People have different approaches to reading a magazine. Some start at the front and read straight through; some work backward; others unfold the Playmate. We'd like to suggest that this month you alter your routine and begin with a little gem called Signals, by Daniel Mark Epstein (illustrated by Stanislaw Fernandes). In the best tradition of man-to-man conversation, Epstein takes just a few priceless words to tell you everything you need to know about reading a woman's sexual moods. If you're a young man just starting to figure out the mysterious female psyche, save this article. It will get funnier, if not more useful, with the passage of time.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), April, 1985, Volume 32, Number 4. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, $54 for 36 issues, $36 for 24 issues, $22 for 12 issues. Canada, $27 for 12 issues. Elsewhere, $35 for 12 issues. Allow 45 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of Address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Post Office Box 2420, Boulder, Colorado 80322, and allow 45 days for change. Marketing: Ed Condon, Director/Direct Marketing; Jack Bernstein, Circulation Promotion Director. Advertising: Charles M. Stentiford, Advertising Director; Joe Mangione, Advertising Promotion Director; Jeffrey Kleinman, Craig Vander Ploeg, Senior Associate Managers; Jay Remer, National Alcoholic Beverages Marketing Manager; Brain Van Mols, National Automotive Marketing Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Linda Malanga, Chicago Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611; 3001 West Big Beaver Road, Troy, Michigan 48084; Los Angels 90010, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 4311 Wilshire Boulevard, San Francisco 94104, Tom Jones, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street.
If your M.B.A., J.D. or Ph.D. in computer science isn't giving you the satisfaction you thought it would, you may be ready for something completely different. Perhaps it's time to contemplate committing yourself to the monastic life. Wait. Consider the advantages: You receive guaranteed lifetime--and postlifetime--security. You enjoy the companionship of fellow men who aren't trying to date your girl. With this guide, you can make the world your cloister.
David Berkowitz. John Wayne Gacy. Ted Bundy. Jim Jones. Richard Speck. Famous names, famous wolves at the door. These five men have killed hundreds of innocents and, as Jack Levin and James Alan Fox's Mass Murder: America's Growing Menace (Plenum) makes clear in explicit detail, they have plenty of company. The rate of violent crime in the U.S. is falling, but multiple murder is on the rise. Why? Maybe there's a different set of reasons for every crazed killer out there. Levin and Fox present a well-crafted, well-written overview of a complicated subject, but no one has yet answered the most intriguing questions: Why are Americans so accomplished at lone-wolf brutality? And why do those crimes so fascinate the rest of us? Maybe it's because Americans like almost anything grand, even if it's Guignol.
Dave takes a Solo: Van Halen's lead singer, David Lee Roth, recently released a four-song EP called Crazy After the Heat (Warner)--the first solo effort from a member of the band. We asked Contributing Editor David Rensin to get Roth to explain what he could do alone that he couldn't do with Van Halen. Says Rensin: "We met at the group's Hollywood offices. Roth strutted in, wrapped in Ray-Bans and a high school letterman's jacket. He looked weathered, as if he had just returned from camping in the jungles of New Guinea--which, of course, he had. I let him do all the talking."
Nik Kershaw's The Riddle (MCA) is rock disguised as reggae, and Kershaw's funny, down-to-earth lyrics are a surprise in such a setting. How can you dislike a guy who asks Don Quixote for advice or who says of his own status as a newborn rock-'n'-roll star, "He got no sense but he got money"? Kershaw sticks his head in the clouds long enough to make a plea to Save the Whales, and the title track is a whimsically enchanting march that makes no actual sense. But it also makes no sense that America hasn't yet discovered Kershaw.
Rock and Wrestling: Cyndi Lauper has another award to add to her growing collection: The World Wrestling Federation has honored her contributions to the sport, especially to women's wrestling. Her manager calls it "a very unique situation." We call it cute. She-bop!
