Back when I was in first grade, my parents received a Time-Life atlas of the human body in the mail as a special bonus for subscribing to Time magazine. I remember being amazed by the intricate detail of the drawings within. This, after all, was the first time I was presented with the opportunity to linger on anatomically correct renderings of the male and female bodies. Lucky for me, there were entire chapters devoted to human sexuality. The book was informative to be sure, but, like any book, could only enlighten to a certain point.

Next came kitchen conversations with my mother, my new favorite book nearby for emergency reference. Perched upon the counter, I asked all the usual questions: "What does ejaculation look like?" "When will I grow pubic hair?" "Once you start to orgasm, how do you stop? Do you have to have a bucket next to the bed like you do when you're sick?" "Does a vagina have teeth?" "Ever seen a rubber?" She took my foolish queries surprisingly well, never rolling her eyes or implying that I was a pre-vert. Yet, after awhile, it became apparent that she didn't possess all the answers.

Realizing that my mom was probably not the most reliable source of info for male issues, I soon sought other council.

Sexuality is one of those things that all men struggle with. Many fantasize about making the beast with two backs for years, but, deep down, harbor a nagging fear that something will go wrong when their day finally comes. Some worry that they'll inexplicably go soft, or that they'll erupt in liquid fireworks way before the 4th of July barbecue. Others worry that they'll suffer uncomfortable queries about their ascended testicles. And some men half-believe they'll end up sinking their beloved member smack dab into a fleshy set of jaws. The list goes on.

Viewing a slew of teen sex films in the 80s, I slowly realized that I wasn't the freak I initially thought I was. I found comfort in watching other males fumble their way to manhood. They were on the front line. Some made it home with medals and some were scarred for life, but all fought the good fight.

Although there are many teenage titty flicks I could discuss in the space of this article, one has to draw the line somewhere. Porky's, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, and even the gently perceptive John Hughes series are all must-see examples of the genre, but have been so widely viewed that it seems a bit redundant to talk about them further. Others, like Private Resort, Hot Resort, Hot Moves, Hot Dog, Spring Break, Spring Fever, Up the Academy, Up the Creek, The Rosebud Beach Motel, Gorp, Fraternity Vacation, Losin' It, Delivery Boys, My Tutor, Going All the Way, and HardBodies, to name but a few, are filled with frantic,largely unfunny gags which concern budding, two-dimensional studs and the hordes of women who flash their pillows for their approbation. The latter films are primarily interesting for inadvertent period detail and the presence of fledgling actors who later arguably went on to bigger and better things (Ralph Macchio, Johnny Depp, Dennis Quaide, Crispin Glover, Tom Cruise, Rob Morrow, and Bronson Pinchot among them).

The eight films I have chosen to discuss were my mentors, sexual consultants who accompanied me down that cold, winding path we call adolescence. I own copies of all and have played them to the point of breaking. They are all treasure troves of insight. Some proffer this wisdom intentionally with great skill, and some reveal telling fissures in spite of themselves. Most were widely panned upon release. Even the proud handful that were lauded -- Risky Business and Secret Admirer, to name two -- were alternately declaimed as sophomoric, distasteful and misogynistic. There is a great deal of truth to these charges, of course, but isn't the phenomenon that the films examine guilty of all the same charges? Denying that fear of females and base behavior are standard parts of sexual development is like pretending that the Amish frequent The Sharper Image.

THE LAST AMERICAN VIRGIN (1982)

The story is simple: Three buddies attempt to lay their claim to manhood in Southern California. Teen filmdom's stock characters are all here. One buddy is fat and another, Rick, is an experienced stud. Our protagonist, Gary, is attractive yet scrawny and a little frightened by the opposite sex. And with good reason, for every woman he encounters has glaring flaws. The streetcorner whore verbally humiliates him both before and after he prematurely ejaculates. She also infests he and his friends with crabs. A "fat chick" reluctantly whines her way through a night of flour (she and her friends are stupid enough to believe it's Coke) and near-fornication. And Karen -- the sweet, virginal new girl in town with whom Gary falls hopelessly in love -- ultimately proves to be the most unforgivable bitch in the entire film.

