For some, summer is a warm blur and a beer cooler, a good magazine to read at the beach. This one, of course. If you can tear your eyes away from that blonde in the string bikini, we have an issue for you. Associate Editor John Rezek has engineered, for the second year in a row, our Summer Sex Issue, which includes an incredible pictorial ode to girl-watching, games, a tour of the national monuments of outdoor sex and a New Wave comic strip--Frankie and Annette go punk.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), August, 1981, Volume 28, Number 8. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill. 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, $48 for 36 issues, $34 for 24 issues, $18 for 12 issues. Canada, $24 for 12 issues. Elsewhere, $31 for 12 issues. Allow 45 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, P. O. Box 2420, Boulder, Colorado 80302, and allow 45 days for change. Marketing: Ed Condon, Director/Direct Marketing; Michael J. Murphy, Circulation Promotion Director. Advertising: Henry W. Marks, Advertising Director; Harold Duchin, National Sales Manager; Michael Druckman, New York Sales Manager; Milt Kaplan, Fashion Advertising Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Chicago 60611, Russ Weller, Associate Advertising Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue; Troy, Michigan 48084, Jess Ballew, Manager, 3001 W. Big Beaver Road; Los Angeles 90010, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 4311 Wilshire Boulevard; San Francisco 94104, Tom Jones, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street; Walter Joyce, Advertising Marketing Director.
For its January 1981 issue, Inquiry, a San Francisco--based journal of contemporary news and comment, asked Christie Hefner to review "Take Back the Night: Women on Pornography," a collection of feminist essays edited by Laura Lederer. Christie's review turned out to be a thoughtful analysis of the emotionalism and dogma that permeate the antiporn movement, which itself has led to a curious alliance between some women's groups and their own worst enemy, the new moral right. We've published articles, interviews and commentary on these subjects in the past (February, October and November, 1980), but Christie's observations go beyond previously stated arguments. She perceptively examines the tendency to equate pornography with pornographic violence and to confuse the two, simplistically relating both of them to rape. With thanks to Inquiry for permission, we reprint the review here.
Richard, J. Pietschmann met "Flamingo Road" Star Morgan Fairchild for lunch in Los Angeles. "She wore a powder-blue sweater that had regularly spaced gaps the size of dimes," he told us. "I knocked over my Heineken trying to turn on my tape recorder."
In an era in which a book's merit is determined by daily computer analysis of its shelf life, it becomes possible to create statistical models of upcoming chart busters. We put our computer on overtime and came up with the following prospects for next year's hot literary numbers.
Stephen King has gone to the dogs, or rather, the dog. Cujo (Viking) is a 200pound Saint Bernard who, after being bitten by a rabid bat, develops a taste for people and Pintos. For more than 130 pages, this slobbering beast holds a woman and her son hostage in the family car. Most of the tension is visual: King has been watching a lot of movies, and this book reads like a montage of coming-attraction clips to Jaws, Alligator, Grizzly, etc. A man fights off the dog, makes it into his house to safety, shuts the screen door behind him. Two seconds later, 200 pounds of appetite comes smashing through the door like "Here's Johnny!" in The Shining. The woman in the car thinks the dog has gone off, but "a moment later, Cujo's foam-covered, twisted face popped up outside her window, only inches away, like a horror-movie monster that has decided to give the audience the ultimate thrill by coming right out of the screen." Praise God and pass the popcorn. There's a hint of the supernatural to Cujo, but for the most part, King has tried to create horror from the everyday things of life: breakfast cereal, adultery and faulty carburetors. He has talent, and he refuses to repeat himself. The reason: Twenty million readers can't be wrong. This will satisfy King fans, and that's enough.
