Penthouse USA, 1977-03

PENTH

THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE FOR MEN

THE BREAKING

OF A PRESIDENT
SHATTERING THE WATERGATE MYTH

HOW’S YOu

WASHIN
SEX, SIN,

“MARCH 1977 $1.50

Suddenly from Datsun:

Asporty car with everything but

Exit dull, sluggish economy cars. a 5-speed transmission which
Enter Datsun's spicy _ works like overdrive. So it not only
& : 2) 200-SX. Sweet- zips easily around traffic, it saves
ag handling. Tasty wear and tear on the engine.
ra appointments. And About the engine: it’s the 2-liter
{no bitter price to single overhead cam kind. The kind
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a Sports Car price.

Extras, yes. Extra cost, no.
- AM/FM multiplex stereo radio
- Stee] belted radial tires
- Tachometer
> Fully reclining bucket seats
- Cut-pile carpetin
+ Electric rear inet defogger
- Tinted glass
- Electric clock
+ Sporty 5-speed gearbox
+ Power-assist front disc brakes

These and other high standards are
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4 PENTHOUSE

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Enjoy the pleasure of discovery.
Mix your club soda with white rum from Puerto Rico.

Some of the peopl <NOV Not all
are still at the gin or vodka stage equal. The run
But you've just discovered white
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White rum combines with club substitute for agin
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you consider that white rum is you can keep rediscovering.
aged, while gin and vodka are not. PUERTO RICAN RUMS

Rums, Dept. H-20, 1290 Ave

SHERE HITE
vy
‘

K
A

. %
«}\*

Pat Hill

fe

JOF TREASTER NICHOLAS VON HOFFMAN

HOUSEKCALL

Pundits, philosophers, and people on the street have all had their
say on Watergate, and it boils down to this: Richard Nixon was a
thieving ratfink who was trapped by the investigative genius of
Dustin Hoff—sorry, Bernstein and Woodward—and was extermi-
nated by the “good guys" of the Democratic U.S. Congress. And it
all means The System Works, Justice is as American as apple pie,
and Good will ultimately triumph over Evil. Right? Wrong! says
Nicholas von Hoffman. A// the President's Men is lots of fun. but the
real reasons for “The Breaking of a President” (page 46) have yet
to be discussed

This is the first revisionist look at Watergate, and it's a block-
buster. Von Hoffman looks at the underlying forces behind the
ousting of Tricky Dick and exposes the scenario for the most
orchestrated bum's rush in history. As he sees it, Deep Throat and
the Washington Post's performing dogs were only the tip of the
iceberg

Controversial columnist von Hoffman, most noted for his inci-
sive, provocative writing in the Washington Post (he is also proud
to be the American correspondent for the London Spectator), says
that he began to smell a rat “when | looked at the mass-media
chorus—| mean, when everybody, from Jack Anderson to Nelson
Rockefeller, is singing the same hymn, watch out!

“But don't get me wrong. Nixon was anerd,” von Hoffman states
categorically, “I didn't like him. | was perfectly happy to have him
thrown out—he was a menace on wheels—but the reasons were
all wrong. It's much easier to see Nixon as this total, implausible
villan—the American version of Adolf Hitler. Then there’s no need
to examine the underlying political structures,”

These underlying structures are the bread and butter of people
like Chuck Lipsen, professional lobbyist. Lipsen, man about Wash-
ington for more than twenty years, shares the sometimes comical,
sometimes shocking incidents ne experienced while catering to
the government's elite in “The Power Brokers” (page 70)

My mother has never introduced me to her friends as “my son,
the lobbyist,” says Lipsen. “| can't say that | blame her. Being a
lobbyist has long been synonymous in the minds of many Ameri-
cans with being a glorified pimp.” In an excerpt from Vested
Interests (Doubleday), written with Newsweek national corre-
spondent Stephan Lesher, Lipsen answers the questions you
couldn't ask in civics class and recounts the hilarious incident of
the drunken senators, the dilemma of the nonorgasmic congress-
6

PENTHOUSE

C5,

DON IVAN PUNCHATZ EDWARD SOREL

2
o
€
3
=
=

woman, and the ordeal of the high-level hideaway.

Since sex obviously enters into every area of human experi-
ence, let Penthouse be the first to ask you about your sex life: “Is
having orgasms important to you? Would you enjoy sex just as
much without having them? How do you feel about making thrust-
ing movements into the vagina? Do you feel that sex is in any way
political? What do you think of the ‘sexual revolution’?” These
questions, and many more (seventy, to be exact—see page 92),
come from Shere Hite, author of the bestselling Hite Report on
Female Sexuality. Now Hite is taking on men, and she wants you to
answer these questions in order to “break down stereotypes of
sexuality so men can define for themselves what they feel
about sex, instead of trying to measure up.” The answers will be
published in a forthcoming book and in Penthouse. Everything's
confidential; so get out your ballpoints and start scribbling. Now
you can let women know how, why, and when you like it

