Happy Easter

Sometimes things turn up when you least expect them to, and in this case it was a 4 x 6 inch black-and-white photograph found on eBay that triggered the notion that I had forgotten to call my girlfriend. That photograph that turned up on eBay is here too, a reprint. The woman looks oddly like Margaret Nolan aka Vicky Kennedy, but it could easily be someone else. Still, fun fact.

On-Call Wife
Andrew Shaw
Nightstand Books NB1835, 1965.

4 x 6" photo reprint of image
likely  for use in illustrating
 "On-Call Wife" by Andrew Shaw

Lawrence Block, that perennial name in modern literature, who seems to pump a book out every so often (more than not), wrote his share of sleaze and it's been confirmed he wrote as "Andrew Shaw" on occasion. Witness "On-Call Wife" by Shaw (this being one of the unconfirmed Block-Shaw titles, artist unknown): what looks like a kinky tryst into wife-swapping, and "buttocks" is about the risque-est term in the tome. Can you believe they actually banned this stuff?

*images scanned from items in the author's collection

Soft Taco Supreme

Sometimes the clouds open when I least expect them to, making way for the soft and cold sun to peak through, and bring my mug of tea from its scalding attitude to an acceptable pleasantry. The phone rings and the voice happens to be that of an antiquarian and rare book dealer in Florida. He happens to have good news pertaining to a collection of books possibly obtainable at a good price and, the content of this material is home-run, all-ten-pins, skipping-the-surface hole-in-one, from a reputable source. "Oh yeah, what's that?" "Some books I think you might be interested in." Right away I feel warm because this dude thought of me when he thought of or came across this particular collector's stash. That young lad needs a sword, I know just the smith to do it! I imagine him saying. This post is dedicated to that rare Floridian: one who, in a state nearly surrounded by water, opts for the dream to operate a business dependent on paper. It's called balls, and I think he's got some to spare.
He turned me on to some books with a lesbian theme, and this post will retain that theme with sleaze, discovery, and hidden reality. My collection is not Lesbian-heavy, and to sift through it for titles and covers I THOUGHT to be in the right was relatively easy, and quick. Easy and quick=the motto for all the characters involved in the titles inhabiting my shelves. They lead easy lives, and when life comes round to rear its greasy mug, they seem to care only for their chances at shagging next. They lead quick lives, and when the wording slows down the lucidity of their perversion, it is inevitable they are only pausing to inhale big and deep before returning to their post. Lesbian titles always seem to lean more towards shock, seriousness, and thought posing. The cover art generally has a woman or two (or five as in the example below) with a look of denial, uncertainty, or subtle intrigue, and hence invoke more imagination than say, nearly every early sleaze title (that period when the market shifted from "Lit to Clit"). Here are a few that have me scratching my head, and thus at the chance to feel the ashamed dykes, the confident 3rd sex, through dimly-lit night reading, the side of the coin upon which it stands upright.

$35 - Very Good
Crest Books number s336, 1959
Barye Phillips, ca. (cover art)

Here are two novels by writers who began in the smut business and have gone on to pen some fantastic, literary crime novels, ranking with the best. Lawrence Block and Donald Westlake are synonymous with early sleaze, roughly before the 1970s when both careers would hail-mary in another direction, a direction quickly becoming a good market for quickly earning money (it seems they never left their eagerness to fill their pockets either, from slime to crime. Block's first novel came in 1958, after a stint of studying lesbian novels and venturing his own take on such (then) taboo topics. Whether he chose "Lesley Evans" at the suggestion of his editor, or due to a lack of confidence in the first go, I dare not speculate. I know that Block wrote under a squadron of pseudonyms, like so many during this time, so the surprise that he chose to pen this one behind the curtain is softened. This novel came at at time when, I deduct, publishers were wondering how to market a Lesbian novel: legit or kitsch? Barye Phillips lent his skill for the cover, however timid (Crest-equals-timid), and the colors and light sources at elegant. The woman in the foreground in pink is dreadfully cute, and her little bob bouffant gives it way. That and the women behind her clutching her shoulders. It warms my heart to know that Block was not as paranoid as Salinger. He kept writing even when the cover art to his books was, maybe, not great. I enjoy the confused gentleman Mike in the background, doing what I do when I discovered Block's baby in my booty. As with many stories in this guise, the plot deals with forbidden sexual preferences and coming into them (and coming out!). Girl moves to the big city, finds a man, then a woman, in a bar (likely Greenwich Village, where a lovely homeless dude pointed my way one day to a small little Jock Joint, to my surprise). I actually bought this from another collector and blogger (Wordpresser). 