Women are so miserable, indeed, that the male characters resolutely cling together for a majority of the film. "Pussy talk" and good-natured ribbing are common elements of the teen genre and I dare say everyday male reality, but American Virgin takes male bonding to a new extreme. While "fag" is frequently employed as an insulting taunt, the boys nonchalantly examine one another's equipment in several scenes. The most disturbing of these occurs in the men's locker room after a particularly sweaty gym class. All the boys pool their money together, drop their towels, and stand in line for examination so the most well-endowed of the group can collect the pot. Incidentally, this is the only R-rated film I can think of which depicts erections protruding almost to the point of popping through tighty whities. How could Jack Valenti have let this slip by?

Yet another bizarre scene concerns pizza boy Gary getting propositioned by a saucy Mexican coquette during a delivery. Rather than dropping trou and finishing the job right then and there, he curiously insists upon rounding up his pals for a bit of group action. Upon returning, he relishes watching Rick and David ravage Carmela through a keyhole before he gets his chance. Although the early arrival of Carmela's boyfriend "Sailorman Paco" renders Gary SOL, it is important to note how adamant he is about demanding that the others go first. Fear is understandable, but we're talking about sloppy seconds and slurpy thirds here. I usually detest critics who label characters as latent homosexuals, but I can't really see another option here. Apparently, this is the tale of three gay men who won't do anal or oral, and who are too ashamed to request mutual-masturbation.

By the end of the movie, however, homosexuality and heterosexuality are both condemned as degrading and cruel. While Gary pines for Karen, Rick "breaks her cherry" and, learning of her pregnancy, wants nothing more to do with her. Gary is so incensed that he publicly rebukes Rick and takes it upon himself to help Karen. He skips his winter break, holes her up at his grandmother's house, and scrapes together enough money for the abortion. The man sells his stereo for chrissakes! Karen tells Gary that he is the "best friend she ever had," but, of course, ends up returning to Rick anyway. In the film's final bleak seconds, tears trickle down Gary's face as he drives home, shattered and defeated.

Before the final fade to black, Gary has lost his virginity to a venomous whore (if premature ejaculation counts) and, through perpetual humiliation, has learned a lesson which he'll likely never forget. Never trust a woman. They'll only hurt you. Fuck 'em and forget 'em. No one can be trusted. Don't invest emotions in anyone. Not a girl, not your best friend. You're on your own, so take what you can. Become Rick or perish.

Although the theme of nonexistent loyalties in the modern world is well taken, I think our hero might have gotten more of a fair shake at some quality action -- both male and female -- had he 86ed his ridiculous penchant for wearing bandannas around his neck.

RISKY BUSINESS (1983)

This is perhaps the most popular film on this particular list, and rightly so. I still consider it to be one of the top ten American films of all time, and I'm completely serious. It's right up there with Raging Bull, Electra Glide in Blue, Citizen Kane, Do the Right Thing, and Drop Dead Fred. Although the proceedings are veiled in traditional tit film trappings, this is one serious comedy. From the moody lighting scheme to the ironic ending, this is a youth film made by a brooding artist.

The story is known even by those who have never viewed it first-hand. Joel Goodsen (Tom Cruise), the perfect upper-middle-class Suburban youth, faces high school graduation and an impending sense of woe. He's done everything right, but it doesn't seem to be good enough. He worries about his grades, his SATs, his extra-curricular activities, getting accepted to the right school, not to mention his chronic virginity. Home alone, he enlists the services of a beautiful young hooker (Rebecca DeMornay) and becomes entangled in a mess that is not completely resolved even by the film's conclusion. Along the way, he becomes a pimp for an evening and lords over a dozen whores in his parents' home.

Refreshingly, the people depicted in this film are not cardboard cutouts. They are all textured and complex. While Joel's friend Miles (Curtis Armstrong in a scene-stealing performance) attempts to be the experienced stud, for instance, we soon realize that he is only bluffing and just as scared as everyone else. Thankfully, there are no drooling Poindexters. Everyone is equally vulnerable and awkward. Development occurs gradually, subtly. While John Hughes' characters were thrown critical hosannas for their "honesty," I'd say these people are more adroitly fashioned.

