Playboy, June, 1956, Vol. 3, No.6. Playboy is Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Co., Inc., 11 E. Superior St., Chicago 11, Illinois. In the U.S., its possessions and Canada, subscriptions are $13 for three years; $10 for two years; $6 for one year; elsewhere, add $3 per year to cover foreign postage. Please allow three weeks for entering new subscriptions, renewals and for change of address. Entered as second class matter August 5, 1955, at the post office at Chicago, Illinois, under the act of March 3, 1879. Printed in U.S.A. Contents copyrighted 1956 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc.
New Orleans around the shank of the last century was a bumptious, bawdy port city that catered to nearly every human whim imaginable. It was a city rocking with good-time vice, and no one really seemed to mind. Lulu White's rococo mansion, at the corner of Basin and Bienville, did a whopping big business, contained a bevy of beauteous (though erring) sisters, and a collection of some of the costliest oil paintings in the entire South (in addition to a parlor lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors). Lulu's house, unlike Josie Arlington's, nearby, could also boast at least ten entertainers who actually got paid to do nothing more than sing and dance. This was revolutionary.
Flora Baboin's breasts were "like Andalusian fruit in the basket of her folded arms." Lulu Bourriquet's were "firm, and their elongated form gave them a resemblance to Florentine breasts." Odette Auvergne's were "like two palpitating birds pining to break out of their cage." With such burgeoning bodices around it's no wonder residents of The Wicked Village (Simon and Schuster, $3.95) went straight to moral pot last 1933. The village is Clochemerle, in the Beaujolais region of rural France, and the wine, like Gabriel Chavallier's bawdy novel, is both heady and hale. The pages are peopled with rustic, frisky bumpkins who indulge their vices with great and disarming zest, even melon-breasted Melanie Boigne: "Mother of 15, all baptized and born in wedlock, excepting Etienne (who was got in the Fond-Mussu meadow in Springtime), but he's been regularized."
The best jazz in St. Louis since the days of Fate Marable and his river boat rascals is to be found now along the DeBaliviere Strip in the West End. There, in the space of a few short blocks, sit a somewhat gaudy assortment of pubs. The smartest of these is the Tic Toc Tap (421 DeBaliviere) where a grave, hornrimmed crowd hangs breathlessly on the brilliant, darting progressive jazz put forth by the Nickie Davis trio. A combination of piano, bass and vibraphone-drums, they're guilty of no such gaucherie as allowing a hint of melody to creep in; yet, they're not so abstract as to be way out where you can't reach them: their stuff is a tingling, entirely persuasive thing that gets under your skin. On the primitive side, Sammy Gardner's quartet pounds out the gut-bucket Saturday afternoons. The Tic Toc ticks every night until 1:30, except Sundays, when the denizens presumably go in for hymns.
Playing himself in the autobiographical Mr. Wonderful, Sammy Davis, Jr., mimics, dances, sings, plays drums and trumpet, and holds the audience in the palm of his eminently gifted hand from the first moment he walks onstage until the curtain finally falls on him singing his heart out. More significant is the fact that he even thaws the traditionally glacial faces of the pit band. It's an awesome display. It's entertaining. But that script: ooooh! Sammy's talents cannot be confined within the limits of the proscenium stage and the dramatic form. It's a very bad, very enjoyable show. (Broadway Theatre, B'way and 53rd, N.Y.)
The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit comes equipped with a flannel mouth as well. For a little over 21/2 staggering hours, Greg Peck and cohorts bust the breeze on practically every section of society known today, from good love to bad money. Hollywood has yet to learn that some of the best films ever made have been short on -- or totally devoid of -- dialogue, and that the prime requisite of a movie is movement. Some of the blame, however, must be heaped on Sloan Wilson's novel, which was just as shaky, plodding and uneven as its celluloid offspring. Several of the performers deserve top accolades, however: Fredric March as the moneybags tycoon and chilly Henry Daniell as the briefcase-toter terrified of losing his job. And the wartime scenes between slack-jawed Peck and Marisa Pavan come out sensuous and warm. To compensate, Jennifer Jones' performance as Man's wife is so preposterously bad that it has to be seen to be disbelieved.
