Well I realize that I've been hypnotized...

 

A                                       |                        B                         |         C

 

D                                        |                           E                     |          F 

 
 

G  |  H  |  I

  |   J   |

A) "Bed Me!" - Bee-Line Book 302S, 1968

B) Follies - v13n4, November, 1969

C) Layout from previous, as "Jana Keene"

D) Jaguar - v3n8, September, 1968

E) Leg Language - [v1]n3, Summer, 1971

F) Layout from previous, as "Gypsy Sheila"

G) Mr. [Magazine] - v15n6, April, 1971

H) Layout from previous, as "Dianna Curtis"

I) Rapture - v11n2, Dec-Feb, 1973-1974

J) reprint photo, but similar to "Bed Me!" so maybe the original session was c. 1968?

Perhaps Elmer Batters' most dynamic model (after Caruska), Diane Curtis was undeniable for a few years, attaining high-allure status as both session model and cover girl. Sullivan overlooks the bouffant babe in his "Glamour Girls" encyclopedia, but through not fault of his own. She is not well documented in the first place: rarely appearing with the same name throughout her career, few current websites with information beyond a black-and-white photograph (guilty, guilty), and her professional career as a nude model seems to have lasted maybe 6 years (tops). This was typical haven chosen figure modeling for a career. However long the magic lasted, Diane's appearances are unforgettable, oozing charm and grace inside a healthy skin, purposeful tanlines, and an upstairs to lounge around in. She MAY have become a teacher once she left the photog scene, but dont waste your time hunting. Diane was adaptable and cute if anything, and the type of hardworking, cooperative model that photographers so often waste away looking for. 

Best seen: Diane as captured by Elmer Batters in color in "Leg Language," as a desert gypsy in heels, hose, and garters. She also did an interesting color layout in "Mr." with an unstoppable centerfold.

Miss Angelo's Nose

Whether compact hourglass dimensions, a formidable bust that, when bereft of silky support, appears to the viewer as two powerful beacons, hypnotic and only the prominence that supports the whole idea, an exact nose perfectly perky, or the brief and handcrafted lower limbs, Michelle Angelo is pleasant to admire from thousands of miles and several decades away. She took to nude figure modeling and eventually topless dancing supposedly to support a man through higher education...I admire that. Michelle made a handful of nude film appearances, some not always tame or innocent, and appeared in the raw in several hundred magazines (French Follies, Tip Top, Kingsize International, and more), on the covers of a few published novels (like Henry Sackerman's "The Crowded Bed"), and in countless photographs and their negatives...I admire that, too. Her ample breasts with built-in mocha lattes to quench our ocular thirst, and 40-25-35 measurements encapsulating a rather fit body, kept her cover-girl status in full effect for guess how long....only 2 years...abrupt, but admirable.

It's assumed that she modeled as a professional from 1966 to 1968, a period when it seems she painted the newsstand scene as her personal Sistine Chapel, but her likeness can be seen in published form as late as 1976 (on the cover of the Greenleaf book, "Ann's Boy Hunger," by Brian Laver). Miss Angelo was an immediate hit amongst breast men, and her openness to boy/girl, girl/girl photo shoots afforded her the chance to dominate other niche markets, like the leg-centric scene and the 'X'-rated film.

For years Michelle Angelo was disappeared from the world as what she flew into it, maybe raising a family, keeping a warm home, whatever, but she returned sometime in the 1990s to reconnect with fans (and there are plenty) but after some digging, I found that my only digging of the sweet munchkin was of her magazine appearances, briefly in slightly BDSM movies, and her various and sporadic book covers. If she has an official website, it's now extinct or incredibly difficult to find. No bother: her chapter in the biography of human sexuality is one of few pages, but of the purest and strongest impact.

Items pictured are owned exclusively by the author, being:
French Follies - v4n2, May-July 1967. Features 6pp and color cf of Michelle.
Ann's Boy Hunger - Brian Laver, Companion Book #4048, Mar 1967. Front cover solo, on lovely floral bedspread, mochas whipped.
The Passion Pit - Mel Howard, Brandon House #1135, 1967. Front cover with mysterious dude.
Dr. Make Love - Danny Land, Brandon House #1145, 1968. Front cover with a "Mad"man.
Tip Top - v6n4, May-July 1967. Front and rear covers and 6pp, from same shoot as Brandon House Books #1135 and #1145. Sweet, dig the garters.
The Crowded Bed - Henry Sackerman, Sherbourne Press, 1967. Front panel of the dust jacket, with two dudes.

Caruska-bunga Dude!