It is almost impossible not to identify with someone or something in The Four Seasons (Universal) if you have ever joined a group of fun seekers on holiday and found that several of your best friends turn out to be pains in the ass. Watching the three New York couples who spend Four Seasons getting to know one another's weaknesses all too well becomes funny, touching and hurtfully true for any number of reasons--because the actors are fine, the characters they play are convincingly human and the movie's instincts are warm and forthright from beginning to end. So chalk up the credit as well as the blame--we'll get to that--to TV's ever-popular Alan Alda, who wrote the screenplay, stars in it and simultaneously makes his brisk debut as a feature-film director. Alda handles his fellow actors with keen sensitivity and is repaid in kind by Carol Burnett, who plays his mettlesome wife right on key; by Rita Moreno and Jack Weston, as a loud couple; plus Len Cariou as a swinger whose old friends can't quite forgive him when he drops his stolid, loyal first wife (Sandy Dennis) for a sleek younger model (Bess Armstrong). Even at their worst, these are likable people, whether they're bickering, impulsively swimming in the nude or just feeling the first hard chill of middle age.
Show us your Underalls: Prine is a 21-year-old who performs onstage in his underpants and sometimes sings about having sex with his sister. On his third LP, Dirty Mind, a funky R&B-and-punk mix, he croons about oral sex (giving and getting), sleeping à trois with his girlfriend and her boyfriend and other assorted sexual high-jinks. The rock critics love his silky falsetto (or is it his silky undies?), ranking Prince at the top of several 1980 reviewer polls. But will success spoil Prince's charms? We doubt it. In fact, he proposed to us a sort of national come-as-you-are party--at two P.M., everyone would have sex. "Traffic would stop and no matter where you were, you'd do it," he smiled. Welcome to the Eighties.
Fantasy Records has always been reissue heaven for jazz fans, and its new Midline Series--at $5.98 suggested list--should cause much rejoicing among the financially strapped faithful. The 26 albums in the series are drawn from the Fantasy, Prestige and Stax catalogs. For openers, on Prestige, there's Caribé, Eric Dolphy's rare session with the Latin Jazz Quintet. This is early Dolphy, before he fully developed his grand baroque style, and his playing is spare, fluid and straightforward--a gem. The John Coltrane/Ray Draper Quintet is an engagingly eccentric match-up: Draper, on tuba, sounds like an amiable moose; and Coltrane plays brilliantly in his pre-Giant Steps manner. On The Ballad Album, another great tenor player, Dexter Gordon, works his lyrical magic on both pop and jazz standards with consummate mastery and grace. Evidence, by Steve Lacy with Don Cherry, takes the harmonic and rhythmic innovations of Thelonious Monk into Ornette Coleman territory. Long out of print, it's a modern-jazz classic and a must for any serious fan. For those who prefer to do their listening with their feet, we recommend the Stax selections, especially Booker T. and the MG's Greatest Hits and volumes one and two of 15 Original Big Hits, with cuts by Rufus and Carla Thomas, Booker T., Johnnie Taylor, The Staples and others. Inflation may be going up, but you can still afford to get down.
Random Rumors: Leo Sayer is thinking of divorcing his wife and marrying her again--this time on TV. He wants to retie the knot on the NBC show Wedding Day. Sayer calls the show "genius" and says, "America is the only country I know which lives up to its expectations." Just remember, you heard it here first.... John Lydon, former Sex Pistol and current leader of Public Image Limited, has signed Ginger Baker to replace his former drummer, and a new album is expected soon.... Strangles lead singer and guitarist Hugh Cornwell caused quite a stir in a New Haven hotel recently--but not for wrecking his room. Cornwell gave an after-concert interview to a woman who said she was a reporter from a local college paper. After she left, Corn-well undressed and started to go to bed when he discovered that the alleged reporter had made off with his wallet. He bolted for the lobby--stark-naked--and cornered the culprit. That's life in the fast lane.... We hear that singer Randy Parton, Dolly's brother, is out on the road, trying to promote his own stuff while judging Dolly look-alike contests. Is this fair to a new kid?
Idol Gossip: Michael Caine, Christopher Reeve and Dyan Cannon will star in Deathtrap, the film adaptation of Ira Levin's long-running Broadway thriller. Sidney Lumet directs.... George C. Scott has optioned film rights to Ladislas Farago's The Last Days of Patton and plans to star in and produce the movie as a sequel to 1970's Oscar-winning Patton. The book covers the last nine months of George S. Patton's life, a period in which the four-star general was beset with bitterness.... John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd will team up to play paranoid next-door neighbors in Zanutk-Brown's film of Thomas Berger's novel Neighbors.John (Rocky) Avildsen will direct from a script by Larry Gelbart. The film adaptation will be, in the words of the producers, "more than just a comedy." ... James Caan and Al Pacino are being tagged to star in United Artists' film of Vincent Patrick's The Pope of Greenwich Village....Armand Assante will play Mike Hammer in I, the Jury, based on Mickey Spillane's first novel.
I am a relatively well-adjusted professional, three years out of an unsatisfactory marriage. For two years after my marital split, I foundered in the singles' world, primarily trying to recapture my self-respect. A little over a year ago, I met the most delightful woman, a librarian, but the antithesis of the TV stereotype. It did not take long for me to become comfortable in a monogamous relationship to which we both have adhered for nearly a year. Our first few sexual adventures were mind-blasting, and although the high passion has somewhat subsided, we are both delighted in gratifying the other in every way. But here is the problem: When I arouse her to a fever pitch, she digs her nails into my back (regardless of the position) and draws blood. It is not much pain to bear compared with the ecstasy of knowing she is out of control; and during the winter I never worry about anyone commenting on my wounds. However, in the summer, at poolside or lake shore, the remarks are frequent. My mate claims she does not remember slashing me to shreds but promises to try not to gouge me the next time. I have told her that I would gladly keep the scratches and also keep the passion, but she thinks it is improper to hurt the one she loves, and the poolside remarks have embarrassed her. Any suggestions?--W. P., Penn Yan, New York.
Some of those same folks who have always tried so hard to take the fun out of sex and reduce it to biological procreation are beginning to have second thoughts, to wonder if they've been missing out on something. Or so it seems, if the new flood of born-again sex manuals is any indication. Unless you frequent fundamentalist bookstores, you may not have caught sight of titles such as Sex for Christians, by Lewis Smedes, and Intended for Pleasure, by Ed and Gaye Wheat. Tim LaHaye (of the Moral Majority) has written classics on everything from Noah's ark to the impending end of the world, from fundamentalist psychology to the dangers of secular humanism. Now he's added to his achievements a sex manual titled The Act of Marriage. Charlie (not Charles, please note) Shedd follows a series of edifying works such as The Exciting Church Where People Really Pray with his new Celebration in the Bedroom. Huh?
In early March of this year, the Associated Press ran a photo that was widely picked up by the afternoon dailies. It showed an exuberant Ronald Reagan (this was before the attempt on his life) visiting the hospital bed of the ailing Senator Robert Dole and presenting him, as a get-well gift, a recently published book: George Gilder's "Wealth and Poverty."
There's a war going on and the bad guys are winning. To them, it is a holy war--a latter-day jihad in the heart of the modern democracy. It represents the final metamorphosis of the conservative movement in America into a religio-political attack on personal freedom. Don't worry about George Orwell's 1984; the state as dictator of personal morality is almost here in 1981.
Individual Freedom has come a long way toward Thomas Jefferson's idea "that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." But the tories are coming. As the accompanying article shows, they are mounting an assault upon our liberties and attempting to force their notions of morality and propriety on us. They're not coming by land or by sea but by the airwaves and the Congress.
Summer is the season that always seems to slip away from us. On Memorial Day, it takes over like a warm blur, then it all too abruptly ends with Labor Day. But it doesn't have to be that way. In the next 12 pages, we will reacquaint you with some of the seasonal pleasures that make summer special. After all, it is literally the time when nature wants you to smell the roses. It is the time when your bare feet re-establish their relationship with the good earth. It is also the time when goofing off takes on a philosophical insistence. There's a great big world out there to get hot and sweaty about. Turn the page and you'll see what we mean.
