Saturday, February 18, 2012

Even Pigsfuck

Recently the market for sleaze has become something of an alien. All, and I do stress, of the markets for retail have soaked to the since-forgotten binary bone. This event makes bibliophiles like me near wet themselves, and their sheets, and their linens and things. The event has enough impact that it unearths certain resources previously nonexistent in their present form: where once was a maid, now romps a maiden. Housewives are having their computer-savvy sons and daughters (mostly sons in this trade) sell the dusty eternal libraries of their recently deceased book-hoarding fathers and mothers (mostly fathers in this trade), and at ridiculous prices. I can't help but be advised of the things pertinent to my happiness. Misfortune settles and yet I smile at the victory shortly following, and one is inclined to feel somewhat sneaky; indeed, the bedrock above which this business thrives, was conceived, and will pass away.

Sex Life of a Cop

We have eaten our own words since we've been able to speak. We have torn up our own script since we've been able to bind it, and continued to do so under many guises. Words hurt. Words attempt to hurt. And words do nothing. But in the early 1960s a sleaze kingpin, Reuben Sturman, would find his way to the iron cage, and he did it with a book called "Sex Life of a Cop." published by Sanford Aday's "Saber Books" subsidiary. There are a few representations of the case, which lasted 20 years or more, on the superhighway, and can be found with some ease, provided you get off at the right exits. At the book shows and fairs of my experience, I have never seen a copy, and upon further investigation, one finds that like many books this one had more than one printing. This was of course common with nearly all of the adult paperback companies, even the ones which weren't "adult." Prices were low to begin with, rose a dime every 8-10 years, and have held steady at Shitty. Or what seems to be that, given the fact that I can find a copy of a book I know to have worth for nearly nothing. Obviously I am not the only one doing research on this area of art, else I would not have discovered the wolf amongst my sheep.  The true first edition of this hardly naughty little novel, with not as much pork as one might wish save the brief effigies of law enforcement on the front covers, is as such: an angry beer-drinking low-impact police chief with a combover reprimanding his bewildered cadets, one of which has pulled his weapon (likely before the chief could pull his).
$350 - Very Good plus
Sex Life of a Cop
Oscar Peck
Saber Books number SA-11, 1959
 Who was Oscar Peck? A pseudonymous writer no doubt the brunt of the publisher's frustration, but yet the shining knight upon which their pride is balanced, enough pride to sent them to prison. That's where all the pride is right? Aday is the Ginsberg of the adult paperback world (they twist their beards and wonder who they'll let slip through the pearly gates one day), and aside from the literary importance of each title, I see no reason why a 1st edition of this title should not be considered with a 1st of "Howl" as contenders in circuit of World Heavyweight Champion of the Paperback Ring, along with such greats as Burrough's "Naked Lunch" and, oh who else?, maybe that one about the hot adolescent femme by that Russian guy, or maybe only everything de Sade had written. Many people saw the inside of a prison because of this very insignificant artifact. The law saw it as a direct slap in the snout, and Aday and his cohorts were not about to relinquish any sort of relish for their dogs to spread; also at a time when government was slipping already. Someone shot and killed the US president, civil rights was in, and so much destruction of past "norms," it only goes that some young fun punk decided to snap the suspenders of the fat cats down at city hall. Copies now are not seen often, and when they turn up they fetch high prices. With respect.
$50 - Near Fine
Sex Life of a Cop
Oscar Peck
Saber Books number SA-11
(third printing, Special Edition)

The second (actually third: the book was retitled shortly after publication, then with the approach of a more relaxed media, re-retitled to its original) edition was labeled "SPECIAL EDITION" probably anchoring on the idea that the general public was open to the recently unfolded court hearings and would be naturally curious and generous (they hiked the price up 60 cents, over a period of 8 years). The angry cop has vanished and a slick and innocent-looking police cruiser with sirens hushed and passengers reclined has resumed. The piggy pinks have left and the cool-to-the touch forrest colors or pride implant the scene:
the moon is there too, how quaint, "Oh nothing to see here, Officer." "All right, Chief, we're goin." "Now, where wear we? Oh I believe I was reading you your Miranda Rights." "Teehemmm! You're not going to pull out your night stick, are you?" "Get the fuck back into the car."
And the cop proceeds to fuck her. It is only to those events before hand that the consuming, and therefore impressionable, public were witness. Oddly, we stumble upon the subsequent "frisking" with the second edition. Important as well, is this edition introduces the actual court proceedings and results, with assumed names and places.

I am not going to guess at the cover artists for both of these editions, and can not attribute them to Saber's oft-commissioned, and GLORIOUS artist, Bill Edwards. His knack for curves and soft colors really presume a regal essence. The first edition, of the two, bares more in resemblance to the work of Edwards than the second, if with regard only to the shading of the figures. Edwards stuck to people too, mostly, like Robert Bonfils, Robert McGinnis, Robert Maguire, and many other Roberts.

This marks an occasion. The occasion is heard popping champagne and the glug of something else, a thickly clouded room of people in ties and button-down shirts and red dresses with lace and phonograph record players and lovely lamps and business men and greaseballs and hot housewives who would have sold this shit themselves had they a computer.

CURRENTS: Denise Bidot, Vanessa Lake, something cooking in the crockpot, and maybe the latest Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition.