The 80s were an interesting time. Known as the decade of excess, everything was bigger, flashier, and more colorful. Money, cocaine, and plastic surgery fueled both coasts. As the decade raged on, so did the party. And like all parties, someone had to shit on it and put a stop to everyone else’s fun. In this case, it was the so-called moral majority, the Reagan administration, and a bunch of Karens telling the rest of us what’s right.
In addition to the satanic panic, there was also a cultural fight around pornography. We had to save the perverts from drooling over a pair of tits because if we don’t, the perv will become a rapist. And the kids — oh my God — the kids! We had to make sure that young Johnny in the two-story house on the cul-de-sac remains pure. He can’t possibly be subjected to something as desirous, and beautiful, and natural as a naked woman. Such exposure before signing a marriage certificate is a guarantee of a life in the gutter.
So our movie star President authorized an investigation into pornography. It resulted in the then Attorney General Edwin Meese’s “Final Report of the Attorney General’s Commission of Pornography.” It was over 1000 pages and contained 35 chapters. It blamed all society’s ills on pornography and documented the supposed harmful effects of consuming too much porn. Nothing binding came of the report. No new federal laws were enacted.
But the report was leveraged at the local level. Bookstores and video rental stores that carried pornography were outright outlawed in the most conservative jurisdictions. Most areas simply passed laws and rezoned to push unsavory businesses to the more industrial zones on the outskirts of the city. Many businesses closed rather than move. And if they didn’t close, local civil ordinances were passed that levied fines for selling and possessing pornography. The FBI and the Postal Service also cracked down on mail order businesses. Censorship was everywhere. After they pushed porn underground, Al Gore’s wife and her PMRC Karens decided pornography wasn’t the only ailment to society, music also contributed to degenerate behavior.
By the mid to late 80s two things happened: Cable television became more accessible and mainstream; and VHS rental stores started appearing everywhere. In fact, by the late 80s, grocery stores had carved out some real estate to rent out a small stock of blockbuster VHS tapes. Pornography was pushed underground by now, and stores were too scared to carry outright porn. Cable television wouldn’t show it.
So enter softcore. It’s not exactly porn. At least most people agree that there’s a difference. There are those who still view any woman not covered from head to toe as pornography. And that’s not just a slight at Muslims. There are plenty of Christians who want their women looking like Little House on the Prairie. Softcore wasn’t porn because it didn’t show penetration, pussy, or cum shots. It probably didn’t even show cock. Maybe you’d catch one swinging around the shower, but I’m pretty sure you never saw an erect one.
Because it wasn’t porn, stores didn’t risk being fined. And with the concurrent rise of the VCR in the home, suburban men and women could now rent softcore films without too much stigma. Kind of like Playboy, you could always argue you followed the plots and enjoyed neo-noir movies. But like the Playboy excuse, everyone knew you were full of shit. But it did spare some shame.
The final moving force that really propelled erotic thrillers to its highest popularity was late-night cable television. Again, it wasn’t exactly pornography so cable television would air it. And it was never shown during primetime so Johnny wouldn’t prematurely discover his boner. And if Johnny stayed up late to get a glimpse of tits, that’s your fault, mom and dad. These weren’t over-the-air free channels. You had to pay a premium on top of the premium cable service.
But assuming you were a responsible adult, you now had the ability to watch all the boobs, butt licking, kissing, and kinks in your own bedroom, free from late fees, free from the government, free to do what you want while you watch. So next time someone mocks your love for late-night cable flicks, remind them it’s not just boobs and bad plots. They represent a fuck you to censorship, and were a rebellion against all the Karens in this country who tell us what to watch and what to enjoy.