Diane Keaton channels her flakiness into a subtle, first-class performance as Mrs. Soffel (MGM/UA), which also marks a quiet triumph for Australian director Gillian Armstrong, proving here that her fine feminist saga, My Brilliant Career (1978), was no flash-in-the-pan success. The true story of a prison warden's wife who scandalized turn-of-the-century Pittsburgh when she left her husband and children and ran off with two condemned killers after helping them escape, Mrs. Soffel is a headlong romance that would be ridiculous if it were mere fiction. But you will believe, the way Keaton plays it, that a proper, deeply religious matron finds the gypsy in her soul awakened by a prisoner on death row. The way Mel Gibson plays the doomed Ed Biddle, with more appealing vulnerability than he's shown in any previous role, you'll also believe he is a celebrity jailbird who has lovelorn women lined up in the street to protest his innocence. Matthew Modine, as Biddle's brother, and Edward Herrmann, as the stolid Mr. Soffel, are equally fine, though the movie's major plus is the Keaton-Gibson chemistry-- some sorely needed sizzle for a dark and downbeat tale of passion behind bars. [rating]3 bunnies[/rating]
You hear a lot about mambas, hippos, rhinos, even terrorists and Commies, but I say Africa takes a bad rap. Africa gives you tall people. And in basketball, you can't win without that guy who can wheel and deal in the paint, work on top of the iron, fill it with baby hooks. When I can't find a good prospect in Africa, I look in Yugoslavia, Sweden, Germany, maybe Russia. The Dominican Republic comes through now and then. A scout never knows where he'll have to be. But I always start in Africa. They're taller. The kid in Belgrade who's 7'2" comes in at 7'6" in Ubangi. All I do is find 'em and place 'em. It's the coaches who have to teach 'em how to piss indoors.
So what should I do?" Jennifer asked. "I think I love them both. I'm orgasmic with each of them. They're wonderful lovers. I've never had it so good. I'm just afraid they'll drop me at the same time. What will that leave me with? My vibrator? Listen, I've got nothing against vibrators, but I hate loneliness."
About a year ago, I had the awful luck to fall into a sort of speed trap for those who have been running too long in the fast lane. Before it was over, I'd been held incommunicado for 30 hours, badly misdiagnosed, well frightened, drugged and charged $1112. It was a lesson I'm not likely to forget; and forced to put it into a simple sentence, this is what I get: There is more than one reason they put snakes on the symbol for the medical profession.
The letter from M. R. (The Playboy Advisor, December) concerning stimulation of the male nipples is of great interest to me. While still in my early teens, I discovered that I could attain an immediate erection by pinching and fondling my nipples. I doubt that many men can achieve orgasm from such stimulation alone, but it is a fantastic form of foreplay. I have never been embarrassed to ask my sex partners to massage, lick and suck my breasts. All of them have granted my requests, and they seemed to enjoy the experience. My favorite ritual leading to intercourse involves my wife's performing fellatio on me while I work on my nipples. Rather than sending conflicting signals to my nervous system, this simultaneous stimulation increases the sensation in my cock and my breasts. Several minutes of dual action leaves me in a state of absolute ecstasy, and my arousal level is at a peak. I am happy to see that Playboy endorses breast action for men as well as for women. If every unwilling male puts aside any macho hang-up he has about this unmanly approach to sex, he will discover a wonderful erogenous zone above his belt.--T. T., Dallas, Texas.
Such a poetic tribute to ovulation and ejaculation is rare in these (and, probably, other) pages but is no less than we might expect from the new director of creative writing at the Interlochen Arts Academy in Michigan.
In keeping with the Playboy tradition of interviewing heads of state, we bring you Wayne Douglas Gretzky of Canada. For those who don't follow the puck, he is Jim Thorpe on skates, Jesse Owens with a stick, Babe Ruth in hockey shorts. Going by statistics alone, Wayne Gretzky is the greatest athlete of the 20th Century. Going by the polls, he is more famous than everyone else in Canada combined.
Even with MTV's tireless titillation and Prince's purple bump and grind, there's been something missing from video music. Call it heat for heat's sake. Hot women, hot music, hot film--a synergy for eye and ear. Now it's here. Playboy's Girls of Rock & Roll, produced by Carol Rosenstein and directed by David Winters, is at your video store. "It's going to be very successful," says multiple Emmy nominee Winters. "It's music, film, nudity in extremely good taste, humor and incredible production values." Unique in that it spotlights stars a-borning--these videos don't promo old records but new talent--Playboy's Girls of Rock & Roll is being distributed by CBS-Fox. "These girls are a break away from stardom," Winters says. "They are terrific." And you can say you saw them here first--all of them.
How well I remember Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., the day he came down to the dock at Bluefields on the Atlantic coast of Nicaragua to see me off on the steamer to New York. He offered me his final words of advice and pressed on me his cashmere English overcoat--because it would be cold up there, he said. He walked with me down the gangplank and then clasped my hand in a long, firm handshake as I was about to step into the launch. As we motored out to meet the steamer on the high seas, I saw him for the last time, his figure slender and arched in his fatigues and campaign boots, waving goodbye with his cloth cap. I say for the last time because three days later, he was shot in a Sandinista assault on the Puerto Cabezas garrison, where he was the commander.
