Posts Tagged ‘pornography’

May Flowers — Joanne Arnold, Miss May 1954

May 11, 2011

The lovely and talented Joanne Arnold, Miss May 1954, first appeared in Playboy’s March 1954 pictorial “Sex Sells a Shirt.”

Click to enlarge the shots and read the story, it’s actually a really interesting little piece with a kicky, fun insight in to 1950’s advertising. Far more risque than you might expect. The PR folks for Hartog were some skilled and creative dudes.

However. Please do not tell me to watch Mad Men.

I know it’s, like, all cool and retro and sexist and clever, but I just don’t feel like getting in to it. Yet I keep getting told to. Everyone wants me to watch it. I can’t swing my arms without hitting someone who’s saying, “E, you have to watch Mad Men. You’ll love it. Also, stop hitting me with your swinging arms.” I say, Never! to both!

Ms. Arnold was a hit with readers as the Hartog “keep your shirt on” girl, but Playboy did not pick her as Miss May because of that (they did feature her the following August, which we’ll get to). There was no such linear relation between her appearance in March and her gatefold in May. Two totally separate things, as it ends up.


Purchased from the Baumgarth Calendar Co.

The kind of wonky centerfold shot is, like the centerfolds from most of ’53-54, a purchased photograph. And, like Marilyn Monroe’s and several other of the first “sweetheart/playmate” gatefolds, the photograph was purchased from the Baumgarth Calendar Company.


The one on the right is hands-down my favorite.

I was sick of having no photographer credits on all the Baumgarth shots, and I wanted to know more about the John Baumgarth Calendar Co. so I took the light rail down to Googlytown.

I was hoping to find out specific names of photographers other than Tom Kelley, who did Marilyn’s picture, but when I googled “Baumgarth Calendar Company,” my own goddamned site was the second link. Also the fifth. I’m not the mayor of Playmate Googlytown — but apparently I’m something like an alderman. Frustrating.

Here’s what I know. The “company” was run out of Melrose Park, Illinois, a suburb on the west side of Chicago. However, not only can I find zero way to get in touch with the now-defunct company’s former employees, it turns out that besides the rare occasion of hiring a dude and arranging their own photoshoots, they also, like Hef in the first six months of Playboy, mainly purchased photos from private photographers.

The thing is, the centerfold picture could have been shot by anyone and the credit kind of doesn’t matter anyway. In May of 1954, the Playmates did not have names listed or anything like that.

Keep in mind, this was only the sixth issue of Playboy to even hit newsstands, and the magazine was still finding its feet.

Like a new struck foal stumbling around in the brave new world into which it has been thrust: Aww. The adorable, stumbly, delicate colt that we call “skin rag.”

Anyway. This particular month’s centerfold was, like, an isolated, anonymous picture. It’s possible no one at Playboy was even aware the model from the Hartog feature and cover had been the purchased photo of Miss May until a few months after the fact. They did know by the following August because they mention it in her second official appearance in the magazine, which I’m about to explain.

The rest of these gorgeous shots, however, come from a spread shot by superfly BAMF Peter Gowland entitled “Gowland’s Cool Pool.” The piece appeared in the August 1955 issue of Playboy, by which time the practice of credits had entered play and Ms. Arnold was cited as the model.


Scan of the article which accompanied the spread.

She also appeared as the cover model/mermaid for the same issue, a shot taken by Gowland and painted on and embellished for a little under the sea come-hither adventure.

This scan is of the newsstand edition; in the subscribers’ mailed edition, her nipples are not painted over, I have heard.

But SPEAKING of her nipples —

Ms. Arnold has a third nipple on the underside of her left breast. When I first read that I made a loud, “Pfft” noise of disbelief, and, browsing through my pictures, thought, “No way. I never noticed that and she’s all moley to boot: this is probably folklore based on a regular beauty mark.”

But then …


Click to enlarge it … it’s clearly nipplish and not a mole. I was surprised.

Lo and behold and hell and goddamn — seems she does, indeed, have a supernumerary nipple.

All right, all right — I’ll king you. Sheesh.

No idea where that shot came from, Ms. Arnold was a very successful and busy men’s magazine model in her lovely heyday. I just wanted another splash of color … and to make the tacky “king me” joke.

What is she going to do when big hats go out?

I stole that joke from Gypsy. My funny is just not operating at full capacity today. (Hangs head, Charlie Brown music.)

I guess the theme of the photograph is that, like, men are toys to her? Is that the idea? Or is she a big, scary giant about to eat them?? I could go either way. Giant’s more exciting but I’m pretty sure the former is more accurate.

By the way, that’s called vore porn. Jonohs linked me to some a while back. Ridiculous. Normally I am the last one to judge a kink for obvious reasons, but when I saw CG animation of giant women totally eating dudes, I said, “No. Ridiculous. You are being ridiculous.”

I say again: if you get off on fantasies of enormous women crushing you and grinding your bones between their gigantic teeth and then digesting you slowly in their acidy stomachs, you are ridiculous.

I’m sorry, but I needed you to know how I feel. And please don’t link to vore in the comments. I won’t go. I neither wear clown shoes nor dwell in Florida. Keep that nasty shit in your favorites folder.

As her career progressed, Ms. Arnold starred in a string of cheesey B-movie popcorn flicks. This is my favorite poster.


via.

“Don’t get frank with me, young lady.” So much sassy molassy! I hate it when young people are frank! … I just think frank was a bit of a mild word to use on a poster with so many exclamation points.

Questions for discussion:

  • Do supernumerary nipples have sensation? Please get back to me quickly.
  • Is vore porn ridiculous? Be specific.
  • If you had a girl gang, what would you call it?

  • Daily Batman: “Wtmfh” edition

    June 22, 2010


    via

    Batman’s big love scene — with a goat. Wtmfh? So many more questions than answers. I’ll admit, that would discredit Batman. That would discredit just about anybody, even people who make their living in legit adult entertainment and are recognized for it. Like, I dunno, Tera Patrick, even. I mean — a goat? Shit. That’s bad juju. Madison Ivy all calls Tera Patrick to cancel coffee dates; Ron Jeremy turns and quickly walks away from Tera Patrick at the Van Nuys opening of some low-rent Ed Hardy boutique; Sasha Grey sees Tera Patrick waving in the security camera at the gates of her complex and pretends she is sick with laryngitis.* Puzzled and unwanted, a lonely Tera Patrick walks forlornly down Rodeo Drive, scuffing her clear lucite heels as she trudges to the picked over remains of a sidewalk sale at the Bebe. Poor Tera Patrick.

    Oh, holy heck! Piss up a penny whistle, it is CLEARLY time for me to hit the hay! You stay classy, The Internet. I am exhausted as heck.



    *A maledictory fiction for humor’s sake: the real Sasha Grey would NEVER do that. (And needless to say, neither would Ms. Patrick be guilty of hurting an animal even for the sake of film.)

    The Girls of Summer: Gale Olson, Miss August 1968

    June 13, 2010


    Adorable cuteness photographed by Ron Vogel. Brain-asplosions. See what I mean about the ’60’s being the Heyday?

    Your Miss August 1968 was the lovely and talented Gale Olson, who as you can see didn’t need cheesecake poses and a strained, pageanty smile to turn in an adorable and upbeat photoshoot for this issue of Playboy.

    It’s really interesting how some of the playmates are capable of keeping the material erotic instead of porny. I don’t know that I can pinpoint the exact difference … but I look at this shoot, and I look at something like the gatefold of Miss November 1995, Holly Witt, and I feel like Edwin Meese quoting Justice Potter Stewart about classing porn: I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it.

    Kind of funny since he was describing the opposite; Meese made his referential remark in regard to the history in America of attempts at distinguishing sexually themed content from straight-up obscenity. I’m kind of talking about the reverse. Either way, it’s a dicey issue. Reagan appointed Meese in 1985 to head the Meese Commission, also called the Attorney General’s Commission on Pornography, who published their report in 1986 to lip-smackingly salacious public interest. Everyone loves a good witch hunt, am I right?