 

Before Karen Brown in the mid 1970s, the literally "Golden" girl with the 70+ inch chest who epitomized the meaning of plumper in erotic photography; before Kristen Andersen aka Darla Hood aka Susan Burton aka Smiley in the early 1970s, with eyes to die for and a superb belly (see my other post), a fantastically cute Polish model named Caruska broke the glamour and pinup mold. Essentially, she couldn't squeeze into it.

She is Matron Saint of full-figured models of Generation X. Fans of both Brown and Hood-Andersen need to dig a little deeper and soak up the jus at the roots. Dip that mental hoagie in a little Caruska! This cover from Climax [v17 n 10, Oct 1971] has proved to be one of her earliest mass-market photo shoots. Featured inside is a Keith Bernard black-white-color layout, and nude to boot! Her turtle is on-site, and likely the company is what drove Michelangelo to be such a party dude.

Even in horizontal pose her fullness is apparent, abundant you might imagine, to the point where two masses meet an opposing force and create a rift; dimples in surplus.

One notes the tiny feet. These tiny feet, couple with her well-formed thighs and calves, grabbed the attention of a fetish photographer named Elmer Batters, a gentleman looking for work and finding it at the ready in California. All the models went to California, notably Hollywood, to find work in film and inevitably wound around the fingertips of eager and hungry photographers as a means of breaking into the scene. Caruska was immediate eye candy to Batters, who found her at Pretty Girl International in Hollywood, the photog too exhausted from "call girls" who'd rather be screwed than shot. He'd hole-up at a motel, and indeed it was a capital M-Motel, where he could seed out his seediness, where his concierge would ring the local flesh (often the easiest of subjects to acquire), and he could grab his thing and shoot away. Batts paid them fifty bucks a day, so for the time and for a model hungry not only for exposure but for her next meal, it was fair.  Caruska was however hungry only for the exposure, and with such precious stores in tow, your author would gladly take shelter with Caruska and her healthy supply in any fallout. 

One can appreciate the fact that she was not shy, and relish in the product. With a seemingly perfect Rubenesque carving, hips and tan-lines purporting the tagline,"To Acknowledge the Divine is Relative, But Allow Me to Relate My Divination," Ruski subtly explodes in the development as we do, not so subtly.

Where the Shit are you, Caruschka? Does your turtle wade in Heaven's Pool with you, or are you raking in the pension plan benefits? Write me a letter baby, we can be pen pals. Wrap my birthday present in a stocking from the 70s, a bra from the 80s, submit your spectacles from the 90s, remit a flat-heeled slipper from ten years passed, and yours truly opines when we meet we'll be splashing with Michelangelo.

1996, Taschen Amuse-Guele, tiny book
with two gatefolds = awesome

What the Shit Happened to Susan, and Joyce Re-Visited

She's been Suzie, Happy, Susan, Darla, Jennifer and Kristen. I first met Darla on the cover of Jaguar magazine, August, 1974, and have been hooked since. A simple hunt for "Darla Hood" will naturally end in unrequited surplus of the "Our Gang" dame, cute handful for Alfalfa and the rest of the boys. This here dame has been written up under a bevy of different names, as was wont of most nude models,  and the trend still continues. Big Breast Archive is a well done website about...that's right, boobs. They list this luscious doll first as Darla Hood, and supply an ample dose of images, including one of the author's favorites, so make your way over to that site and take a guess which one.

These images come from a couple of different publications. Jaguar, obviously, was a great magazine with erotic comic strips, tons of nudity, and represented the 1970s in rather astute fashion. Susan was probably the "healthiest" model, but there has not been enough research on my end to solidify the fact. Enough hip bones and one starts to wonder, so I clutch to my breast the August issue, and cherish it a bit more than other issues of the almost-monthly (9 issues/year).
My attention is first drawn to her hips, and to my pleasure, the bones within are hidden most efficiently by just the right amount of hours spent on the sofa (or in the tub!) with a pint of pumpkin ice cream. Then the rest is taken in, beginning with her eyes. Those eyes, a soft brown behind a curtain of big black lashes, likely pasties, set her apart; quite the inspiration for any eager photographer, and had I been I would never have strayed the course, like Russ and Eve in the 1960s. The 70s was a good decade because it introduced to the world the magic of chubby women...cellulite in celluloid, baby! Susan/Darla helped usher in the first part of the ten years that would define modern pornography, with help from her other plump pretties, like Karen Brown (more on her later), and made it possible for modern starlets now, such as Samantha Anderson, Dors Feline, Carmella Bing (later Bing), even Terri Jane.