$ 75 - Very Good
Monarch Books number 232, 1962
Harry Schaare, ca.

Along the slime tunnels in strange and outcaste lands, tunnels leading eventually to worlds of crime and violence, blood and guts, psychological thrillers and demonic killers, Donald E. Westlake put his words where they would do the most damage, like Lawrence Block a year before him, in 1959. He first penned as Alan Marshall, and the Edwin West name came a bit later. The two writers even published a few novels written in cooperation. This one right away admits that the content contained within its Harry Schaare muralist covers is not condoned by society, and those kinds of headlines really boosted the market (as well as other key phrases, like "First Publication Anywhere"). Again the gals have short, wavy hair, and softer features with gentler costuming and makeup. Is that Marilyn Monroe in the background? One could hope only so much as when confronted with a Robert Maguire cover. Realism is not stressed and instead the impact is reliant upon composition. Schaare has a way with a woman's hair much like Rader, but more in the line of varied colors, less effectively using black levels and more effectively implementing the natural hues hair might presume after a lifetime of sun and fun; witness the blond with a beach towel (it could be a bath towel, I suppose). Both cover artists are, like Maguire, proud of their work in the field, and display thick black lines somewhere subtle yet prominent enough, almost as if to say "For a good time, call Schaare" or "Rader was Here". This novel takes place in and around New York, Greenwich Village a staple.

$30 - Very Good
Midwood Books number F-142, 1962
Paul Rader, ca.

Ever the wizard behind the curtain, an editor at Midwood wrote some novels under the name Sloane Britain. She wrote a book for Beacon Books called "The Needle" about a bi-sexual woman, and a heroin addict at that. Talk about killing two birds! Or, the more modern, double-fisting the world of smut. Erika Hathaway is a psychiatrist (which is good for sleaze, as opposed to psychologist, because it introduces yet another "tag" like so much fodder for alt-paperback publishers of the era: drugs), and women come to her with their confusion...and pent-up sexual frustration. Determining their problems only exasperate her inner turmoil, and she falls headlong like Alice down the rabbit's hole. At hand, Paul Rader's take on the stereotyped short hairdo of from the isle of Lesbos couldn't be better. And, I love Rader hair. His approach to contour is unmatched in the pit of depravity. Being an advocate of cleavage, I couldn't be happier with this cover. Double the fun, as the patient in white gives us the best of both worlds. T and A have never been better represented in one specimen. The scale of our two ladies might be slightly unbalanced, but the interest shown by the butch in the foreground satisfies the bruise taken by our hearts at the despair of the blond in the hindground. Britain struggled with her own sexuality, and her family's denial drove her to suicide. This title was later in her career, towards the end of her life, and was not as poignant as some of her earlier lesbian novels.

$ 75 - Very Good plus
Leisure Books number LB-1195
Robert Bonfils, ca.

To bring this to its knees, and kill this post, I've included this little number, a brilliant contender with wonderful, yet again, Robert Bonfils cover art. Mechanisms abound and, ever the satirist, he denotes the lovelies with perky tits, pouty lips, and vivid wigs. Bonfils could handle scale, and keeps all our honeys well balanced. The nipple on a vintage paperback always arouses more than the penis.  It awakens the passion to discover America and the disappearance of Puritanism. Perhaps none better than Bonfils (maybe Bilbrew) to help that pachyderm across the sky, at once opening a mountain of clouds, and dispelling sun and eyeshadow and lipstick on Dumbo's flapping ears! The nipple made it's first paperback appearance, I believe, on a book called "Helen of Troy," but doesn't receive its full glory until the middle of sleaze production, just about the time hardcore material ran rampant. This represents another tone to lesbian sex, and more hardcore. Vaginas are more aptly described, "cock" is seen on more than one occasion, as well as "stroke," "snug," and "spurts," with threesomes enough to fill a boat, a tugboat. That machine, and the only publication from this era I have seen so blatantly portraying sex aids, this being a penatrative example, has more than one setting, and even seems to have an audio track (see the tape spool extreme left), and entices more than just its operator. A cult of experiments surround the first victim, ready to whet that whistle. I will always love Bonfils and his attentive use of humor, light, bright colors, and curves. These gals, like Bilbrew, have winding contours that make my knees tremble, and plug in my passion for smut. A curse and a blessing.