Reinhart was preparing brunch for his daughter and his new girlfriend. He and Winona had lived together since his divorce from her mother, ten years before. The friendship with Grace Greenwood was a recent development.
You don't have to be an ardent student of the game to know about relief pitchers. They're the gun fighters of baseball, the doughty chaps such as Sparky Lyle, with Freon in their veins, summoned from the bull pen to cool off hot bats when the opposition becomes rambunctious.
I First Met Roman Polanski 17 years ago in London, when I attended a private viewing of some of his early films made in Poland. They were dynamite. Dynamite and sensitive. Like so many talented people, Polanski drew well, always leaning toward humor and the bizarre. After we became friends, he and I sometimes sketched together. Recently, at the carnival in Rio, I encountered him in exile. I was delighted to find him unchanged, full of energy and enjoying life, and that's the way I sketched him. His productivity is further proof that the true artist carries on undaunted, regardless of circumstances. Hurry back, Roman.
Debbie boostrom likes the simple pleasures in life. She grew up in Largo, Florida, and rarely ventured far from the beach. "If I wasn't in school," she says now, "I was at the ocean. There were a bunch of us who were always together; they called us the rat-pack. We'd spend all day swimming and fishing--I caught a shark once that almost pulled me off the boat--and water-skiing. I'll give you an idea of how much time we spent doing that: Everybody in the group could ski barefoot."
Even if your physical activities are limited to double martinis on the terrace, you must admit that all those physical-fitness freaks running, jumping and jogging by look rather spiffy in their workout togs. Active sportswear has become a major influence on spectator gear; everyone from a cerebral chess player to a grandstand quarterback is into it. The styles are incredibly comfortable, the look is great--and if someone challenges you to the best of three sets, just tell him you left your racket in your other pants' locker.
If you're in a situation in which you're deprived of your regular hi-fi system, you still can enjoy an aural fix, thanks to a new kind of stereo rig that obligingly goes wherever you go. The means for enjoying really good stereo--from a minisystem that weighs not much more than your wallet--are here.
Professional football may be the most perfect form of show business ever invented. While movies, TV and stage productions are plotted and scripted weeks or months in advance, in the N.F.L. the outcomes of races and games are as much of a surprise to the participants as they are to the audiences. Who would have guessed a year ago that the Oakland Raiders and the Philadelphia Eagles would wind up in the Super Bowl, or that Jim Plunkett would be everyone's player of the year? Hell, we didn't even know the casts of characters in last year's play-offs until the final weekend of the regular season.
Joan Rivers enjoys one of the most active schedules in show business. In addition to seemingly nonstop appearances in Las Vegas, Lake Tahoe and Atlantic City, she is preparing two film projects. Robert Crane caught up with her at her palatial Los Angeles estate. He tells us: "Television doesn't show how really lovely she is. She's even funnier in person. And don't believe her when she says she has Jewish thighs."
The Squat, chunky glass nestled chill and reassuring in my hand. It was one of my treasured set of matched old fashioned glasses celebrating the long-past Bicentennial of our blessed land. Each tumbler bore in magnificent cut-glass bas-relief a portrait of a founding father. Thomas Jefferson, his face stern and yet patriotically inspiring, sweated slightly on the side of my icy glass. Under his portrait, etched with authority, was a quote from The Great Democrat himself: I believe in the People. I stood at the window of my 14th-story apartment and stared listlessly out into the gathering gloom. Far below me were hordes of wandering picketers, their signs waving in the dusk, distance muting their hoarse obscenities. Occasionally, a siren wailed, accompanied by the distant wink of red flashers. The apartment lights dimmed momentarily but struggled bravely back on, narrowly averting the third blackout of the week. The Jack Daniel's glowed deep in my interior. Going about its therapeutic work, it warmed me. I glanced (continued on page 202) Fistful of Fig Newtons (continued from page 151) down at Jefferson, whose ear was just under my right thumb.
