Ah, February! Month of the wind chill, the snowdrift, the cold front. Just the time of year for some romantic warm-up. Hence, in plenty of time for Valentine's Day, the Love Issue of Playboy; think of it as sexercise for the heartstrings. Under the guidance of editor John Rezek, we offer an issue in which nearly every feature is on the complex, many-splendored subject of love.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), February 1989, Volume 36, Number 2. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: $26 for 12 issues, U.S. Canada, $39 for 12 issues. All other foreign, $39 U.S. currency only. For new and renewal orders and change of address, send to Playboy subscriptions. P.O. Box 2007, Harlan, Iowa 51593-0222. Please allow 6--8 weeks for processing. For change of address, send new and old addresses. Postmaster: Send form 3579 to Playboy P.O. Box 2007, Harlan, Iowa 51593-0222, and allow 45 days change. Advertising: New York: 747 Third Avenue, New York 10017; Chicago; North Michigan Avenue, Chicago 60611; West Coast: Perkins, Fox & Perkins, 3205 Ocean Park Boulevard, Suite 100, Santa Monica, California 90405.
Antoinette Giancana, star of our February 1987 pictorial Mafia Princess and daughter of the late mafioso Sam "Momo" Giancana, told us she's writing a book--a Mafia cookbook. Not surprising. After all, what was her dad up to the night he was rubbed out in 1975? Cooking sausages and spinach.
Nia Peeples is a triple threat. After a three-year run in TV's "Fame," she's now enjoying the success of her first LP, "Nothin' but Trouble," and starring in the science-fiction big-screener "Deep Six." This month, we put her to work critiquing U2's sound track "Rattle and Hum."
I can't get no Satisfaction Department: Reebok is said to be disappointed in Mick Jagger for wearing his Nike running shoes in public. Why? Because Reebok is sponsoring his Australian tour. Jagger has promised to wear Reeboks, but, as Keith could tell company spokesmen, Talk Is Cheap.
Eyewitness: Early William Hurt opposite a post-Alien Sigourney Weaver in an amusing thriller about a high-rise janitor who has a crush on a TV newswoman and finds the way to her heart through a murder. Clever script, complex characters from the guys who brought you Breaking Away.
Comic Gilbert Gottfried claims to have kind of beyond wretched love life to which most other funnymen aspire. Who better, then, to wax romantic on the perfect Valentine's Day videos? "For me, Night of the Living Dead is romantic because there are human limbs in it. OK, not all the limbs are attached, but I can't be picky. I thought The Texas Chainsaw Massacre was the feel-good movie of its year; but then, I always enjoy films about families." C'mon, Gil, aren't there any videos that tug at your heart a little? "I rented Love Story once. Ever since then, I hang out at singles bars and go up to the first woman who coughs. But for the most part, women like romantic films, men are into pure filth. Let's face it; when an actor and an actress kiss in a movie, women sigh, men say, 'Good, here comes the fuck scene!'"
Warm Up with Traci Lords: Yep, the formerly underaged porn star is back on video-this time in a bona fide exercise tape. Are her new routines as high-impact as the old ones? Not really: They were choreographed by Tanya Everett of the President's Council on Physical Fitness. God bless America (Starmaster).
Best It's-a-Coin-Flip Video:Eat or Be Eaten;Best Art-Instruction Video:Nude Beach Body Painting;Weirdest Special-Interest-Group Video:Clowns for Christ;Worst Fashion Video:TV or Not TV: The World of Cross-Dressing;Best "Let's Not" Video:Let's Tap;Best We'd-Sooner-Swallow-Arsenic Video:Take Time with Pat Boone;Best Sure-to-Be-a-Cult-Classic Video:English Irregular Verbs;Best It's-a-Living Video:Bread Dough Folk Art.
Bang Zoom!: Just when you thought camcorders were as simple as point and shoot, along comes the Hitachi gang with a VM-3150 model that features a snooping 1.5x telephoto lens adapter--and that's on top of a 6:1 zoom. Talk about getting up close and personal!