Me? Sweet, quiet Jeffrey Coates? Attack Desi Arnaz with a rolled-up copy of Soldier of Fortune magazine? Man, I was the last guy in the world that you'd figure for that kind of psycho scene--before I went to Nick, that is. Hey, pre-Nick, I used, to watch "I Love Lucy" all the time. Ricky Ricardo was my hero. But after I came home from my tour of Nick, my whole take on Desi started changing. One afternoon, for absolutely no reason, I set fire to my bongos.... Every time I heard a mambo, I'd break out in a cold sweat. I didn't realize in my, like, conscious mind how much Desi reminded me of that 'raguan lieutenant that captured me.... But then, one night, I'm walking down 57th Street in N.Y.C., right, givin' all the rich folks my jungle-warfare stare, and suddenly I'm eye-locked with old Desi himself. But, like, he wasn't Desi anymore--he was that Sandy lieutenant crouchin' down in the brambles! And I just went into total Nick flashback.... It's been a tough recovery. Both Desi and Lucy have come to visit me in the rehab center--separately, natch--and that's a class move on their part. But what about my buddies out there on the street? They're walking time bombs, man! They could freak any time and start dynamiting Mexican restaurants or whatever.... And what about the boys who'll be shipped down there by the boatload? What about the ones who won't come back?"
It's time for spring training with Morganna, baseball's buxom (60-24-39) Kissing Bandit. Sprinting onto the playing field to smooch big stars and small, from Pete Rose to Otto Valez, Morganna is anathema to security guards but the next best thing to the national anthem for the players. Last year, in fact, she expanded her already prodigious horizons and added basketball's Kelly Tripucka to her list of big-time athletes lucky enough to catch a wayward buss. But a girl has to do something during the off season to keep in shape for surprise Monday-night boob-tube baseball appearances, and that's what she's up to here. All the equipment shown--from the Huffy Workhorse to the home tanning bed for getting an early start on beach and bleacher rays--will give you a leg up on your fellow jocks come summer. And just to make certain you don't break training, we've included the Sunbeam Motivator, an electronic coach/scale with a 235-word vocabulary. We've worked up a sweat just looking at Morganna.
Joel Hyatt, at 34, is the Ray Kroc of law. Despite widespread criticism from his professional contemporaries, his low-cost Hyatt Legal Services chain (at the moment with 155 offices in 20 states) threatens not only to become the largest law firm of any kind in the world but to change America's ambivalent opinion of lawyers. His method: a slick national-television ad campaign (starring Joel Hyatt), storefront offices located in shopping centers with evening and weekend hours and extremely cheap rates. Bill Zehme caught up with Hyatt in Kansas City, Missouri, the firm's headquarters, and reports: "Hyatt is every bit as earnest as he seems in those commercials. He could probably be Wally and Beaver's other brother. In his office, visitors are greeted by a huge Andy Warhol lithograph of Justice Louis Brandeis, from the series 'Ten Great Jews of the 20th Century.' Hyatt swears that he often looks up from his desk and catches the legendary jurist winking at him."
I have no satisfactory explanation for this, but for almost ten years, I was employed by Playboy magazine in a position that many people described (somewhat carelessly, I often thought) as the greatest job in the world. For an aspiring young writer who'd spent years day-dreaming about exotic lands, it probably seemed as close to perfection as any job could be. The work consisted of foreign travel, with an open expense account and a walletful of company credit cards, and taking notes. It was the kind of job that allowed me to go where I wanted when I wanted, and I did. Someone had to do it, and for reasons best known to those who made the choice, I was chosen.
Cyndi Lauper may be a flash-in-the-pan popster, but as a philosopher, she has already proved herself to be a straight thinker and a woman of unerring intuition. She has come up with a Gestalt for the Eighties: fun. Having some expertise in this area, we can only say that this woman sees things our way. We may not dye our hair orange, dress up in rhinestones and fast-dance on the sidewalk, but we appreciate a smart and funny woman who does.
We've seen and heard a lot of Michael Jackson in the past few years--enough, some might say, to last a lifetime. In the two and a half years since Thriller first thrilled us, Michael the megastar has authored more fashion and dance trends than Madison Avenue and 42nd Street put together. He's a record-selling titleholder of Guinness proportions; a crossover artist in its broadest definition, counting his fans among every race and generation. When you're as good as Michael is at nearly everything, we wonder where you find a challenge.
Every November, when we publish the Playboy Music Poll ballot, we're charmed that, unlike other polls, ours is fun, though it's not much fun to tabulate the results. Here's the fun part: the winners according to your ballots. For complete results, turn to page 144.
