People ask what I do. I say write. They ask what. I say articles. They
ask
where. I tick off a few places. The Chronicle, Elle,
Self,
Seventeen, GQ… While all this seems enough to impress
the
person asking, invariably it is the following response that is the
showstopper:
Playboy. Yes, it’s true. Not only did I write for
Playboy, but
what I wrote – a profile of a centerfold (May ’94) – will, I’m certain,
overshadow any further achievements I might inadvertently make in the
remainder
of my lifetime. It’s true. I could say I’ve won a Pulitzer (I haven’t),
I’ve
written an award-winning screenplay (working on it), and my novel is on
The New York Times best-seller list (well, actually it’s
on the
top shelf of a kitchen cabinet). Wouldn’t matter a lick. I don’t care
if the
listener is a hardcore feminist, a drooling teen boy-man, or my Aunt
Barbara.
All anyone wants to hear is the centerfold story.
Well, I’ll tell you. But only if you hear out the whole story
of how it
came to be. Don’t think of it as preface, friend. Think of it as
foreplay.
It began in late ’92. I wrote to an editor at Playboy, asking
for work.
I like to think it was skill alone that caught his eye, but I have to
admit we
do have a couple of mutual friends in the business and that couldn’t
have hurt.
Peter’s response to that initial query (“I’ll write anything!”)
netted a
response suggesting I try submitting little things to the “After Dark”
section,
a collection of funny anecdotes.
My attempt at this – mainly taking the list of super-hot item titles
from the
menu at Thai Kitchen and suggesting they’d be great porn movie titles
(for
which I devised plots and theme synopses) was politely refused. I
decided that
Playboy was not my destiny and let it lay.
Several months later, when, for reasons totally unrelated to naked
women, my
life was beginning a fast descent from the hopper (where it had rested
comfortably for years) straight into the sewer, I encountered a bright
spot.
Peter the editor called and asked me if I would be interested in
reviewing
several “instructional” sex videos. You bet I would, I shouted in a
most
professional manner.
For the better part of a month, to the growing suspicion of my UPS man,
I began
receiving boxful upon boxful of the “helpful” tapes, discreetly wrapped
in
plain brown paper that virtually screamed, “This is a package o’
smut!”
When I had amassed around 50, I settled in for critical viewing.
Upon watching the 30th tape, I was forced to stop. I couldn’t function
normally
anymore. One day, my roommate arrived to find me sitting on my bed
watching a
couple float through outer space, copiously copulating, while some
British
woman read the Kama Sutra in the background. Oh yeah, I was
wearing 3-D
glasses at the time (they were included) to better help me appreciate
the
special effects.
By this point, nothing was what it was supposed to be anymore. I could
not mix
up tuna fish without thinking, “Where have I heard that squish before?”
A trip
to HEB filled me with fear. Would I get busted for thumping the melons,
scrutinizing the zucchini? Certainly I would turn down the spaghetti
aisle and
discover a naked couple in some exciting new position doing it to the
blow-by-blow “clinical” narration provided over the P.A. by the Cap’n
of the
seafood department. And back at home I worried that I would finally do
it: I
would plop my kid down in front of101 Dalmatians only to
discover too
late I’d accidentally put 101 Ways to Give Head in the VCR.
Though I stopped 20 tapes short of completing the task, certainly I
had
acquired an education nonetheless. The bulk of my learning came from
the
Better Sex series, a set of nine tapes advertised in many
mainstream
publications. Each tape starts innocently enough. Fashion criminal and
director
of the Better Sex Institute Steven Kapalo appears and waxes on about
his
dedication to sexual education, services, and products. That’s products
with a
capital dollar sign, folks. Because five of the tapes – the
explore-your-fantasy portion of the series – contain snippets of
numbered
fantasies. You have a chance at the end of these tapes to order the
full, uncut
fantasy. Get it?
Anyway, out of all my viewing, my three favorite scenarios came from
Kapalo
and company. There was the couple in Volume One who needed to spice up
their
sex life. These purported real lifers were a publishing magnate (she)
and a
commercial pilot (he). Someone had tipped me off that the “pilot” had
appeared
in a number of less-than-educational sex films. But so what, I thought,
even
pilots need pastimes, right?
In the segment, he has just flown in from Hong Kong and boy, are his
arms
tired. But his dick is wide awake. We watch as he calls her and they do
it on
the phone. Then they get together and really do it. Cut to a faux
studio and
teary-eyed testimonials, and who can help but feel not only educated,
but
enlightened and inspired as well? (Added bonus: I no longer fear
flying!!)
Then, in Volume 5, we have Sex With Animals. I thought,
“Bestiality?
No way! That stuff is illegal!” Back up. Look at the title again.
That’s
sex with animals. In this case, the beast in question is a stuffed
jungle cat.
A scantily clad babe gets off on the first thing that ever “saw” her
naked. Now
that she’s grown, he is her “leopard man.” Meowch.
But the creme de la creme (and pardon the connotation there)
is in
Volume 6, Fantasy Number 22. In “Lunch for Three,” we are warned that
plans to
try this at home should include paper plates. Cut to a couple enjoying
an
elegant meal in a field. She is his oyster, he is her breadstick. In
the
background, a violinist is struggling to figure out how his instrument
works,
no doubt wondering all the while where the hell the music is actually
coming
from.