Here's to that rabid Floridian, taking a cue from that beacon bright in the night sky on the sea of smut, and sending a Land-ho! my way: Make ready, the isle of Lesbos at the bow! Hoist your topgallant mast!

You Assed For It...

Narrowing down the best of something, in a collection of a ton of great somethings, can prove quite daunting, and upon the opportunity one might have to undergo such a venture, the notion to turn back tends to introduce itself. Over the last few days I have been combing through my collection of vintage paperbacks looking for those with a certain something. I have narrowed down the collection into a few groups, which I feel any collector or figure in the trade would understand and would consider of interest. Or maybe I did it because I have too much time on my hands; not enough hours in the day before sleep-time to really get in all that the imagination has to offer, so the journey is stretched to a length of more than 24 hours. The groups I have chosen are based solely on appearance, which is premise for the blog, emotional attachment, the feeling imbibed, and artistic presence (prescience perhaps goes here too, as if the artist could tell someone would one day Get Off to their work, with not so much as one leaf turned). Each group is deserving of it's own blog entry, and today happens to be a day for it. This group was analyzed first due to a few things: the ease of determination seemed quite attainable; the group consists of a smaller number of titles, and perhaps I decided to begin this series alphabetically. So, with nothing more to mess with, nothing left for you to ponder but what is placed before you, I give you...

Best of ASSES FOR THE MASSES

$ Not for Sale - Near Fine
A Doctor and His Mistress
Orrie Hitt
Midwood (Tower) Publications number 38, 1960

A splendid cover, however uncredited, though I am considering Barye Phillips a prime suspect. Everything about it screams Barye, from the lusty mistress's lusty gaze, to the thin outlines of the figures, to the lazy background and the gentleman doctor's curious mug behind a cigarette. One can surmise that the horizontal redhead with the glass in her hand has either just had sex or is ready to be having sex. The doctor's guess is as good as mine, as any. For a professional whose job it is to be certain, this guy seems pretty unsure. Maybe he is trying to decipher the ginger's ever-subtle grin, here actually utilized more by the eyes than the lips, or maybe he is struggling with the fact that he knows he should be making eye contact, emitting at least as much as the woman before him, but his eyes actually fixate on that curvaceous rump under that satiny gown. It's probably a negligee. Don't let that scalpel slip! This red devil is indeed curvy, as evidenced by just a smidgen of breast peaking from under her left shoulder, and the degree of arc displayed by her right buttock is enough to stymie Thales of Miletus. Does she want you, Doctor, to look at her directly, or to follow that shadow of a spine down to the perfect little impression at the top of her ass? Does she want you, Doctor, to say something that'll make her shimmy a little on the sheets? Would she like you, Doctor, to light that cigarette, take a few manly puffs, and saunter over with a heir of empowerment? No, Doc. She wants you to refill her Chardonnay and is willing to wiggle until the bottle turns on its VACANCY sign. GOLD STAR

$ Not for Sale - About Near Fine
The Swap Exchange
Mitch Stanley
Adult Books number AB486, 1969