Yuppie Love makes the world go round in Working Girl (Fox), an assured and glitzy romantic comedy about sexual chemistry between corporate climbers. Melanie Griffith, playing an ambitious secretary from Staten Island, purrs it succinctly to wheeler-dealer Harrison Ford: "I have a head for business and a bod for sin. Is there anything wrong with that?" In Melanie's case, the answer is a resounding no. Ford, thoroughly engaging as her horny partner in a multimillion-dollar financial coup, seems to be turned on by Melanie's shrewd business sense--that alone may be an indication of the new way moviemakers are looking at women. On the other hand, the standard dressed-for-success ball-buster is played with fine flourishes by Sigourney Weaver as the boss lady whose skiing accident gives our heroine a chance to sneak in some take-over moves on her own. Sound familiar? Michael J. Fox bounced through very similar shenanigans in The Secret of My Success, a 1987 megahit. Here, while Kevin Wade's screenplay hardly lights up the board with originality, the formula still works, because director Mike Nichols puts some fresh spin on it with an all but irresistible cast. [rating]3 bunnies[/rating]
The tribulations of former Monty Python/film maker Terry Gilliam have been legendary since Brazil, which triggered his war of wills with Universal executives. His just-completed epic The Adventures of Baron Munchausen has been yet another ordeal. "Making Brazil was a dream; the nightmare came later," he says. "With Munchausen, it's been an agonizing seven-month nightmare." His litany of horrors began with a battle for rights to the classic. "We had to prove that the material was public domain, albeit the original was forty-two pages written in 1787 by Anonymous." The bad vibes multiplied on location in Italy ("We had a crew speaking four languages, and I'm totally inarticulate under pressure"), then financial backing evaporated, then shooting moved to Spain, where "African horse fever broke out and two highly trained dogs we were using came down with liver complaints. Then David Puttnam got fired as head of Columbia, and everything turned to rat shit." Doggedly optimistic, Gilliam is thrilled with his cast: John Neville as Munchausen, Robin Williams as King of the Moon ("an uncredited appearance" originally meant for Sean Connery), Eric Idle as "the fastest runner in the world, pre-steroid," plus Oliver Reed as the god Vulcan. "Reed's fantastic. If he doesn't get an Academy Award nomination, there is no God." During the worst of the Munchausen brouhaha in Rome, "Fellini used to come into the studio and bless everybody, crossing himself. My last night there, we had dinner and wound up walking around the Trevi fountain arm in arm. That," said Gilliam, "almost made it worth while."
It is always a good season for crime, but this month brings a particularly rich collection of transgressions to the literary docket. Joseph Wambaugh's The Blooding (Morrow) is a detailed nonfiction study of the first murder case ever to be solved through "genetic fingerprinting" (comparing DNA in blood or, in this case, semen samples). In addition to the historical and scientific interest of the case, it is told with such passionate fascination for the personalities, such careful unfolding of the investigative process that this book holds the tension and excitement of an imaginative police novel. A series of rape/murders and sexual assaults in the small village of Nar-borough, England, became the focus of a police task force that worked for five years before cracking the case. We are allowed to experience the lives of the victims and, later, their families with an intimacy that magnifies the horror of these crimes. Of course, at the heart of every Wambaugh best seller are his candid portraits of policemen and his knowledgeable step-by-step re-creations of police procedure. The British cops in Narborough and nearby Leicester are not quite as outrageous as the L.A.P.D.'s Choirboys, but their determined quest for justice and their peculiar brand of constabulary black humor are familiar.
Helped along by Hollywood, there was a more romantic time in our history, when an athlete wanted to excel because of love and the girl next door. Whether it was because the girl next door had big tits, we never questioned.
Dear Reader: I just want to tell you how much I love you. I love your mind. I love your heart. I love your soul. I love the silly way your nose crinkles when your favorite quarterback is sacked. I love those wackily soft triangles of skin on the top of your feet. I love the pattern the sweat makes on your T-shirt and your grunts of pain when you bench 225. I love your nostril hair. I love that vulnerable curve to the small of your back. I love the way you tell a joke, the way you soft-soap your mother. I love your high school-graduation picture. I love your love handles. I love you.