    I mentioned all these shenanigans once back in November when we talked about the experiences of Miss November 1986, Donna Edmondson, the Virgin Playmate who got hit with a steamy little shitstorm of media criticism. As though it were her fault. The Meese Commission’s report on pornography had the moral majority howling for naked people’s blood and she got caught in the middle. And don’t get me started on what happened fifteen years later — as we still live in a nation of, if not puritans, then at least sweaty hypocrites — to sweet Lindsey Vuolo, Miss November 2001, with that publicity-seeking, accusatory, diminishing misogynist Rabbi Shmuley Boteach. Ugh.

    I almost didn’t include this shot because it wasn’t very sharp or high-quality, but then as I contemplated it, I decided I actually liked the hazy quality, and the visible wrinkles in the image became dear and touching to me. There is something incredibly personal and human about the almost sad little private story one must conclude has lead to its well-worn threadbareness. Someone scanned this one with love, having either held on to it themselves, or acquired it from someone who had, for a long time. That idea is interesting as hell to me. What would someone make of the objects — letters, pictures, cards, old shirts — that you have secretly packed along with you to every new home in which you live, all these years, because of an emotional value, an identity-establishing familiarity, that far exceeds those objects’ original costs?


    Pyjama Jam!

    I do not want to use the word sentimental, per se, because these can be things that you keep for the gut, visceral reaction they can still incite. These are things that are part of the rhythms of your mind and body that I’m talking about, things worth holding on to because they are become part of how you operate. A roadmap to the art of you being “You” is this small collection of things so beloved that calling them cherished diminishes their import. These objects which represent long-passed moments or ways of feeling are part and parcel of the entirety of your experiences, your past, your emotions and stomach acid and sweat.

    Things that have lasted longer than the relationships from which they came or phases in your mode of dress and hairstyle. To everyone else, because these objects are mixed in with other items, there is no shine or particularity about them. Only you know.

    It is so incredibly personal and private, but the plain fact is that it will be gone through and picked over, someday, that collection of your private, true “belongings.” Because you’ll be dead, and those things that mean so much to you, those talismans of purpose and associative emotional properties won’t mean anything to anyone anymore.

    I apologize. That was really downbeat. I’m getting close to a hard-hitting deathiversary (if you will) and I get all fucked up over it. Still. No need to drag anyone along.

    Whew! Hot cross buns, enough with the self-audit, and enough with the needless sex-in-America history lessons as I retread ground I have already indignantly covered. Sorry — let’s get on with Ms. Olson!


    The Olsons, who now live in Costa Mesa, are a large, closely knit family. “Having six brothers and three sisters really teaches you a lot about sharing things, materially and emotionally,” Gale says. Our August Playmate hopes one day to raise a family almost as large, but that won’t come about until she first fully satisfies her penchant for adventure.

    (“Star-Spangled and Starry-Eyed.” Playboy, August 1968.)


    “Last year I decided to become an astronaut, so I called the National Aeronautics and Space Administration in Houston to find out qualification requirements.” Gale spent enough time being briefed on the phone by NASA officials to acquire four pages of notes. “So far, things are turning out fine for me,” she reports.

    (Ibid.)


    A model (36-22-35) of American femininity, Gale (who delivered talks on girl scouting over German television) stays in shape by practicing ballet and exercising, and plans to study Tahitian dancing next year.

    (Ibid.)

    I have said before that we superfly Girl Scouts are a bombass bunch. Take it to the bank.


    “I think every girl who has the figure for it wishes she could be a Playmate, and I’m no exception,” [Gale] observes. “All I can say is that I was lucky!”

    Lucky Gale, lucky readers.

    (Ibid.)


    Photographed by by Stephen Wayda and Barry Fontenot. Very close to the same pose!
    And thirty-one years later, the readers were lucky again when Ms. Olson’s daughter, the lovely and talented Crystal McCahill, above, was Playmate of the Month for Playboy’s May 2009 issue.


    It’s a different kind of Darwin Award: the Playmate gene, passed from mother to daughter, ensuring survival of the fittest and constant attention from males of the species. Examine the evidence before you in the curvy form of Crystal McCahill, the 25-year-old daughter of Miss August 1968 Gale Olson.

