the seduction of underage girls by older men.
Is The Teeny-Bopper as literary as Lolita? As socially satiric as Candy? No, but it’s close — it is, in the end, a Greenleaf Classic meant to be sold in adult bookstores, now a rare collector’s item of a bygone era.