 Another item I find totally unique amongst paperback covers. Yet again, a business professional and his eager, glute-laden maiden setting the sexy scene in what would otherwise be a family-friendly environment. My goodness, what big cans you have! All the better to freak out your clients, Mr. "Boss of the Year." This guy is indeed decorated, as if his awards are enough to merit this young bonfire (another red!) and her current position....as secretary. Maybe not his secretary, but given her glasses, her pencil and notepad, and her willingness to go nekett as a jaybird on her boss's desk: dead ringer for a secretary. What is it about a woman's rear that gives a man the urge to bring something long and slender up to his lips? Is he projecting an action in hopes that his subliminal (even to him) message is retrieved and sought to ecstatic fulfillment? Here it seems to be working, as she too holds the proverbial Phallusopher's Stone to her lips, giving the potential reader a hint of what's inside (the book). The artist here, again uncredited, and I DO NOT venture a guess, and let's let the artist remain wonderfully, fantastically anonymous; the artist here has created a work of bravado, one that surely placed in a line-up with other similar deviants would cause the assailed to gasp, then regain composure, then smirk in interest, horns zeroing in. The subtle placement of the pen holder is not as key as the shadow under her left cheek. The colors are soft enough on the skin, and sleazy enough on the accoutrements. Thigh-highs go along way in the world of sleaze, and they go even longer with they are fish-netted. This secretary can not be much older than 23 or 24, is clearly a runner, and oddly without proportions. Were she to stretch her legs fully she'd appear like something from the Mattel toy company. Still, the ass here is unavoidable, and why should it be? The most effort put into this painting was applied directly to those glorious haunches, and with stunning effect. ----P. S.: When the term "swap" is introduced, you can be certain the content is far more "adult" than others, and one can generally agree that the publication date of said book is after 1965. BLUE RIBBON

$ Not for Sale - Near Fine
Sin Gallery
Dead Hudson (popular house name)
Midnight Readers number MB430, 1962

We have this fun little minx, no thigh-highs, no annoying bedspread to deal with, no businessman in a suit gnawing a pretzel rod eyeballing her. The "professional" in this episode is a painter, and the "heart-shaped" doll so elegantly performing her best yoga stance is the painter's model. I think maybe the only artist not to sleep with one's models was Bob Ross. But with a model like this, how could one not? The proportions here might be a bit off again, but this is overlooked with ease, as her legs are to die for, and the possibility she might actually be putting those panties back on is overwhelming. Black heels make a nice partner to her black du, and the continuation of her left ham above the silk completes the piece. The use of shadow helps to illuminate the idea that she is a painter's model, and the outreaching hand could indicate a suggestive way for her to reposition (or is it the wandering grabby meathook of one of the painter's womanizing art collectors?). Judging by her face, I'd say the observer is probably someone less than favorable. But hey, if it's for money! If it's in the name of art! If it means getting to the next meal! By the looks of those hindquarters, our little tart is eating well. As a part of this group (Asses for the Masses) it really shines, but double-taking those limbs, I am settled with another thought, another group, another model blog post. Here it's an educated guess that the cover art is by H. W. McCauley. BEST IN CLASS

$ Not for Sale - Very Good Plus
On-Call Wife
Andrew Shaw (a good chance Lawrence Block)
Nightstand Books number NB1835, 1967

Finally, and probably the one I have most attachment to in this group, the cover I call "the yellow one." The time it took me to procure it is unheralded, and with reason. It's entirely rare, a term booksellers and bookPEOPLE like to throw around without much research or knowing why or how it should be used. This book is rare. Rare does not mean "the only one ever to be seen;" it really just means "only one to be seen by only a few people." And how many of those do you think are around? There are many books that can be considered thus, but only honestly by people with the knowledge (and balls) to delegate. I delegate this one. Even in its crude style, there's more seat here than Oriole Park at Camden Yards. This is the most fun anyone has had playing Musical Chairs! Thigh-highs go a long way in the world of sleaze, even longer when accompanied by a pair of Cabernet-colored panties. Mr. Green Jeans here is ready for somethin' (about which nobody knows), and even the IT girl on the kitchen chair is not acknowledging his presence: she seems to be watching you, Doctor. Perhaps the party they are at is a swinger's ball, or a bachelor party. The yellow backdrop is perfect and does its job, the purple boxers just a hint of which are seen, and the red scarf/garment/tablecloth held by our bottom-heavy beauty are all in-sync. The proportions are correct, save popeye's forearm, and never has the expression "heart-shaped" held as much. ONE OF THOSE PINK VALENTINE'S CHALK HEARTS THAT SAYS "BE MINE"