I could sit here for days and list all the moments this film gets just right. The talk of tail over a poker game replete with self-conscious beer sipping is as gently observed as anything I've ever seen. One almost has to cringe at how well they peg the young experience. The famous underwear lip-synch has deservedly entered the pop-culture pantheon, as should Cruise raiding his parents' liquor cabinet and pouring himself a concoction that is five parts Scotch and one part Coke. The scene in which Bronson Pinchot misattributes two different meanings to "boffing" and "fucking" is a cute embarrassment that everyone has experienced a variation of at some point in their evolution. During my early childhood, for instance, I always misused the term "balls." When I first started hearing this word, I thought people were referring to butt cheeks. After all, the individual halves of your ass are semi-spherical -- at least when you're young.

Risky Business is about grappling with sexuality and adulthood as well as the loss of innocence which accompanies this. These are by no means new themes, but while the youth movies of previous generations are imbued with similar misgivings about the status quo, none are nearly as coal black as Risky Business. The Graduate (1967), a film to which Risky Business is often compared, has a quietly unsettling ending, but at least you sense that Benjamin Braddock has a vague idea of what he's up against. Risky Business, on the other hand, ends with a newly anointed stud basking in his conquests, largely oblivious to personal flaws and the extent to which he has been taken advantage of.

The most perverse and sophisticated aspect of the film is the way it ties sexuality to the economy. Love, relationships, and even truth are all rationalized by capital. While the rich are destined to succeed by virtue of their class, even the children of wealthy suburbs find that love and sexuality rarely work as they were taught. Consequently, everyone cops to self-aggrandizing fantasy: Joel and his buddies to Madison Avenue and Playboy-derived dreams of fucking a Barbie; Prostitute Lana and her associates to dreams of "making it big," which we can infer means getting rich. Perhaps she can further use Joel and other johns to acquire enough capital to one day purchase her own Glencoe home stocked with Reed & Barton silverware and a Steuben egg. Companionship is merely part of a selfish package, the film seems to argue. Since love and business are seen as one and the same, no partner can ever truly be taken at face-value. Everyone continually angles for their own interests. While American Virgin reveals a similar bleak world view, it is decidedly hesitant to accept this reality. Risky Business, however, is deceptively whimsical and upbeat, and, therefore, more heart-breaking. It winks through tears which have long since dried up, encouraging us to just grin and bear it. If American Virgin concerns Gary's coming of age, Risky Business is about Rick's. Instead of crying for the young teen crushed by misguided notions of puppy love, we are cynically prodded to cheer the emergence of a sneering power-broker whose prima facie "me-centered" morality enables him to triumph. Want money to bail yourself out of trouble? Want to get into Princeton? Want to thrive at business? Anything can be achieved, if you've got the balls to buck the system. Never mind that Joel, promising businessman that he is, is a bit dense, or that Lana had likely conspired with pimp Guido to rip Joel off. Yet, the film is refreshing because it refuses to judge any of its characters. Sure, Joel's actions are conventionally questionable, but are they really any worse than that behavior which is prized by a culture where the end usually justifies the means, providing, of course, you don't get caught?

This is a film that brilliantly explains all that was wrong with the 80s as well as all that is wrong with those who view it now. It would be wonderful to think that our world rewards humanity and good will, or that love really is blind, but why wallow in self-delusion? Risky Business soberly observes that, in America, all men and women -- be they hookers, pimps, suburban businessmen, housewives or high school students -- are ultimately strapped to the economy and must act accordingly. Even those who break the rules are slaves to the system.

Time of your life, huh kid?

CLASS (1983)

This is another case, where most people are familiar with the story even if they haven't seen the film. Rich Skip tries to get poor Jonathan laid. He sends him to the big city with a fistful of money and tells him where to find easy women. Jonathan obeys and eventually couples with a sexy older woman. The older woman, of course, inexplicably turns out to be Skip's mom. The plot thickens.

Although it never crossed my mind as a child, perhaps no film on this list is more hateful than Class, a phenomenon which I find endlessly fascinating. The women in this film are all cunts -- without exception. They are freaks who enjoy humiliating men with silly bar tricks, distressed psychos, sick bitches who proffer "sympathy fucks," or daddy's girls who insist upon prating pseudo-intellectual babble. All in all, they are best left alone. Looking back, the only noble thing a female does in the entire film is check herself into a psychiatric hospital.