Darla's far-out booty (I believe you mean, "Apple Bottom"), sturdy limbs, and long black hair culminate into a sweet package, one FedEx can deliver to my door any day.....sure I'll sign for her, do I need to tip you for the extra weight? Her breasts must measure somewhere in the E-F range, and I'd wager she tipped the scales at around 200. Her smile was something at which one could attempt to shake a stick, but fail hopelessly. The slight misalignment of some of the large front teeth, two full incredibly pout lips, and a little ditch in her chin, not unlike those others her frame displays, give her a soft demeanor, and hell, playing with all those bubbles helps out too. She may have been dealt a kiddie card here and there, but it's subtle enough to not be blatant and crude. Not a bad deal for such an addition to the up-and-coming interest in large[r] women. Even with all this going on below the neck, I think the meat of my captivity, like a spotted cat in a cage, has to do with her eyes. Yeah, they all have fun, but Darla wants you to know it's okay if you watch her have fun on her own. I do not get the "come hither" at all from this lady, sorry Darla if you were sending me those signals, but your peepers speak in different ways. Candy Samples did it, tons of Burlesque dancers did it, and few do it now, but those pasties seem to make a world of difference. I yearn for an image of Darla without them.

My second brush with this bush came in Hanging Melons, volume 3 number 3, copyright 1988, but I believe the pictures are from the 1970s, as that was her prime decade. Another lovely color photo, and she works the garters so well, with that gleeful smile and pretty full muff, and a bellyful of pudge to die for. Ambiguous titles like Hanging Melons makes is hard to find exactly who is who, as many of these types of adult quarterlies were composed solely of nameless gams and hams. Darla is featured only once in this magazine, and it's a shame. Her melons are even hanging! Mary Waters, not technically a chubby woman, makes an appearance or two here as well, her melons well on the line to dry.

The most recent encounter with Susan Burton came just the other week, an issue of Night and Day from 1974, October. Night and Day has always helped the horny male, but after their large scale format of 20 years prior, stuck to more nude photography and cheesy stories. Still, the mag managed to produce some choice models, and Susan Burton is no fly-by-Night floosie, never spreading her pussy or holding her ass cheeks apart, and was content on honest erotic photography; no hardcore stuff. She pushed her tits together on occasion, but that's as far as she went, and I admire that. The black-and-whites here are from that N&D issue.

JOYCE RE-VISITED...
she's so sneaky.
Featured on cover only.

What the Shit Happened to Joyce?

She's known, or was, as Gabrielle and Joyce and Joyce Spaeth and Cherie Pinegar and Joyce Grable (trying to evoke another glamor girl?) and the list probably goes on. Pre-XXX and XX and X publications (mags, books, film), the models used their real names or perhaps a stage name, and the names generally varied by way of adjusted spellings - see Betty Page, Bettie Page, Betty Paige, and even as Gaby. But then the "artist's handbook of models" become "Busty Babe" with not even a wink to the photographer or the possibility that the customer might actually be an artist for art's sake. So a few years after the blowup of pinup and fetish models, straightforward soft- and hardcore glossy-cover magazines saw light. Magazines the size of magazines! The digest day ended. Black-and-white was still in, and today virtually only in fashion magazines, but the use of color photography to really illustrate all the contours, shadows, freckles, moles, stretch marks and hair follicles to the prospective artist began to take hold, and this issue of Parliament's "Busty Babe," volume one number two, is a perfect example. But who is, who was Joyce? For the money, five bucks for nearly 130 sets of breasts and almost half as much cooch, Joyce, a Denver-ite, was one of the shapeliest of the 1970s solo pinups. Maybe she was a pinup on the pegboard toolbox walls of auto shops. Maybe not. I pin her up here. We don't know a lot of the career of this well-endowed half-Native American woman, nor much of what came before and after said career. I have only seen a handful of publications that might possibly have an image or two of Joyce/Gabrielle/Cherie, but this particular Parliament issue has to be her single best contribution to the world of nude photography. Suddenly I ponder the statistic of nude photography preference when presented with professional, well lit but mood-lighting lit studio photography of elegant nude models, and professional, daylight-lit comfort of your own house kind of studio photography of exaggerated porn-star prototypes. A head nod goes to Candy Barr for the legit prototype, though. Fun fact.

Digressing, most of the photographs in this issue are black and white, and many of them show the pocahontas with headband and long dark hair. Thankfully, the producers left out the bow and arrow bit. This is one of the more accessible shots taken of the hot, slender squaw. 