    (“It’s Crystal Clear.” Playboy, May 2009.)

    \

    “I think every girl who has the figure for it wishes she could be a Playmate, and I’m no exception,” said Gale in her Playmate interview. “All I can say is, I am lucky!” Yet when luck strikes twice, it seems less like luck than destiny. It has happened just once before, when Miss December 1960 Carol Eden saw her daughter Simone grace the Centerfold in February 1989.

    Says the Illinois-born Crystal, “I remember telling my brothers and sisters, ‘I’m going to do that one day. I’m going to do the exact same pose.'”

    (Ibid.)

    A fun-loving, positive, and thoroughly modern gal, you may follow Ms. Olson’s present doings on the twitter.

    This picture is one of my favorites from the shoot. From a strictly aesthetic point of view it may possibly eclipse for me even the swan-butt ones. I love the movement and the colors in this composition. The impact of the yellow in all those little flowers around her is joyful and riotous, and her closed eyes imply a savoring of the moment. There is nothing forced or deliberate in this picture. It’s excellent.

    The cover was photographed by Mario Casilli and Caroll Baker. The pose and styling of the model, Aino Korva — Miss Universe Denmark 1963, and first-runner-up in the 1963 Miss Universe pageant (in which Peter “Dr. Strangelove/The Pink Panther” Sellers was one of the judges!!), making her bid the closest a Dane has ever come to winning the title — are strikingly similar to the centerfold of Miss July 1967, Heather Ryan. I’m saving the lovely and talented Ms. Ryan for later this month. But you’ll see what I mean then.




    As with the post on the lovely and talented Miss March 1967, Fran Gerard, I must throw up huge thanks to Fabrizio, an awesome and generous moderator over at the vintage erotica forums, which are free, well-moderated, full of fun, and they won’t give your computer any wack infections or the hantavirus. Grazie, bello♥!, and, to the rest of you, run — don’t walk — to the site. Enjoy!

    Welcome, porny people! Now how about lending that filthy hand to a good cause?

    January 13, 2010

    First off, thanks to the — as of this writing — over 6,400 people who’ve swung by the site today! Super-cool!* I see you are being linked by a site called pussycalor.com. My thanks again to you for your visits, and a tip of my hat to the fine folks at the site referring you here for the, erm, clever wordplay in their company title (“Pussy Galore” + “hot” en español, I imagine, right? get it? … it’s a decent enough pun; I give it a 60 but I can’t dance to it).


    Dawn Richard, Miss May 1957. Photographed by Ed DeLong and David Sutton.

    However, now that you’re here, and I’ve got these vintage cheesecake Playboy centerfolds helping me hold your attention, LeVar Burton’s** twitter and I would like to bend your ear a tick on this whole Haiti earthquake and subsequent increased housing and famine catastrophe. This article in the Miami Herald details legit relief organizations through which you can help with time, money, and food donations the displaced and surviving persons affected by yesterday’s devastating earthquake in Haiti, which is unfortunately only going to compound their existing problems as a developing nation.


    Miss December 1959, Pat Sheehan. Photographed by Sam Wu.

    Those are all fine and worthy causes if you give the list a genuine spin, but I sense that if you have landed here, you are probably impatient to get on with other things, and I empathize to a point with you on the whole “utter-lack-of-attention-span” thing. (Everyone blames MTV but I think it started with cereal box-backs, because I never had cable and I’ve an awful itchy trigger finger in almost every situation) Here is the super-fast-easy way to seal the deal:


    Miss January 1957, June Blair. Photographed by Hal Adams.

    In America, text the word “HAITI” to the number 90999 to donate $10 to the Red Cross. It will automatically come off your phone bill. How easy is that? $10 is not that much, and this is coming from an extremely broke person. So why don’t you take your hand off your dick (only for a moment, don’t worry — I’m not asking for miracles), fetch up the cell phone you’ve undoubtedly parked in your pocket, and take a second to donate even the low amount of $10 to the Red Cross’s special fund, through which, guaranteed, 100% of your donation goes to Haitian quake relief efforts. The playmates you are gawking at would be super, super impressed. That is why they are all in red: for the Red Cross. (Yes, I have so many playmate pictures saved that I was able to cull out a few scantily red-clad ones for just this entry — and even then I narrowed it to these, my faves.)