All films are imprinted by the people behind the camera, but, here, several directorial choices become so questionable that they begin to potentially reveal the neuroses of the filmmaker. In The Last American Virgin, for example, the fat kid is nonchalantly presented as a sexual stud. Ask yourself this: Did any fat kid you ever know in high school score with the ladies? Nope, me neither. The likely conclusion? Director Boaz Davidson is an insufferable fatty, merely trying to relieve himself of traumatic teenage baggage.

The vision of these films, like all films, of course, starts on the page and is then further shaped by those who helm the production. Class, for one, is a revealing look at how the men behind the camera -- if not men at large -- tend to view women. The film's entire crisis is based on a misunderstanding, which, while awkward and painful, could easily be confronted and resolved as such. But that's not what happens. Instead, an additional detail is added which betrays the problematics of male thought. Jacqueline Bisset is not merely a sexual being trapped in an unhappy marriage, she is mentally ill. While this at first seems to be a prime example of lazy story construction, further reflection yields a much more disturbing, yet honest appraisal of this device. Tellingly, it is the very detail which sets everything right. Jonathan and Skip have the obligatory clumsy fistfight, and, battered and bleeding, come to terms with the absurdity of their plight. A joke is cracked and the credits roll. Both young men apparently live happily ever after. The same, I'm sure, cannot be said for Skip's poor mother. The real problem -- the inability of men to deal with women -- is bypassed altogether. It is easier to pretend they are simply foolish or damaged, that everything is their fault. This, of course, is the most important insight that Class provides. The movie is not truly about love or sex; it's about how women wound men and how one must never get too close to them. It's no coincidence that half-way through the film Skip vows to "never get married."

Nevertheless, unlike Risky Business and The Last American Virgin, Class does present a modicum of hope, however exclusionary it may be. A comfortable alternative to heterosexual relationships exists. Set in a hoity-toity Illinois preparatory academy, the Harvard-bound men bond through jovial pranks and collective crisis control. Indeed, many of the most delightful scenes transpire amidst the never-ending sausage party. The boys smoke and drink, get decked out for Halloween, frantically dump all of their recreational narcotics, endlessly jibe one another, and, of course, laugh at the expense of silly females. Much of the magic is in the casting. There's nothing quite like Andrew McCarthy -- especially when he's sulking with his patented mouthful of sour milk stare while donning a black bra and panties. A young John Cusack, however, effortlessly steals the film. (I suspect there is still a devoted legion of young people out there somewhere trying to imitate that trick where he conceals a lit cigarette inside his mouth.) And don't miss an early appearance by Alan "Let my Cameron go" Ruck. In his first film, Rob Lowe displays a talent that will later reach its artistic zenith in Square Dance. That, of course, is the movie where he brilliantly plays a retarded violinist who utters what is to my mind the best line in the history of cinema: "Tell me a story. You know, the one about the three bears and they're eatin' their cereal."

THE PARTY ANIMAL (1983)

Most people have never heard of this movie. Yet, I think it's one of the best down-and-dirty films of the genre. Consequently, I have hauled my tattered pre-recorded copy across the country in a tireless effort to promulgate the magic that it is The Party Animal. Although I would recommend this film to any open-minded filmgoer, I hasten to add that -- at least in my experiences -- most females are either repulsed by it or just plain don't get it. Guys, on the other hand, immediately lavish it with a hailstorm of belches, belly laughs, and lovingly pay homage by reciting the film's mantra: "Hound dog gonna eat dat pussy."

The story, marked by gleeful bursts of juvenilia and scatology, is yet another reworking of the Faust legend, only this time with tons of tits and director David Beaird's inimitable barnyard wit. Pondo Sinatra (Matthew Causey), a virginal 26 year old "fifth-year freshman," is dumped off a turnip truck in front of his dorm and, with the assistance of his roommate Studly, resolves to get laid. When his many "attempts" prove futile, he inadvertently "sells his soul for a piece of ass." Ironically, Pondo is presented with many opportunities to, as he so eloquently phrases it, "worship the fertile delta" before sealing his fate with a gorgeous she-devil, but repeatedly blows all of them. As a result, he becomes a starkly non-sympathetic, didactic figure. His actions become an exercise in willful absurdity. The resultant distantiation constantly forces us to critique Pondo's ridiculous choices. If Brecht were to make a sexploitation flick, it would probably look something like this.