I have a problem on which I'd like your advice. I'm 29 years of age and single, and I haven't had sex for at least three years. Where I live, the women are nearly all married or engaged. Actually, I don't know many women, since I am kind of shy. However, one girl I know likes me a lot. She is about my age and lives with her parents. That's where the problem is. I know from the signals she gives when we are alone that she would make love with me. In fact, she has all but asked me to have sex with her. I'm the one who hesitates. Not that she isn't pretty--she's very attractive! I fantasize about her a lot, but I'm afraid to make a move. She has a big mouth! She can't keep a secret. If we were to engage in sex, her relatives would find out for sure. In fact, I might just as well tell them my intentions, because she would surely let the cat out of the bag. I'm afraid they would come down on me like a sledge hammer if they found out.
For many people--maybe for most people--the idea of legalizing drugs conjures up nightmare visions of a nation self-destructing in an orgy of chemical abuse. They presume that only they, and a few other sensible souls, could resist the lure of uncontrolled substances and would be doomed to live hunkered down behind barricaded doors--because even the police would be stoned.
Panicky headlines and national hysteria have, for nearly eight decades, colored Americans' feelings about drug use. We've been told often enough that legalization means license, that legalization means approval, that legalization means crime and chaos.
The Postal Service's meddling in mail--instead of merely delivering it--is by no means a recent phenomenon. The entrapment schemes described in "The Child-Pornography Myth," by Lawrence A. Stanley, and "Operation Borderline," by Frank Kuznik (The Playboy Forum, September), are simply its latest Gestapo ploys. For from its earliest days, behind that cheery façade of indolence and insolence, postal officials have been doing one thing efficiently: canceling civil liberties. The following is a partial litany of Postal Service offenses.
I would like to bring to your attention my concerns regarding the special report on "The Child-Pornography Myth," by Lawrence A. Stanley, and "Operation Borderline," by Frank Kuznik (The Playboy Forum, September). The authors of the articles misled your readers. I would like to set the record straight.
When Bob Woodward telephoned a source some time ago, the secretary who took the call thought it was Robert Redford on the line. Even the source--who knew better--hesitated when Woodward came onto the line, confusing the reporter with the actor who had once played him.
The Rules of the game during my youth were rigidly laid out. You invited a girl out three to five days in advance for a Friday- or Saturday-night date. You took her to a movie or a dance and then for a burger. On the third date, you tried to kiss her good night. If she let you, on successive dates, you necked with her in some semiprivate place, such as your dad's Chevy, before dropping her off at home. You began with French kissing, proceeded to general outside-the-clothes body fondling and, if you could manage to distract her attention long enough while trying to get her hot, on about the 17th date, you went for bare tit. Once you got bare tit (second base or "bare second"), you could try for third. If the girl was not "fast," that might occur around date number 34. From there on into home plate, it was largely a matter of how skillfully you could manage the mechanics of clothing removal and actual entry while coping with a gigantic steering wheel, a gearshift, passing motorists, inquisitive pedestrians, occasional tricky underwear, such as corsets or (God forbid!) panty girdles, without calling attention to the fact that you were actually aware of what you were about to get away with. As long as you could allow the girl to pretend that she was merely being swept along on a tide of passion rather than making a conscious decision to permit sex, the responsibility for what was happening wasn't felt to be on her shoulders. Once you permitted it to shift to her shoulders--and that generally happened long before you got to third base--there was only one thing you could do: attempt to convince her verbally of the logic, the naturalness, the healthiness, the goodness, the rightness and even the beauty of letting you shove your schlong between her legs. I became a master in my time of this type of verbal intercourse. I started using the technique long before it was necessary or advisable in the process of seduction and continued using it long past the point of diminishing returns--often losing the opportunity to score in the process. I began babbling about respecting her afterward when we'd barely kissed and continued chanting the litany of precoital rites well into bed--occasionally into the very act of intercourse itself. If the bodies of all of us overly verbal, ambivalent, guilt-ridden urban middle-class youths had been wired for sound and plugged into a P.A. system, the streets of our cities would have reverberated with thunderous choruses of: "Just let me sleep all night with my arms around you and I promise I won't touch you!" and "Just let me touch you there and I promise I won't go any further unless you want me to!" and "Just let me put the tip