Tan-lines were in, obviously, and the contrast really motivated the soul of the black/white still, and really punched with color photos. Joyce's negative spaces hold true, but somehow stir her aura of Native American mother-type into So-Cal beachcomber. It's the thought that really counts. Joyce knew what she was doing, and she knew what the trends were of the affluent tit and ass models who stop short of hetero-homo coupled photo shoots. She was solosexual. The best ones were. Another Joyce who came a short while later began solo, and gradually went over the fence, and is a good example of the evolution of the solosexual. But why mess with perfection? Make some flatbread, jewelry and shawls, don yer headgear and strip down to the stockings and make a few dollars. Surprising is the method of appearing and disappearing with such haste nude models of the 70s and 80s employ. 

So what happened to you, Joyce? It seems you packed your envoy, your tipi, your clay pots, your pelts, and skipped settlement. You picked some flowers along the way to remember your territory as it was yours to own, and promptly laid to rest any further development of your career, maintained your throne's host and kept your jewels straight. You left the place cozy, and blessed the couch and the foot of the fireplace with your ass and the sky with your boobs, and set a bar for successors to reach, other pocahonti, other Joyces. How could you leave without saying, well...you said enough. More than, perhaps. With a full pair, a bellybutton sometimes AWOL, and perhaps the best legs of your era, cowboys have been spurring their steeds numb. 

The magazine purports to have interviewed the buxom Chippewa, with selected quotes, stating her preferences in the opposite sex, the usual semi-autobiographical "I like men to play with my..." type of responses. Near the tail end of the journey, and indeed the flipping pages became like hunting for the three rings, Joyce says she likes to take care of her man, pamper and even mother them. There's some esoteric fetishism I will not be blogging about. Perhaps her strong Native upbringing on Roosevelt's grass-hewn buffalo prairies instilled within her the Mother of the earth. If Roosevelt had seen Joyce sitting she-style, wrapping a child's braids in agate, horse hair and pipestone, he would have left a few bulls alive. 

What the shit happened to you, Joyce of the Mother Earth? You flew the planet and left your own globes behind. And now too, like buried artifacts from so long ago, specific tools for specific purposes, we find you on our solosexual archaeological dig. Honey, we dig.

*all photos courtesy of my android and a (now) rainy weekend afternoon. If you or someone you know has any information or material regarding the model represented, feel free to contact me.

Paul Rader and His Curves

I am referring to Isaac Paul Rader, the illustrator/artist, and not to Dr. Paul Rader, or the evangelist. Isaac Paul Rader was a Brooklyn native and one of the youngest (age 16) artists to have work exhibited at an art museum. He studied instruction in Europe, came back to the US to get married, and began finding work in the periodical market. Redbook, Family Circle, and a slough of men's magazines throughout the 1940s and 1950s helped the man keep his family in bread. This work, often only a two-page spread of maybe an illustration in white and another color, blue or black or gray or red, would have slightly more meaning to the story than his various paperback covers. The hardcore Rader fans, including his daughter (who collects material related to her father), know which periodicals contain his illustrations, what they might be worth, and why they are important. For the average Rader fan, including those for whom sleaze paperback collecting is a hobby or a compulsion, most of the found work comes on the covers of Midwood paperbacks, a publication out of New York, and an imprint of Tower Publications. For an in-depth biographical, and bibliographic(al), account, see Lynn Munroe's Paul Rader checklist.

There are a few things one notices about Paul Rader's paperback artwork, upon initial observation: the subject matter tends to have great depth, the backgrounds are usually one-color backdrops (reminiscent of early color erotic photography), the subjects themselves are usually women...women exuding a mysterious power over you, the observer, or her male counterpart, if there there happens to be one. Often Rader covers  portray a few women, all with stellar bodies and cute faces, although some can be said to radiate a Black Widow-type of eeriness. Another great aspect to the covers, at the least with the Midwood titles, the publisher allowed his artwork to retain his signature. I can think of a few others to whom was granted the same respect: Robert Maguire, Robert McGinnis (rarely), Barye Phillips, Rafael DeSoto....on another note, Robert Bonfils covers almost never display a signature, and one is left to wonder, however with a relative ease as Bonfils stuck to a few publishers. Thankfully, Rader stuck only to a few publishers during his tenure in the sleaze market. Midwood ranks as the publisher with the most Rader covers commissioned, ORIGINAL covers that is; many other publishers had Rader redo the art from Midwood for their "adult" novels. Midwood generated "adult" themes, but more "adult" language and situations adorn the later Rader paperbacks, notably those publications after 1970. For a tasty selection here, I have chosen a few Midwood titles, some I consider to be some of the greatest work by Rader and contenders for great covers of all time. I might tackle that topic another time; I might not.