    Miss March 1957, Sandra Edwards. Photographed by Peter Gowland, a dear patron saint. Right on!

    I am not telling you how to live your life, just saying it is a quick and easy way to ease suffering while we comfortably enjoy and count ourselves lucky another carefree, nudie-pic-seeking day. Thanks for your time!



    *As I said to the Gentleman earlier today, “I have supported the porn industry for years. It’s about time they returned the favor.”

    **You’re darned-tootin’ I follow Geordi La Forge on the twitter. And I did not think it was possible he could be more of a nerd than I always imagined, but he is. He’s seen Avatar, like, five times. I almost stopped following him cause it was all he was on about for weeks. But I forgive him.

    NSFW November: Raquel Gibson, Miss November 2005

    November 29, 2009

    I actually really like Raquel Gibson, Miss November 2005. She seems to be a fun, family-oriented girl, but also a serious multitasker with plans for taking on even more, so it resulted in a surprisingly entertaining Playboy interview.


    Photographs by Stephen Wayda and Arny Freytag

    Plus she has a stunning pair of eyebrows. Seriously, those things are wicked-great.


    Raquel–who already has a culinary school degree [from Chef Jean Pierre Cooking School in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida] and a real estate license–plans to go back to school to become a pediatrician someday, with a practice someplace warm. “I can’t stand the cold,” she says. “I can’t see myself dressed like an Eskimo walking down the streets of New York, and I’d miss going to the beach and playing football.” (“Raquel’s World Party,” Playboy, November 2005.)


    Just don’t ask Miss November to go into the water–there are too many sharks. “The news will show a helicopter flying over with 200 sharks in the water and people just swimming and playing around them. I think, Are you guys dumb?”


    Yes! Finally! Someone agrees with me. What the hell is the matter with you people who are all in to sharks? I believe I have the most logical phobia on the planet in my fear of sharks. I acknowledge it’s a little nuts to open my eyes in the shower every 30 seconds to check and make sure none have swum up the drain and are preparing to sink their zillion rows of teeth in to my foot, but still!

    If you cannot at least muster enough care for your life not to place it in peril by descending in to the depths of the ocean (which is another planet to begin with; you cannot even breathe through your mouth under there and live), then show some fear and respect of God and his creations, both yourself and the shark. Just ugh all around and a heartfelt shudder to boot.

    Raquel did not end up pursuing her degree in pediatrics, remaining busy in the spokesmodel and entertainment worlds instead. She often models these days with her older sister C.J. (one of her five siblings, of which she is the baby). They bill themselves as the Gibson Sisters.


    CJ Gibson. Yes, I found and used the one picture of her in a Yankees jersey probably in existence. It’s my blog!

    If you are interested in some lengthy flash presentations and embedded music that you have to scour the creatively font-faced page to turn off, give Raquel’s official site a spin. She asks that you please not contact her to attempt to book anything pornograhpic or TFP.


    Oh my god, how dare you imply she would do pornographic modeling with her sister, what is the matter with you?!

    TFP = Trade for Prints, a handy piece of largely-chicanerous-publicity practice in which neither party — photographer nor model — gets any money out of the transaction; it’s purely to boost notoriety for both and is generally a very bum deal for the model, as the photog pads his portfolio and can use the pics forever in gallery shows, etc, while the model just has one more nudie photoshoot out of probably a dozen jammed in her little notebook. It’s a move that a lot of amateurs fall for; glad to see she is too wise to go for it!

    Speaking of The Girls Next Door, there they are.

    NSFW November: Donna Edmondson, Miss November 1986

    November 27, 2009

    Playboy’s Miss November 1986, the lovely and talented Donna Edmondson, was named the Playmate of the Year in 1987, fitting given that her high school yearbook predicted she was “Most Likely to Become a Bunny.” (What the hell kind of high school yearbook adviser approves that as a category?!) However, her more lasting claim to fame has been her reknown as The Virgin Playmate.