This film is almost surreal in its hyper-sexualized depiction of a small college campus. Women with extremely tight clothing and large racks jog across campus or bend and twist under trees in the courtyard. They prance about in lacey lingerie and engage in games of strip poker amongst themselves. Male strippers who have a penchant for bench pressing the buxom coeds are also perennial fixtures. Until the conclusion, almost everyone but our hero is constantly flanked by two vixens. It is essentially a carnivalesque vision of what it's like to be the only guy at the party without a date.

While admittedly the film at first seems like an anything-for-a-laugh bouillabaisse, there are definite thematics. Perhaps the most telling clue comes in the scene where the camera abandons Pondo altogether, instead opting to study a conversation between two scuzzy cashiers in an adult emporium. This moment is an abrupt departure for the film in terms of narrative focus and stylistics. When Pondo enters the shop, everything is played out on black & white film stock, ostensibly to simulate the images of a security camera. As Pondo enters his own world fondling dildos, we move on to the two attendants as they feverishly illustrate nuclear arms initiatives with various adult toys. The absence of a conventional shot / reverse shot set-up alerts us to the fact that we are not seeing this interaction through Pondo's eyes. We are seeing it through the filmmaker's eyes alone. Beside being the spiritual forefather of Clerks, this scene dramatically reveals what is at the heart of the whole piece. Here, the film goes out of its way to ridicule JFK and UFO obsessed conspiracy buffs who never quite come to relate to the rest of the world. The question, of course, is why?

If viewed carefully, it becomes clear that the entire movie functions this way and is an over-the-top parody of white middle-class male fantasies, as well as the fears and aspirations which accompany them. Gay men who brandish KY Jelly, Black men in traditional African attire, women -- brainless tramps all -- and punk rockers, are all viewed as the threatening other. Everyone different is made fun of, even Elbow the carnally knowledgeable African-American janitor who instructs both Studly and Pondo. In the end, however, the joke is ultimately on Pondo and everything he stands for. While it is potentially easy to be offended by this film -- and, to be sure, most of the humor is derived from shock -- to do so is missing the point. In it's own way, The Party Animal is rather like John Water's early films which do everything they can to revolt and disgust the audience, even while implicitly serving up a profoundly moral vision of the way things should be.

Here, the ellipsis holds the lesson, and it's an old one: Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it. Pondo, of course, finally achieves the dream to an exaggerated extreme and finds it's not all it's cracked up to be.

I want to shake David Beaird's hand.

Grandview, U.S.A. is hopelessly innocuous on the surface, but after letting it kick around in your head for a few days, you begin to recognize how truly subversive it is.

The first time we meet young C. Thomas Howell, he is submerged in a bathtub with an oxygen mask on. This makes sense in terms of story development, as our hero's aspiration is to become a marine biologist. Yet, there's something truly bizarre about this character, and it takes several viewings to put your finger on it.

In other scenes, his fantasies are flashy and grandiose -- but in an ordinary way. What kid, for example, didn't dream of starring in their own music video. Where else can you stylishly strut and win the affections of the strumpet clad in fishnet stockings and a skirt so tight you can see her colon? Still, the perversity is in the details. The song which he chooses to act out to is rotten: "I'm your Steely Man / Steely Man of action" the refrain cries. And those satanic silos are so incredible you barely dare to laugh. Still, as much as you wish to mock our hero, you cannot forget how you dreamed of highsticking it with Taco while "Puttin' on the Ritz."

It's at this point that you begin to see who this character really is. A subliminal fusion reveals a whole other layer. In his junior high days, he was the guy that used to take baths while listening to the soundtracks of summer blockbusters on a tinny tape player from Shopko. Upon getting out of the tub, he'd proceed into the hall, and, gazing into a full-length mirror, discovered that you could resemble a female by scrunching your cock back between your legs.

It is reassuring to find another character who thinks and acts like you. I know how he felt when he saw his classmates tease each other with "the tuck" in gym class. You thought it was yours, but now you realized everyone was doing it. The Silence of the Lambs was the final blow. It had a name now. It was no longer yours.

The only time the film lost me was when Howell fell for that older woman who resembles a cross between child actor Huckleberry Fox and an ostrich, but that's another story. And what was that business with the retarded cowboy all about?