$ 75 - Near Fine
Pretty Puppet
Dallas Mayo
Midwood Books number F-371, 1964

Referring again to depth employed by the artist, Rader's skin tones give credence to his mastership, perhaps the best of the "realist" paperback illustrators. Here, we have two lovelies, and the expected bland background. Maybe this was a tactic of Rader's, to help draw focus to the tits, the lips, the eyes, and the hair; all great components of a truly erotic Rader cover. Regarding the eroticism of Rader art: to me it seems the man had a uniquely elegant respect of women, chose models to fit his educational expertise, and viewed erotic situations with a sense of humor. With "Pretty Puppet," I am sure the lady up front, perky as hell and slim-hipped, is the bait, and a great feast she is. Afterwards, when you have taken her all in and enjoyed each shadow on her arms and face, and the cute blond curls that incline you to speculate her age, you notice thin blue lines, and they lead up to another delicate hand at the helm, somehow controlling the hot blonde's every move. I like this cover quite a bit, for its bold colors in shadow, its composition which works its magic like Houdini, and its almost theoretical and subtly bondage-themed elements. I view this piece as a Rader variant; straying from the normal "lady with boobs, a hungry dude, and maybe a cigarette or two." This cover plays with the imagination and self-implicative responses more than a lot of other Midwoods, more than a lot of things. Rader knew what a collar bone was and what it meant to the looker, he knew how thin women's fingers were but also was aware of their complete exactitude, and he was not afraid to make the looker mad with arousal, showing everything up to that which makes the looker mad. A lesbian-esque novel with a lesbian-esque cover which beckons the question: does she dance for her or for him?

$ 50 - Very Good plus
Campus Kittens
Joan Ellis
Midwood Books number 32-417, 1964

The red head here (is she the one with the reins on "Pretty Puppet"? my eyes say yes, my heart a hard NO) is possibly my favorite Rader female. Not sure if it's the towel, held mysteriously in place by what? a safety-pin? Yeah...I keep my bath towels secure that way, too...... chip clips work as well, dearie.... or if it's the long red hair this campus cat works, or those killer hips that lead me to believe that in another life I was that towel. She might be the curviest Rader dame I've seen, and he has given the world some curvy fuckin' dames. These twists and turns take you on a ride similar-tho-different from that romp given us by Maguire, McGinnis, and Bonfils, not to mention the really sleazy artists, Eric Stanton (dangerous curves), Eugene Bilbrew (murderous), and Bill Ward (playful and purposeful). The only thing against this cover would be the two other lasses in the background. Yes, the leg up in thigh-highs is nice. Yes, the feline with the short black bob making herself comfortable, in true kitten form, in a mountain of pillows is nice... oh, to be a plush Harem throw pillow! The red background helps against the yellow letters in the title. All of these are nice. But gimme a cover with that rusty wren dead-center, no title text, leave the Midwood club at the top, and leave the other kittens out, and I'm set. The artist's use of light is no ghost here, it's in full regalia, and ready to spank your eyes. The cups on our kitten are enough to give  us spastic arthritis in the hands, but I think, and I might be jumping from a height previously unjumped, I think the hips here are the real peanut butter. They make the whole thing stick.
PS-notice the lack of an "R" or "Rader."

$ 75 - Very Good plus
The Cruel Touch
Alan Marshal (a good chance Donald E. Westlake)
Midwood Books number F-259

This cover is examined on the sole basis of it creepiness. Rader attacked the look of a women in a way it made the reader scared to even hold the damn book, but he did it sparsely. This might be the surest representation of a Black Widow from our artist, the black locks, the thick, THICK lashes and eyebrows, this bitch wants to hurt someone or something. Luckily, the target of her anger, lust, and degradation, has been caught in her web, and she's about to sink in her fangs. To discern her happiness is difficult, and to discern her prey's, more so. Is he about to administer the lucky tongue of death? Is she checking for ticks? A true Widow wants a clean kill. Admittedly, this cover does not turn me on. I dig her cans, and I dig her dress, and her sweet lips, but her jawline and her cringing fingers do frighten me. Not saying a woman can't take control once in a while, in fact it's suggested, but a woman who wants a slave is not my bag. The rear cover does a bit more for me: "The eyes were glowing hotly and her pale-skinned body seemed to be throbbing. 'I want you to do something dirty to me. Something filthy. Something wild.'" Anything you say, my Queen.

I dig Rader. I dig him a lot. I dig his women, his situational humor, his attention to detail otherwise unseen, his precision. The women are always round in the right spots.

CURRENTs: Alexis Texas and Cassandra Cologera, "Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow," Pantera. 

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"