    Photographed by Arny Freytag and Stephen Wayda

    She had at least gotten to first base; that was her position on her softball team in high school (rimshot!). Actually, it was, in all seriousness — she played first base for her high school in Greensboro, North Carolina. But back to the more interesting issue. Quite the controversy was sparked by the 20-year-old real estate agent’s vow of virginity, which she discussed in her Playmate interview.


    “Men are wonderful, but I haven’t really let one close enough to me that I can talk about sex the way some girls can. Virginity isn’t something you discuss. I’m not ashamed of still having mine, mind you. It’s just not something I really want to talk about — except, of course, with the man who takes it away from me.” (“Sold on Donna,” Playboy, November 1986)


    I thought about that when I posed for my layout — imagining the kind of sex I’ll one day have. I don’t know when or where it will happen. But I do know it’ll be with somebody I know and love.”

    That’s pretty much all she said, but some fits were pitched and fell back in because of where America was, pornography-wise at this time. Let me bend your ear a tick on this topic, if it is news to you. What Ms. Edmondson accidentally stepped her pretty feet in was a total quagmire of hypocrisy and legal issues which had not much to do with her but plenty to do with the Meese Commission and how entertainment dealt with and tacitly sold the lifestyle of the modern single, the aftermath of the Sexual Revolution including the devastating consequences of HIV, and general assumptions of viewer maturity made by media distribution outlets vis-a-vis sexual morals at that particular juncture. What you had was a total flood of the market with new porn and ever-developing potential technologies for its procurement. So you had morality cops panicking bigtime.

    Think about it. There was an explosion of private media possibilities in the 1980’s, and they were readily affordable to Joe Vaseline, which means, no matter where the man of the house stashed them, the chance lurked that Junior, too, would have access. Suddenly you could get porn in a pack of spank-sock’s worth of new forms, an embarassment of riches: direct-to-VHS format, dedicated adult cable channels, and even at the good ol’ liquor store from the more and more competing –and niche– skin magazines all making porn less controlled and more widely sold than ever before. Oh, the heyday! But of course, religion and politics intervened.

    Sitcom stars, rock musicians, magazine publishers, freaking everyone was caught by Tipper Gore and Edwin Meese with their dicks in their hands on Capitol Hill, and the religious right was burning Blondie records for moral turpitude. Like, Jesus Jumped-Up Christ-Bananas! That is some ticklish shit to accidentally have come your way! And you’d think they would have all been proud of her …

    I will let Ms. Edmondson’s official Playboy biography tell the rest of this interesting story.

    The text to my original pictorial announced my virginity — and that created quite a stir. Also at this time, the anti-pornography report of the Meese Commission had prompted all 7-Elevens to pull the magazine from their shelves. I was thrown right in the middle of the scandal! All the talk shows immediately wanted to book the virgin PMOY from the Bible Belt. Joan Rivers made a huge deal out of my virginity on her show, but I just explained that you don’t have to have sex to be sexy.


    On Larry King’s show, one caller accused me of not being religious because I let men see my body. But I don’t think that posing in Playboy has anything to do with whether I’m a good person. I knew I wasn’t hurting anyone. I defended myself by saying that God made us nude. We were born that way!


    But I don’t regret a single moment. I thought the pictures were beautiful and tasteful, and all the Playboy people treated me very well. It was a great experience that I will never forget.

    So how did the story work out for Ms. Edmondson? Seems it worked out smashingly, so in the haters’ faces. Once again, her words:

    I took a job as a tax accountant, and on my first day of work I met the man who would become my husband. It was his last day of work; our eyes met, and I just knew he was the one. So I asked HIM out, we had lunch together the next week and we were together from then on.


    As for my former claim to fame — as the virgin PMOY — all I can say is: Not anymore! Lots of love to you!

