I'm aT IT again...

Back at it, the entire process of narrowing and honing and zeroing and compressing. The subject matter is always delightful, and even the hour(s) it might take to fulfill my mental hard-on is well spent. This time we climb the Everest of sleazy cover art, scale a few more miles upward, beyond the valley of desire and passed the small watering hole where possibly birds stop to sup, climbing and gasping for oxygen the whole way, until we reach our summit...or rather, summits. We may have lost a few along the way, succumbing to the elements of flesh, the dangerous curves and dips, the hot valleys where we almost lost our entire supply of H2O, ne'er a rag to sop our sweat, but the Gods of Grease and Lords of Lust were with us from beginning to end. This time they bring us to girls of gold, knelt Heathers, twin sisters from either side of the tracks, and a full-fledged innocent trapped inside a guilty pleasure. Tantalizing and titillating, our next group consists again of four top contestants, each with something different to offer, but all judged accordingly and unbiasedly. Judy Garland moves this moment along, as I type to "The Far Away Part of Town"...

Best of BREASTS FOR OUR GUESTS

$ 75 - Very Good Plus
Virtuoso Virgin
Alan Marshall (most often, Donald E. Westlake)
Candid Reader number CA936, 1968

The first thing to grab the viewer (I assume I can speak for everybody; perks of the position) is the bright color the artist (Darrel Millsap, called in to help Robert Bonfils fill the orders at Greenleaf) chose to offset the somewhat monochrome feeling of his central figures: a still effective black and white. Soon following is the outrageous, proto-pornstar outfit the white-haired hussy dons with a smile. If ever there were a more useful piece of lingerie, sought highly by only the prime of crab fisherman and aquaculturists, we'd be astonished. But it's clear how the stacked slapper keeps the local dredgers from snapping it clean off, the abdominal lace tied up right. The third thing to attract attention is TADA! the splendid rack, which not only captures our attention, but that of the two partying drinkers, as if the classy concubine knows she's the shizit and as if the dapper dude is telling himself she's the shizit. One gets the feeling these two know each other! One gets the feeling they're both happy to be at a pad with such fantastic wallpaper! One gets the feeling they'll both lose their threads after downing that pitcher of martini the virtuous vamp stirs, and perhaps she'll give his so-subtle sky-blue neckerchief a good tug! This cover has it all, from the sweet club Polo on "Steve," to the eye-white mane on "Susan," and the righteous curves "Steve" so lovingly holds onto. Witness the microscopic gumdrop leading us to the author's name in blue.  ALASKAN KING CRAB FEAST (on the house)

$ 75 - About Fine
Good Girl Bad Girl
Don Elliott (Robert Silverbeg)
Nightstand Books number NB1751, 1965

Two for the price of one! A quadruple-whopper double-whammy! Never has so much flesh been so Barbie-like! Our gumdrops are still present, even the black and white simpleness of the accessories, and the full color background. We can wonder if these two broads are at the same party as the two above, or modeling for a mustard-mopped photographer with an entourage and an undying smile. For your consideration, "Susie" and "Ruthie." To all those Susans and Suzannes and Susies out there, my hat goes off, far off and far-out, for you lovelies held many an evening session of masturbatory fantasies for the coterie of professional sleaze writers just trying to make it to the next bottle of Pernod. The two doppelgangers seem somehow sweet, somehow joyous of their precarious situation. Now we know what stiffened up the Tin Man so quickly at the Yellow Brick Road! A good girl and a bad girl. Take your pick. It seems the topmost girl has fallen asleep, and the lowermost is quite proud of her summits. Something makes the viewer yearn for more, as if the naughty knockers were naught but teasers, for what's happening below the waist gets the exocrine glands working overtime. However enticing the stems may be, the buds are always where the elixir sits, where we wait our turn to ask for but a nip at the flavor of life. That flavor comes from a berry with tannins of both good and evil. PS- I love the lowermost's pink panties. FOUR PINK STARS

$ 75 - Near Fine
Heather on the Lawn
Fred Malloy
Nitime Swapbooks number NS425, 1971

A book that took yours truly truly a while to procure. I say a while in terms of anticipation, seeing it in one place, letting it slide, and taking my sweet-ass (oh, and it IS sweet) time to find the only other copy available at the time; there may be another one on the market now, who knows. This "Heather" came to me under no preconceived notions about the art, just that it made my psyche rust solid like Jack Haley on his mettle (see any link to The Wizard of Oz, I won't provide you one). The first thing a seer sees is an odd light source, almost like the moon. It hits Heather's raven-black hair, it his her sapphire dress with the slinking-down straps, her bare calves and heels, and, most importantly, her chestnut chest with the peeking tan lines. I truly dig that Bonfils spends all of his energy on his starlets and the company just comes as an afterthought. But every inch of his art is as integral as the preceding and the proceeding. The two onlookers in director's chairs are having just as much fun as the two on the lawn, they even get to commentate. Witness the pink pretty's sneakpeak of white underthings! Envy the mustard-mopped man at the helm and his observation. A'hole matey! She could be nude beneath, she could not be. Let's speculate instead why she is smiling, how late it is where she is, who does their landscaping, and what nationality our Heather could be; let's leave this party for some bocce ball at another get-together, but let's imprint those tan-lines before we go. MOON MEDALLION

$ 20 - Near Fine
The Golden Girls
Kevin North
Playtime Books number 609, 1962

My last effort at completely womanizing a few selections from my collection of sleaze, completely bastardizing the literary world of illustration, completely kneeling before the cover artists and their models, I'M NOT WORTHY! I'M NOT WORTHY! - comes at a cost. I can not look at this cover without somehow wishing I was horse food. This is what actually happened when a superhuman being landed from the planet Krypton and was stumbled upon by a hapless farmer in a field in the middle West somewhere. The cost is not monetary, it's ancillary. The cost comes not from the wallet but from the gullet, and clutches the windpipes before asking if we're all ready to face the music. AND oh how convenient the wind seems to be churning the grains! Dig the red tresses, dig the long lashes and the boulder opals, dig the upside-down apex at the meeting of her back and ass, and reap the perfect shadow dead-center of our golden girl. These might be the healthiest mamms Bonfils have given history. Apparently this book is actually about female wheat harvesters and their "giant combines." By day they reap grain, by night they reap...well, probably cock. It's obvious what I recognize this cover with. GOLDEN GLOBE