in and I promise I won't go in all the way unless you ask me to!" and "Just let me put it in all the way and I swear to you I won't come unless you beg me to!" We were nervous, sweaty and horny. We hungered for sex, yearned for it, had wet dreams about it. We plotted make-out strategy with our buddies, endlessly analyzing everything our intended had said or done after each encounter for evidence that we were succeeding or failing in our quest. When we struck out, we were crushed, beaten and reduced to a bloody pulp. When we succeeded, it was with a whimper of relief, gratitude and outrageous joy and, even if it was with a "fast" girl, we imagined that we were in love. In the late Fifties, we lay on car seats and our dates' living-room floors and made out to records that seemed to typify dating in that period: the Kingston Trio, the Four Freshmen, the Four Aces, Frank Sinatra; Dave Brubeck with Paul Desmond's saxophone doodling lazy curlicues around the melody lines; Jackie Gleason's Music for Lovers Only and Music to Make You Misty, with Bobby Hackett's faraway trumpet blurring all the old standards into sleepy sound-alike versions of Our Love Is Here to Stay. It was a much more innocent time. It was before the advent of herpes, AIDS, ticking biological clocks and the transmutation of premarital assets into the marriage community. What you worried about back then was whether your breath smelled good enough to risk kissing her, what to do when the arm you had around her shoulders in the theater went numb and froze, how to buy a condom without setting off a clanging alarm in the drugstore and whether the breasts you'd been furtively fondling through her cashmere sweater for the past hour might somehow prove to be falsies and reveal you as the schmuck of the century for not having been able to tell the difference. Although I lost my cherry at the advanced age of 23 and got married five minutes before the start of the sexual revolution, I eventually got divorced, and this magazine sent me on a number of assignments to write about orgies and sex clubs. Soon I'd made up for all the time I'd squandered on verbal seductions on the seat of Dad's Chevy. "Isn't it amazing how fast you can get to know someone really well by having sex with her upon meeting her?" I was fond of saying during that period. In time, I tired of orgies and sex clubs. I met a tasty young woman, dated her for a few years, married her and had a child with her. I'm glad I went to orgies and sex clubs, and I'm glad I evolved to other things. And I realize now, contrary to what I said at the time, that having sex with someone upon meeting her, far from causing you to know her well immediately, was false intimacy; it practically ensured that you didn't get to know her at all. For all its frustrations, making out caused you to get to know your partner well. It was also exciting and fun and, at times, achingly beautiful. I miss it.
The more we say about love, the less we have it pegged. How we fall in love, what we are like when we're in love, the nuts and bolts, the grand, impossible feelings--bright minds throughout history have tried to capture that slippery sensation.
For some of us, it happens once in a lifetime; for others, a few times. For many people, it seems to happen every Friday night. Regardless of how often it happens, one thing seems clear: Falling in love makes all of us feel good.
So you take this real zonzy young otter to the Four Cirques by cab ($5.50). Dinner avec wine ($185.85). Tip the maître d' ($10), even though he interrupted your most amusing anecdote with "Is everything all right, sir?" Cab to Phantom of the Chorus Line ($6.50), tickets ($100). Cab to some funkadelic disco in a converted reform synagogue ($7). Cover ($40), tip ($20) for the bouncer so both ear lobes won't have to be amputated from standing outside in 15-degree cold. Drink charge inside ($17.50). Go to the head (tip $2), come out and a barkeep in Lederhosen tells you your date left with Gino, this 19-year-old bass player whose childhood was all messed up. Home ($1) by subway. (Total: $395.35.) Drink that quart of raki your super gave you at Christmas. Sleep, fists balled up, wishing Mother--the only loyal woman ever--were still alive.
Where has love gone? Once you did straddle crunches and cable crossovers and pec decks to stay pumped up for her; now you couldn't break a ten-dollar bill. Your lovemaking together was laser tag and white-water madness--of late, it has been so dull, Ted Turner couldn't colorize it. "Whatever became of Great and Enduring Love? Abelard and Héloïse, Tristram and Isoud, Antony and Cleopatra--those people?" she asks you. Well, this is whatever.
The Sizzling Look of a man in sexy clothing is the fuel that feeds the fire of a woman's libido. And that effect is compounded when the styles he has slipped into are pleasing to the touch. The tactile pleasure of a cashmere sweater definitely is a head--and hand--turner, as is the sexy bad-boy look of an oxford-cloth buttondown shirt worn with the collar opened and the necktie loosened. Elegant formalwear also is seductive, especially a black-as-night dinner jacket and trousers combined with a crisp white wing-collared evening shirt. But, of course, the all-time favorite female bait is a pair of snug-fitting jeans stretched across a trim male tush. Get it on, guys.