After 1983, something happened to the teen genre. Leering sex gags and gratuitous vulgarity started going the way of the Passenger Pigeon. Kindler, gentler explorations of adolescent sexuality were becoming the norm. Grandview, U.S.A. and No Small Affair were among the first major studio films to announce this new trend.

No Small Affair chronicles the first sexual tremblings of 16 year old Charles Cummings (Jon Cryer in his first feature). During the credits, he admits to being somewhat asexual. His major preoccupation is photography. Even so, he tells us that adolescent sexuality "has a lot in common with photography. They both deal with images, both are done alone, and both require a steady hand." Clearly, this is not Porky's. It's more like Woody Allen presents The Summer of 84.

While the dialogue in this film is far better than that found in other teenage titty flicks, it also becomes one of its major liabilities. Scene after scene depicts know-it-all Charles perfectly summing up every situation with hysterical, razor-sharp commentaries. Yet, he makes some of the most ridiculous choices I've ever seen anyone on the silver screen make. I am not arguing that smart people are incapable of being stupid, I'm merely saying that the Charles Cummings we grow accustomed to would never endeavor to commit these particular mistakes. He would be the guy in the corner savagely ripping the other guy to shreds for similar stupidity.

Charles' libido is awakened by crumbling lounge-musician Laura Victor (played by a young Demi Moore). After a series of coincidences so improbable they make Sinbad's rise to stardom appear logical by comparison, Charles befriends Laura. Eventually, he becomes so overwhelmed with lust and empathy that he spends his entire lifesavings ($9,000) on a last-ditch plan to salvage talentless Laura's career. Thanks to Charles, 175 San Francisco taxis bear promotional toppers with Laura in a seductive pose, a phone number, and the words, "Laura Victor: She's the Best." While his scheme ultimately proves effective for Laura, Charles never once seems to register how potentially humiliating or deeply cynical this ruse is. If he would have gotten the joke or displayed a slight Machiavellian grin, there would be nothing to question. But he doesn't. For a smart-ass, he sure is stupid. But I don't blame Charles. I blame the writers.

Another moment where the film's construction becomes suspect occurs when nebbish Charles talks his brother and his horny stag party cadre into attending Victor's club show. I don't know about you, but if my evening potentially consisted of staying in with friends to watch a bad porno film or going out to a club owned by George Wendt to patronize an embarrassing band replete with shoddy lip-synching and strap-on keyboards, I'd opt for the former -- no question. The men in the film, however, end up at the bar, and hail the band with taxi-cab whistles, raucous chants, and comments like "This chick is awesome!" Nowhere but in the movies. Although it's left in ellipsisville, I would really love to have seen exactly how young master Cummings persuaded a gaggle of hard-ons and a $100 an hour hooker to accompany him on this self-indulgent quest. The other thing I want to know is whether the gang had to pay the hooker for each hour she hung out with them at the club.

These reservations aside, Charles' journey is instructive. By the end of the film, Laura becomes a big star and rewards Charles with her loins. But like any big star, she forgets those at the bottom immediately and is off to L.A. to pursue a recording contract. Charles, however, is not as heart-broken as we expect him to be. Upon spotting a young ultratight-jean-wearing Jennifer Tilly wriggling in front of a Centipede console in an airport arcade, his face lights up, and we are presented with a montage of this young sex kitten before all cuts to black. That's the Charles we know and love. This is a hound dog who will hunt forevermore. I just hope his future conquests aren't repulsed by his second-rate Matthew Broderick imitations or a pair of red cheeks which, we can safely assume, turn positively crimson during the act.

This period piece opens with a Star Wars-like scroll that reads, "A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away... Ohio, 1956." What promises to be a post-modern version of Porky's, however, soon becomes crushingly routine.

