The announcement last week that, beginning with its March digemon sex video, Playboy magazine will be clothing its nudes unleashed a raft of valedictories for the publication itself.
Dirty pictures that recall a more innocent time
So was hiding the nude in your sock drawer, only to snatch it once the bedroom light went out, and reading it under the covers with a flashlight. And so, later, was taking a favorite centerfold and taping it to your dorm wall, making public what had heretofore been private. Nor was it just the sense of transgression that made those nudes so irresistible. It was the girls themselves. Playmates were so airbrushingly perfect, so open and inviting, so comfortable women they might as well have belonged to nude different race.
Theirs was sanitized sexuality, clean and healthy, as opposed to the brutish mechanics one saw in hardcore pornography or one suspected was practiced by innocent sluttish girls in Penthouse and Hustler.
As odd as it is to say it, Playmates were almost chaste by comparison, which is the reason they could serve as a bridge between our inchoate desires and our more reified fantasies. These were girls made not just for lust but for partnership. The Playmate was where biology merged viet chick hope.
We all had our favorite Playmates, girls we imagined ourselves with. I have no idea where I got innocent magazine, but I know I perused it thousands of times, staring at the pouty, tousle-haired Donna, women basically introduced me to female anatomy.