    Dig the cover: ironically, Joan Rivers, who gave Ms. Edmondson such “holy hell,” so to speak, over the next several months after this issue was published, was herself profiled in the magazine the very same month. So it’s okay to be interviewed but not to pose? Or is it just for young women, or ones who you perceive as less bright than yourself, that the you-cannot-be-a-role-model-and-be-in-Playboy’s-pages applies? Is it that if a woman wants to be sexy she must want to be sexual? Do you enjoy pointing out hypocrisy only when it is not you, yourself, who is being a hypocrite? Where are the lines in the sand for you, Joanie? Is it not merely the case that you want attention at any cost and have made a career of glomming on to hot button people and topics in order to clutch every possible shred of spotlight in your cruel, manicured claws? Booyakasha!

    Sorry, I do not normally take such personal issue with anyone who has appeared on camera with a Muppet, but Joan Rivers literally makes her living by being a mean hag, so screw her. Her career could have been great, she could have been an important special woman in the history of females on television, and she pissed it away to keep the level of fame she was accustomed to, with no integrity. Fuck Joan Rivers.

    Anyway, so, Virgin Playmate. Tight, huh!

    NSFW November: Kai Brendlinger, Miss November 1964

    November 21, 2009

    I’m going to go ahead and let the Playboy interview with Miss November 1964, the lovely and talented Kai Bredlinger, almost totally speak for itself.


    Photographed by Pompeo Posar


    AMBITIONS:
    Modeling.

    TURN-ONS:
    Men. (data sheet).

    Ms. Brendlinger did get slightly more specific about that wacky “men” fetish of hers in the more detailed article that accompanied her pictorial:

    She eschews the possibility of ever becoming a career woman and anxiously looks toward the day when she can move to the wide-open spaces with her special brand of male, who will be “tall, fair, and smart enough to know he doesn’t have to prove he’s brighter than I.” (“Hallelujah, the Hills,” Playboy, November 1964)


    TURNOFFS:
    Dirt — I can’t stand anything dirty.

    FAVORITE BOOKS:
    Only the Bible and I still don’t understand it.

    No kiddin’.

    NSFW November: Miss November 1962, Avis Kimble

    November 15, 2009

    Like Joni Mattis (Miss November 1960), the lovely and talented Avis Kimble, Playboy’s Miss November 1962, hailed from Hef’s hometown of Chicago.


    Photography by Jon Pownall

    Body by ballpark hotdogs. Attagirl. This is the first Miss November that I have to say I doubt would go to print for Playboy today. She’s not even remotely fat … she’s just maybe too genuine? I don’t know.

    I’m not criticizing her, and I’m not criticizing the magazine today, and this is not some generic predictable commentary on modern ideals of beauty. I just think from the commercial end of it, the talent scouts, they have trained their eyes to see a certain type of beauty, and I’m not sure that 5’5″ and a certain ectomorphic roundness would register. The boobs would. I’m sure of that. But … I don’t know. I’d love to be wrong.

    In fact, I might be wrong, which is really heartening. It seems from reading her blurb that she was picked especially because she was different from the usual West Coast bunny, and I can’t jump to the conclusion that that would never happen today. I could be totally wrong and that philosophy of finding the unique and the special may still prevail; I mean, look at Stephanie Adams or Grace Kim, who I’ve highlighted in past weeks.

    And the Playboy sez:

    Rara Avis

    November Playmate Avis Kimble is a well-constructed nonconformist

    While Chicago is touted as a convention city, we’ve always found its unconventional side much more interesting — especially as personified by an eye-catching iconoclast like Avis Kimble, our bountiful bohemian November Playmate. Auburn-haired Avis, a Windy City citizen by birth and inclination is artistic both in temperament and topography (39-22-36); she paints striking water colors and oils, is a budding ballet dancer and a poetess who happily celebrates self-expression in lieu of carbon-copy conformity.


    Blessed with catholic tastes, our 18-year-old maverick miss gets a boot from square-dealing artist Piet Mondrian, movie director Ingmar Bergman and the rich prose of novelist Ayn Rand; she gulps vast quantities of artichokes for lunch, will lend her ear at any hour to Chopin or Odetta, loves to wear Italian knit dresses, long gloves and floppy Greta Garbo hats, and digs dating unpretentious guys who don’t knock themselves out trying to impress her with their wealth and wisdom.