Experienced Gene (Chris Nash) helps Nerdy Jonathan (Doug McKeon) get some. Tits, asses, and jokes -- just like all the others. Yet, while Mischief boasts many of the standard hijinx -- our hero suffers through an erection in class, rearranges window mannequins until they strike sexual poses, hides porno mags under his canary cage, and crashes so many vehicles that I wondered whether the editor randomly inserted scenes from those 70s Roger Corman flicks starring Ron Howard -- the film is not all that concerned with its ostensible lead character. It instead lingers on greaseball Gene and his persecuted love affair with Bunny (Catherine Mary Stewart). Too bad that this strand is patently uninteresting, not to mention incredible. Upon meeting Gene, we are disgusted. He quizzes Jonathan about his sexual prowess and arrogantly proclaims that "Chicks don't put out in Studebakers." Clearly, this man is a prick. And although he later inexplicably turns into a thoughtful lothario, we never quite forgive Jonathan for giving him a second chance.

While Gene is tormented by an abusive father and the trite star-crossed lover syndrome, Jonathan falls for Marilyn (Kelly Preston), the most attractive girl in the school. Although it takes some time, he eventually finds himself in her bed. When the big moment comes, he gropes and pokes like the best of 'em. Preston, the thankless ice princess, assaults him with the catch-phrase of her career: " You're not doing something right." But we'll return to her in our discussion of Secret Admirer.

As the story progresses, Marilyn becomes increasingly undesirable. She's such an insufferable wench, in fact, that we only feel compassion for the condom-deprived Jonathan when he fails to pull-out of her in time. Later, our lack of concern is rewarded when she spontaneously dumps Jonathan for last year's quarterback. In a stark epiphany, Jonathan realizes that beauty is only skin deep and that relations with the opposite sex are often a drag. "Boy, I was so busy trying to... fuck her that I never got to know her. I guess I really don't understand women. I'm never gonna look at another pair of tits as long as I live." Interestingly, our hero never does experience anything like love during the course of the film, merely primal lust. He is perversely relegated to merely observe romance blossom between the debutante and the James Dean wannabe. As Gene and Bunny ride off into the sunset, away from the cruel town, Jonathan begins to cry. It is at this point that Mischief reveals itself as a homo-erotic variation on Casablanca. Bogart is once more left to fend for himself. Gene, his unrequited love, has chosen another.

Nonetheless, Jonathan must sublimate his homosexual impulses and find a way to cope. Though he vowed never to get involved with women again, the class geek, Rosalie (Jamie Gertz), loses the requisite braces and glasses to become the wimp's new fantasy. The Plain Jane suddenly becomes desirable to our hero, ala No Small Affair and Secret Admirer. Again and again, the hero in the latter-phase of the teen genre attempts to achieve his dreams, but becomes frustrated. Instead of struggling to fully realize his fantasies, he invariably settles for second-best. It's rather like that friend who always tries to convince you that big-boned girls have "great personalities." The difference, of course, is that these films seem 100% sincere.

You're probably wondering why I've even included this film. While my comments haven't been especially glowing, I did learn one valuable lesson that has forever shaped my sartorial tastes. "Shrink your jeans, so your nuts bulge out," the stud tells our hero. "Chicks don't have nuts, so they're fascinated by 'em." Advice well-spoken.

C. Thomas Howell strikes again. Like Grandview, U.S.A., Secret Admirer seems cute and insipid upon first glance, but something much more despairing lurks where most of us care not look. While most of the action concerns romantic confusion resulting from a misplaced love letter, I have gleaned what it's really about.

Although surprisingly few people have picked up on the allusions, Secret Admirer is the first teen version of "The Book of Job." In this remarkable film from the writers who brought us Class, the Lord implicitly tests our hero's allegiance with a series of trials.

Secret Admirer has a refreshing amount of respect for the intelligence of its audience. It gives us so much credit, in fact, that we are never even presented with a shoddy dramatization of the classic conflict between good and evil which implicitly informs every scene. The makers simply assume we are aware of the wager that has been made between Satan and God. As you recall, Satan charged that no one serves The Lord except for selfish reasons. God does not accept this and places his chips on Howell, a righteous man who fears his Master and eschews evil. In order to prove to Satan that Howell's loyalty is not borne of complacency, God permits Satan to subject Howell to sexual frustration and a great deal of humiliation.

Our first clue to the film's inspiration is Howell's limited wardrobe. All of his shirts reveal his chest at all times. The once complacent suburban youth has been physically marked. He is God's ace in the hole. Howell could go to the store and get something -- anything -- to cover his pecs, but he never does. He trusts The Lord and refuses to subvert His will. It is humiliating, but it is his lot.