How many 37-24-36 ex-Vegas showgirls have copped the prestigious Cannes Film Festival best-actress award?Valerie Perrinedid it, winning in 1975 for her portrayal of comedian Lenny Brace's wife in "Lenny" (with Dustin Hoffman). But that's not all Valerie has done. Her glittery film credits include Hollywood blockbusters--like both "Supermans" and "The Electric Horseman"--and a lavish failure, "Can't Stop the Music." But she's also traveled the intellectual circuit in Bruce Jay Friedman's "Steambath" (a PBS play); her film debut was in the movie version of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.'s "Slaughterhouse-Five." Those successes, Valerie insists, stem from much more than just her pretty face and (usually naked) body. Like what? "My mind," she says. And she adds: "I say what I think and I don't think before I say it." Confused? Don't be. Valerie Perrine is an outspoken woman, one who hates women's liberation and who loves sex (and loves talking about it, too).
Whatever Eddie wants, Eddie gets. He's a baggage handler for a major airline in Miami. He's very good at his regular job, sorting and loading incoming and outgoing passenger luggage. But he's excellent at his other job: For the past seven years, as the other handlers tell it, Eddie has assumed the unchallenged position as the best thief on the line.
There are only five people in this world who know what happened to that lost airline baggage in the Montreal winter of 1958, and I'm one of them. I have no idea where the four other people are today: out there somewhere, I trust, swarming around in the great plankton; gone to convents or madhouses, who knows? It was a long time ago, and when it was all over, we five went our separate ways, never to meet again. It was as if our only common destiny was to come together in those months for the sole purpose of carrying out the deeds I am about to relate.
You don't have to be a shoe fetishist to enjoy this puzzle--but it might help. Look carefully at the sleek red dancing shoe shown here at the top. Then look at the collection below and see if you can find the one shoe that, in every detail, is exactly like it. You may find yourself strapped for the answer, which appears on page 246, but don't buckle under.
Shoving off in anything from a dinghy to a yacht is such a watery groove that old and young salts often forget that there can be more to life afloat than jumping waves or fishing off the coast of Bimini. More and more companies are getting into fun-type nautical accessories; and the goods they're producing--everything from marine stereos to unsinkable kites--take you down to the sea not only in style but equipped with a treasure chestful of playthings, too. And if you're out of gas money or wind, you can always drop anchor and toy with your toys in the harbor.
Given the fact that Alan Flusser's father was something of a sartorial dandy ("The guy was nuts about Fred Astaire"), it's not surprising that young Alan began to have his wardrobe tailor-made at 17 and now, at 35, is one of menswear's brightest luminaries and the head of his own fashion company. Flusser's personal style is Savile Row with flair (as the picture of him at right attests)--and in an industry in which planned obsolescence has replaced good design, all too often, it's a pleasure to discover that he creates essentially timeless looks kept fresh with the artful mixing of color combinations and whimsical accessories. (Suspenders, anyone?) Flusser's book, Making the Man: The Insider's Guide to Buying and Wearing Men's Clothes, due out in September, explores in more detail his particular fashion philosophy. Read it and reap the reward of having been privy to the thinking of one of today's most astute fashion minds.
Back in the Fifties, England owned America's fledgling sports-car market. The first spindly wheeled MGs were joined by more powerful British Triumphs and Jaguars, Teutonic bathtub Porsches, lusty Italian Alfa Romeos and Ferraris and, eventually, by semicivilized American Chevrolet Corvettes and Ford Thunderbirds.
"You Tarzan, me bo"--You asked for it, we got it: The return of Bo Derek. It's a one, two, three punch in honor of her newest film, Tarzan, The Ape Man.And a bo-nus:Playboy's Bo Derek-Tarzan pull-out poster, featuring the bodacious one in a pose you won't see anywhere else!