    More upbeat than beat, Avis is sensibly stashing away her earnings as a photographer’s stylist (she sets up props, puts makeup on models, helps with photo composition) to pay for courses at Chicago’s Art Institute, and has her beguiling blue eyes firmly focused on a career as a fashion designer. For a design that will never go out of fashion, flip to the foldout where our poetry buff relaxes by scanning a choice collection of lyrical lines. We suggest that you do the same. (Playboy, November 1962.)


    Ayn Rand?! Maybe she just read it so she had someone to get mad at. Like me watching a Dodgers game so I can continue to yell at Manny Ramirez.

    Final thought — the wiki sez: “She was one of the Editors’ choices for the top ten Playmates of all time during Playboy’s ten year anniversary celebration. She did not make the top ten list when the readers’ top ten was voted on.”

    So maybe it’s the readers and not the magazine. Content and consumer demand: they have an intricate relationship. You get the porn you think you deserve? Does that make sense? Chew on that. Let me know.

    A confession: NSFW Asia Argento Once More

    September 28, 2009

    Looks like it’s you and me forever, Asia. Alone again, naturally.

    “When I was getting ready to make my own film, I thought, ‘The only genre left that has never been explored creatively is pornography.’ Yes, there are very specific rules. But there’s still so much to tell, even so. My favorite thing about porno is that it’s real — I mean the sex is real. Porno moves me so much more than films like Gone With The Wind, because I am always reminded that these people on screen actually met, and this actually happened. No other kind of film can give you that feeling.” –Asia Argento

    Are these words of wisdom? I’m not so sure, I think any kind of film, if it is well done, can give you that feeling. I have cried at commercials, imagining that they have happened, buying into the images I am being sold. I do not need to see hardcore penetration to believe someone is in love, someone is fucking. I can construct that aspect of the relationship in my imagination, given clever enough visual clues. It is all in the cinematic discourse.

    Not everything requires nudity and verite.

    Although, from Ms. Argento, I am not saying such hallmarks are unwelcome.

    Breaking news (nsfw — surprise, surprise)

    September 25, 2009

    Breaking news: it is now retro to watch Gauge.

    I believe Gauge was one of the best adult stars of the early 2000s, and represented an important trend, the resonation of which is still reverbating in the industry today: the individual, the self-made star, the branded girl who has put some time in to her scenes and has control over her career: the end of the casting couch and the rotating door of painful implants and bleached blondes. She arrived in porn with GoliathGirls at a time when it was first making the jump to streaming video, and that has obviously been a key role in the industry ever since. But I would argue that Gauge really emerged at the head of the pack in that initial grab-bag of amateurs and contracted girls who were the first computer screen queens.

    This picture exemplifies several of the reasons that I make that assertion.

  • Gauge knew the value of looking the part. She kept on key pieces of jewelry, and not just cliched junk like a crucifix or a wedding ring. Simple stuff, like a pair of stud earrings or a black hills gold ring on an index finger. Stuff you’d be wearing and not taking off for sex. That’s important for making it realistic.
  • This went for hair, too, which she generally trends toward the lightly fetishistic with pigtails and braids, but never anything fancy or over the top. White scrunchies, they look like they came from the Walgreens, no crazy amounts of hairspray or spiral curling iron updos here. This is a chick who came straight from band practice or something, you know? Like how it really is. A+ all the way.
  • She closed her eyes during the good stuff, and she kissed a lot in her scenes. That’s 99.9% of it, in my opinion. At least for me.
  • Finally, she knew what she was about, she knew what the business was and how to do it and gave it thought (not, like, Sasha Grey or Belladonna levels of thought, but Sasha and Belladonna are very bright and special cases). She eventually made the natural jump to behind the camera, but she had creative direction and control over her scenes even before that.

    X: What about guys?
    G: Who cares about the guys. (laughs) It’s all about the chicks.
    –Gauge, Interview with Cindi Loftus, Xcitement magazine

    I think she is right. No, I’m not going to be all mousy and not admit my opinions anymore, right? So what I mean to say is that I know she is right. And it’s at the heart of porn vs. erotica, of the intersection of sex and love … I have more to say about all this, later. It’s percolating.