As if this weren't enough, his brother is none other than tongue-wagging Corey Haim. The young punk scavenges his belongings for spare change and, like any demon, enjoys revolting breakfasts. Avert your gaze as he douses his Trix with chocolate syrup. Do not listen when he says "radical." Ignore the scarf that's draped around his neck.

Howell's friends are beyond wretched as well. Roger, the leader of the dweebs is a pale Bluto Blutarski clone who wears tank-tops, Zubaz, and a red beret. He even says things like "It's gonna take a pretty gnarly set of gnads." Then we have the geek who carries a briefcase and dons a fedora, the anemic redhead, the party-dude with a blonde afro, etc. This motley crew is tough to look at, and harder still to bear. Yet Howell never complains nor casts aspersions upon His Master.

And then there's the biggest trial of all: Kelly Preston. Beware. She will eventually have sex with you, but don't expect to get away without having your manhood belittled. We saw her do it in Mischief, we see her do it here, and she's still at it in the newly released Jerry Maguire.

As appealing as her package may be, restrain yourself. Overlook those heaving breasts and her ripe ass, for they are the work of Satan. Gather your wits about you and head for the door. This will not be accomplished easily. Blue balls are painful, but they are preferable to a lifetime of impotence. You must escape. After you've reached safety, say a prayer for hubby John Travolta. But do not forsake Yahweh.

Throughout, Lori Loughlin harbors a secret crush on Howell. She is not as attractive as Preston, but, then, she isn't a serpent of temptation either. Howell, sensing her to be the sole source of decency in a corrupt world, commits to her before the fade out. Loughlin is no Preston, to be sure, but at least she will not jeopardize Howell's ability to get an erection. Howell and Loughlin's embrace at film's end announces the end of the wager. God has triumphed over Satan. This is the first of the devoted man's rewards.

Yes, Secret Admirer at first plays like Three's Company with Oakleys. But look deep into its unflinching eyes. Hold it up as a mirror, and ask: "Who am I and what is my life?" Ask and you will find that bad things happen to good people. The Lord giveth and The Lord taketh away. There is no rational explanation for His ways, no discernible logic.

The film's central scene occurs as Howell crashes a frat party and is grabbed by an angry jock who asks, "What the fuck are you doing here?" Howell calmly looks him in the eye and responds: "I don't know. Don't all of us ask ourselves that same question everyday?" To question is normal, but, even in the depths of despair, Howell refuses to curse that which he does not understand. He accepts, for he knows it is all we meagre humans can do.

Secret Admirer is a film about faith.

It's old hat by now, but it's still embarrassing. Just after everyone forgot about your last performance, you're going to again find yourself on the floor during yet another health class screening of The Miracle of Life.

You are sickened by the POV cam ostensibly placed inside a subject's penis. A white river of semen rushes down a veiny cavern, coming ever closer. You see this remarkably graphic image and can think of only one thing: How did they get this footage? Who was the poor sap who came with a pin-sized camera jammed in his urethra? Was his runaway ejaculation halted by the photographic apparatus? Did his shaft explode? And where was that low whooshing noise coming from? Did they have his cock miked, too?

You cross your legs and attempt to look away, but it's too late. The familiar tingle consumes you once more. You know you're going down, and there's nothing you can do about it.

Another concerned teacher. Another obligatory trip to the nurses' office.

You, like the protagonists of the teen genre, have learned that sexuality is ceaselessly humbling and unquestionably bizarre. You suspected this at an early age. Through the years, you've scavenged through rest area garbage cans in hopes of finding that all-important girly-mag, you've weathered locker room inquisitions, you've tussled with impenetrable bra clasps, you got that first condom on, even managed to stay hard, and you've since indulged in the many faces of kink. But these rites of passage are just small steps in the larger dance. As much as one fumbles and endeavors to triumph, there is no way to completely conquer the beast -- no way to fully understand it. A puppet, you realize that you will only become more adept through humility.

Your brow begins to palpitate and then stops. You look to the foliage on the window ledge, a green tableau of simple life. You think of jungles, islands, food gathering. Escape.

Regaining composure, you are content to hear the familiar gears whir. The TV is jarred from its standby blue. A large angry woman. A shower stall. A young man howls as his dick is pulled through a peep hole.

You smile, remembering you aren't alone.