Which of the gentlemen above is the punk? Is it Frank "Frank" Sinatra, pride of Hoboken, Palm Springs and the National Republican Committee? Or is it Billy Idol, the bottle blond with the Mad Max look and the Presley snarl? We caught each of their acts during recent tours, and we took notes. Below, we submit our observations; you be the judge.
Huey Lewis and the News gave us the year's best Star-Spangled Banner at the All-Star Game. Lionel Richie led the collective orgy that concluded the 23rd Olympiad. Michael Jackson picked up his Lifetime Achievement Award at the White House. But, while the Reagan re-election team prodded, most rockers wouldn't help win one for the Gipper. Billy Joel declined a White House invitation. And John Cougar Mellencamp turned down Reagan's request to use the Pink Houses song and video, saying, "I didn't know whether to be more embarrassed for me or the President--obviously, he doesn't understand the song." Meanwhile, the Republicans saturated MTV with ads. The flap of the year hit when the rockin' Republicans discovered Bruce Springsteen. Drummer Max Weinberg invited George Will to a show, which resulted in a rave for the Boss in Will's column. Then Reagan praised Springsteen for his "message of hope," claiming to be a fan. At a later concert, Springsteen wondered aloud whether Reagan had listened to his song Johnny 99, which is about an unemployed auto worker who shoots his wife. Maybe Fritz Mondale said it best: "Bruce may have been born to run, but he wasn't born yesterday." Personally, we were encouraged when we spotted Boy George's campaign button.
A few words here on how a great monthly organ is put out. To get a focus on fashion, a small crew of us is dispatched to shows and showrooms across the country. We see what the manufacturers are making; we see what the retailers are going to be selling. And then we try to make some sense out of it all. That's the hardest part. Sometimes, this is a very strange business. If there's one direction that has come out of our market shopping this time, it's a trend toward very bright colors and very bold prints. And if there's one item of clothing that has come out of that shopping, it's the Hawaiian shirt.
Once again, fashion returns to the missionary position. The men who took the fear of God to the wild Hawaiians started by insisting on clothing the natives' nakedness. From basic work shirts, patterns soon developed to mark important times--birth, death, marriage, the tourist season. Now the prints cause a revolution. And with our help, everybody's wearing them.
In the now-famous words of an old friend of ours, "We love it!" Los Angeles has long been the sportswear capital of the universe, the place where no one serious owned serious shoes, the place where ties were just a nasty rumor. Non-Angelenos called it laid-back. True L.A. lovers called it the only way to live. Now that special style is about to have a very important influence on sportswear everywhere. The keynotes are a free-and-easy fit and a predominance of natural fibers. Hold the papaya juice.
O.K., guys, it's time to lighten up. The idea, in case it hasn't struck you by now, is that fashion is something you should have fun with. And while you're lightening up, try brightening up. Go for it, as the tourists say in L.A. Try a yellow-banded watch. It's fine. Trust us. Sporty accessories this season take their cue from the hot-flash colors of activewear.
The ease and comfort seen in this season's sportswear carry right over into suits and sports jackets. Tailoring is easy and ample, and fabrics add a more elegant touch. There's a lot of silk, blended with linen and wool. Texture is more subtle, too, with soft patterns of color predominating. You'll even see a soft sheen to some fabrics. Here are some shining examples.
Good help may be hard to find, but great help is here in the form of The Butler, a product from Total Computer Systems that answers the phone like John Gielgud while guarding your place like Charles Bronson--all the while responding to instructions in an electronic voice, using such phrases as "Yes, master." (Admit it: You always have wanted to be addressed as master.) Most important, everything The Butler can do, from turning the lights, heat or air conditioning up or down to recording coded messages on the answering machine, can be controlled over the phone. Thinking of catching the Concorde for cocktails in Paris tonight? Go ahead, m'lord; The Butler is in charge.
You say you've lined up a Baltic princess to share your big night on the town? When this vision of loveliness appears, do you doff your coonskin cap? Do you scribble the address of her winter chalet with a golf pencil? No way, night rider. Baltic princesses seldom make passes at guys who are classless--and she'll definitely equate your style with the elegance of your accessories. You'll impress more princesses with gold than with cardboard, and that's why the items here are more than pricy trinkets. They're reminders of your sense of style. What better way to light her Gauloises than with a tongue of flame from a handful of gold? What better way to take down her address than with an 18-kt.-gold fountain pen? Even if your princess doesn't make a pass, at least she'll want to get her hands in your pockets.