It is Nearly Midnight, and I can see that if I don't make a start with writing this story now, I never shall. All evening I have been sitting here trying to force myself to begin, but the more I have thought about it, the more appalled and ashamed and distressed I have become by the whole thing.
Bill Whitehall and Sally Todd live in Los Angeles. They date regularly and there is plenty in an exciting city like L.A. for a couple to see and do. But one Saturday morning not too long ago, Bill sat in his apartment trying to plan something special for that evening -- a date to a place he and Sally had never been--and he realized there was very little the two of them had not seen and done in their city. An ad in the morning paper supplied an answer to his dilemma and a telephone call to STanley 7-3456 made reservations for two on the Champagne Flight to Las Vegas. Bill called Sally, told her he had a unique date arranged for that day, told her to put a thing or two into a bag and he would pick her up a bit past two.
Judgment day and the day of one's marriage don't necessarily occur simultaneously. In fact, for most young men the real crack of doom takes place several nights before the nuptials are celebrated. It happens during the trial by alcohol, that lengthy ceremony sometimes identified as the bachelor dinner.
The Wild Haired Beauty on these Playmate pages is a New York telephone operator. Her name is Gloria Walker, she's eighteen years old and she was born and bred in the Bronx. Gloria strikes a rather classic pose as our June pin-up, wearing naught but a towel whilst engrossed in a game of chess. Gloria doesn't ordinarily play chess in such brief attire. We don't know whether Gloria ordinarily plays in such brief attire, but we know she doesn't ordinarily play chess in such brief, because she doesn't ordinarily play chess.
"Vanity," the man says somewhere in Ecclesiastes, "all is vanity." And there are few occasions when the vanity of the muscled male is more rampantly displayed than on the beach or beside the pool. We have nothing against vanity -- in fact, it's one of the few things that separates the poets from the peasants -- but before a guy goes prancing like a stallion, he needs something to be vain about. Unhappily, not all of us have.
For the delectation of your eye and the improvement of your game, that noble pastime, chess, has been given plush Playboy treatment on these nine pages. Colorful facts from chess history and canny tips on playing are offered by Al Horowitz, editor and publisher of Chess Review, U. S. Open Chess Champion on three different occasions and member of the U. S. Championship Team during the famous tourneys at Prague (1931), Warsaw (1935) and Stockholm (1937). A work of fiction about a particularly rewarding chess game is Last Gambit, by rising young television playwright Loring D. Mandel. And, delightfully decorating the verbiage, you will discover Playboy's lovely, living chessgirls, captured in color by photographer Herman Leonard.
No Two Authorities agree about the origins of the royal game. Over a dozen different nations and cultures have been named as its breeding-place. Some say it began as far back as 200 B.C.; others place the date as late as 500 A.D. It is believed that the word "chess" stems from the Persian shah (king), and the word "checkmate" from shah mat (the king is dead). The Eastern origin of the game, at any rate, seems fairly well established.
She Was the Kind Of Girl you dream about. Not too tall, well-rounded and ripe, and with soft brown hair resting lightly about her shoulders. She had a little pout of a smile, and high, full breasts, and a most delicate arrangement of convexities and concavities in the subtle convergence of her abdomen and thighs. And within this perfect physical creature was a vitality, a cleverness, an intelligent awareness that redoubled her desirability. She was of that select few who excel at every grace, sport or project in which they engage. And particularly, she excelled at chess. This is where Edgar came in.
When we scheduled The Deal, a story of sex in Las Vegas, for the next issue, we discovered its author is a beautiful woman, so we coaxed her out from behind her typewriter and she appears as the July Playmate. The July issue also includes a new story by Alberto Moravia, author of A Woman of Rome, Two Adolescents and Conjugal Love ... a satire on J. D. Salinger ... another visit with the French cartoon cutie Clementine and a pictorial tip of the Stetson to Marla English.