<p>The More things change in the Eden clan, the more they stay pretty much the same--as pretty as American beauty gets. Almost 29 years ago, America's girl next door was Miss December 1960, Carol Eden. To find this month's exemplar of that famous girl-next-door look, we didn't even have to go next door. We stayed home. Daughter Simone Eden, you see, grew up. This month, we proudly present the first second-generation Playmate ever. "I couldn't be more proud," says Carol.</p>
Willard had heard so much about ice fishing that he decided to give it a try. He got all his gear together, went out onto the ice and started to drill a hole. Suddenly, a deep, resonant voice from above said, "There are no fish there."
Here's the scene: A normal guy gets up, puts on his suit and leaves for work. He's a brown-shoe guy, average in every way, regular as a traffic light. Up ahead is the office. He picks lint off his tie, glances at his beautiful secretary standing in the office window and starts across the street.
Last night approached perfection. Dinner at your discovery bistro had all the theatrical élan promised. The car wasn't towed. Cognac was sipped by starlight. And all that was a prelude to the main event, which was a bell ringer.
I think, hey, that can't just be mist rising over the Pocono Mountains this a.m. Uhuh. That is a sexual greenhouse effect, I bet: the steamy residue, the hot-air slag from 5000 passionate groin encounters last night. There is a sheet-lightning flash. And I say to Moompsie, my wife, "See? The atmosphere itself just discharged static build-up from what must be a higher concentration of orgasms per capita than any where else in America." You've heard about hitting your sexual peak? It's in northeastern Pennsylvania. That green, that fertileness is caused by enriching, hymeneal virgin blood.
This cruel world of ours sometimes brings us up against the big issues in life, such as: Who is that incredible woman, and how do I get to meet her? In this case, all we can do is offer a few clues; the rest is up to you. First, the lady's name: Monica Andrea Silvia Do Santos. A carioca, or native of that wondrous city Rio de Janeiro. She's a student and something of a linguist, speaking English, German and Portuguese. She also admits to being superstitious, especially when it comes to macumba, a kind of voodoo magic that comes in two varieties--black and white. Monica is a habitué of the hot Rio clubs Help and Jazz Mania, where, by all accounts, she is a lovely mover. Many people have been deeply moved by watching her. There have also been sightings on the beach at Copacabana. That's about it, Monica--wise. Maybe the next step is to think about flying down to Rio. Admit it; it makes perfect sense, especially at this time of year. Rio has the sun, the music, the sea, Carnival, Monica....
Women Crave foot massages. Many consider them justified rewards for enduring another day of high-heeled shoes--cruel footware that nonetheless enhances the curve of the calf and the perk of the butt. It's best to consider it your end of that visual bargain.
<p>Andrea Marcovicci describes torch singing as "I torture myself for your benefit." After years of acting on TV ("Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing," "Baretta," "Medical Center," "Magnum, P.I.") and in movies ("The Front" and, most recently, her boyfriend Henry Jaglom's "Someone to Love," the video of which is a Valentine's Day release), she is concentrating her energies on filling the Hotel Algonquin's Oak Room, Los Angeles' Gardenia club and Carnegie Hall with a growing following, which includes Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson. Articles Editor John Rezek caught her in Chicago at The Gold Star Sardine Bar and hasn't been the same since. They met later, appropriately enough, in the lobby of the Algonquin. Rezek reports: "On stage, Andrea is charming, witty, beautiful and rivetingly intelligent. Face to face, she's exactly the same, only more casually dressed."</p>
If you haven't done it already, now's the time to hang up the gold neck chain and retire any fat pinkie ring that might have crawled onto your little finger when you masqueraded as a used-car salesman last Halloween. Diamonds for men are today's hottest rocks, with diamond-studded dress sets (links, studs and vest buttons) and platinum rings set with natural-colored diamonds fast becoming the crown jewels of a man's accessory collection. Clarity, color, cut and carat are the four Cs to be considered when shopping for something set with sparklers. The last, however, is the least important factor. When it comes to his diamond jewelry, a man, for once, isn't judged by the size of his stones.