Anyone who has seen any porn will know immediately, based on his
goofy hat,
his bad haircut, and his baby face (can anyone tell me why babyfaces
always
have the biggest breadsticks?) that it’s not going to take long for
this guy to
ditch the Stradivarius and start fiddling with his organ instead.
Sure enough, before you can say Annie Sprinkle, food starts flying.
And plates
and tablecloth, and finally, clothes. You can guess the rest. And if
you’re
like me, you’re thinking, “Try this at home? Geez, paper plates would
be the
least of my problems.”
I wish I could share more with you. I want the world to come and see
what I’ve
seen. The lingerie modeling between a couple of overweight, badly
tattooed,
badly made-up, middle-aged, overly hairy humans featuring a gold
lam�
Speedo-style over-the-shoulder leotard on him – Bukowski goes to
Frederick’s.
The creative vocabulary: his pelt of masculinity; the million-dollar
spot. But
you want to hear about The Centerfold.
For reasons I still can’t exactly pinpoint, that first story never
got
published. But Peter didn’t forget me. Again he called, this time in
late 1993.
Again I credited my deft writing. Again I secretly suspected some other
factor.
Like after reading what I’d sent before, he felt like he needed to
afford me a
therapist.
Peter told me that Playboy had selected a young woman from
Houston to
be the May centerfold. He offered me a job. All I had to do was fly to
Houston,
get enough information to briefly profile her, and oversee her filling
out the
flip side of the big picture, which for those who do not know is a
questionnaire completed in the Playmate’s own handwriting. Yes, that’s
right,
the bulk of my job was eliminating spelling errors, coaxing clever
answers, and
above all, seeing that her penmanship was neither too fluffy nor too
scrunchy.
In black ink. Medium point pen. In exchange, I got a hefty fee and a
most-expenses paid stay at the Wyndham Warwick, a place I recommend all
of you
visit once before dying.
Back then, I was waitressing occasionally at the Velveeta Room. Word
got out
(via my own big mouth) about this assignment. A certain comic – whom we
shall
call “Hank” – immediately began begging. He wasn’t the only one. I
really do
believe that guys really believed that if I would just take them along,
Shae
(as she was called) would step into my suite, take one look at my
companion,
strip, and – at least – begin posing. No dice, I told Hank, I already
had a
date named Roscoe.
And he had a camera. Not a Funsaver disposable number like Hank
bribed me to
take along, but a video camera. And with her blessing, Roscoe
videotaped the
entire interview. God, it was slow going. Draft after draft of the
questionnaire we would do a misspelling, forget a word, skip a
question.
Crumple, toss, begin again.
Though the raw footage could turn an insomniac into Rip Van Winkle,
Roscoe’s
eight-minute, edited version is pure genius. It begins with me on the
plane,
pretending to talk on the air-phone to Hugh, back at the mansion. Cut
to me
meeting Shae. Shae giggling. Me interviewing Shae. Shae giggling. Shae
writing.
Shae giggling. Me looking older and fatter than I otherwise would have.
Shae
giggling. Cut to Roscoe, apparently disinterested, sitting on the
couch,
reading the paper, the subtext screaming: what kind of man could
just sit
there? Cut to a close up of the paper, subtext now nodding
knowingly: Why
of course he doesn’t care about her, he’s reading Hi and Lois.
Shae
giggling. Cut to the completion. Shae holding up questionnaire and
reading her
answers. Cut to me on the plane, again chatting with Hugh. (Edit out
pilot
voice-over insisting all passengers – meaning me and Roscoe, the only
ones left
– must deplane now!)
Now I’m no Quentin T., but here is where I must apply the flashback
for you.
Because as it turned out, Shae was light but not stupid. And she was a
damn
good actress. We had informed her of Hank’s desires. When she held up
that list
of answers, she looked straight at the camera, and every response that
gushed
forth from those stung-by-a-hundred-bees lips of hers had something to
do with
H.
Favorite pastime? Watching long-haired Jewish comedians. Life goal?
To one day
get a date with Hank. Turn-offs? Guys who aren’t comedians. On it went.
It was
beautiful, Oscar-quality thespianism.
Back in Austin, Roscoe and I showed the video after hours at the club
one
night. The drooling comedians sat snug against the boob tube and clung
to her
every… well, they watched, anyway. Just as they began to lose
interest (it
was growing clear she would not remove her clothes), BAM, the
delightful Ms.
Shae went off about Hank. I lie not when I say that the man, no
stranger to
great humor and deep irony, chose to overlook these things and shed at
least
one tear as he embraced the fantasy and held it as true.
As I say, I doubt I’ll ever top the experience, at least in the eyes
of
others. Perhaps my gravestone should read: She Was in a Playboy Centerfold. Technically, it’s true. As for Hank, if you ever visit his
house,
step over to the TV, turn it on and hit play on the VCR. I guarantee
you that
tape is waiting, all cued up to his favorite part.
This article appears in May 12 • 1995 and May 12 • 1995 (Cover).