Turning from the fires within to more external blazes, this month's
exclusive interview is with New York's only millionaire fireman,
Dennis Smith. In an incandescently candid talk with New York
Times reporter Joseph B. Treaster, Smith chats about his early
days as a heroin dabbler, his career in the firehouse, and his
meteoric rise to fame and fortune via his two bestselling books,
Report from Engine Co. 82 and The Final Fire

Another meteoric success story is that of Stephen King, author
of this month's chilling fiction feature, “Children of the Corn” (page
64), a tale of terror set in the cornfields of Nebraska, where the
children of a desolate and deserted town have their own terrible
version of the fear of God. Twenty-nine-year-old, mild-mannered,
Maine resident King is the father of two children and three blood-
curdling novels: Carrie, ‘Sa/ern’s Lol, and The Shining (all from
Doubleday), “| guess I'm a macabre sort of person,” King admits
shyly. The story is brilliantly illustrated by the celebrated artist Don
Punchatz

Another artist-in-residence this month is Yan Khur, a visionary
sculptor with a delightful, eroto-humorous sensibility. Knur’s cap-
tivating sculptures appear on page 94

As a parting shot, we'd like to introduce our readers to “Parting
Shot,” a new feature designed to enhance Penthouse's ever-ex-
panding reader appeal. We will regularly be presenting the work of
one of the nation’s top cartoonists, who will tickle your funny bone
(wherever it may be) and impart a dose of political insight so
necessary to the personality of the compleat modern man. This
month's shot features Edward Sorel, whose biting perceptions
shock readers of New York's Village Voice every week

And naturally, to put that March wind into your sails, you won't
want to miss this month's gorgeously arrayed, abundantly en-
dowed bevy of beauties. O+-q

Fact: Ifyou’re concerned
about smoking, you should
know something about gas.

You might not know it, but cigarette smoke is
mostly gas—many different kinds. Not just ‘tar’
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And despite what we tobacco people think,
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Read the pack. It tells how

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MOST
‘600 RECEIVERS
SOUND AS GOOD
AS THIS ONE.

©US PIONEER ELECTRONICS CORP, 1977

ae

The average
~ $600 receiver sounds as
aa as the new Pioneer SX-650
until you start listening to prices.

If $600 is your kind of price, an SX-650
should qualify as your kind of receiver. Not
only will it give you the kind of features and
sound quality youd expect for that kind of
money; it'll also leave you with roughly half
your receiver budget unexpectedly unspent.

But suppose your idea of a receiver
price is somewhere under $300' The SX-650
will sound better to you than‘anything you
thought you could afford. Because it has
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distortion, and far greater versatility than
most other receivers in that category.

It’s a fact that the SX-650 provides
a continuous power output of 35 watts per

“i #6

> » min. RMS into

: Bane rai fon) 000 Hz,
with no more than 0.3% total harmonic
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and voice at its intended level, balanced
within +0.3% of the RIAA curve.

The facts of its stereo separation,
Selectivity and sensitivity must really be
experienced: sometimes only hearing i is
believing.

You'll also be impressed by what yOu
don't hear from the SX-650. You won't hear
the thousand miscellaneous acoustic devils
that live in the limbo between FM stations
on lesser receivers.

On your next visit toa high fidelity
dealer, listen to a Pioneer SX-650 with any
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Youll find either its price or its
performance amazing. Depending on which
you hear first.

ORPIONEER

U.S. Pioneer Electronics Corp., 75 Oxtord Drive, Moonachie, New lersey 07074
‘For informational purposes only, the SX-450 is priced under $300.
The actual resale price will be set by the individual Pioneer dealer at his option.

PENTHOUSE

10

PENTHOUSE

PEN THOUS

F GDEEUBAN

in which editors and readers discuss topics arising out of Penthouse, its contents, its aspirations, and its areas of interest

Letters for publication should carry name and address (in capitals please), though these will be withheld by the Editor on

request. Send to Penthouse Forum, Penthouse International Ltd., 909 Third Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022. Views published
are not necessarily endorsed editorially

Chicken lickin’

| have been working at a local franchise of a
fast-food chain for over a year now. Last
month an event happened to me that
changed my whole outlook on this job. My

| friends have always kidded me about what

the girls and | do in the back room when it's
not busy—which is often the case during
winter. Well, one night the temperature and
business were absolutely zero. Because of
this the manager left early, leaving just the
night girl and me. Before this | more or less
didn't even think of getting any action with
the girls here, let alone Kelly. Kelly was the
night girl on this particular night. and she
had a reputation as a cockteaser. But on this
night she proved how wrong such rumors
canbe.

| was sitting in the back room, reading a

| Penthouse, and unconsciously had been

rubbing my hardening crotch through my
jeans, | hadn't noticed, but apparently Kelly
had been watching me for a while. Suddenly,
she said, “Enjoying yourself?" and | almost
fell over backward in the chair. She came
right over and started looking over my shoul-
der, pushing a firm, braless tit against my
back. But almost immediately she reached
down and began rubbing my crotch with her
hand. Then quickly unzipping and unbutton-
ing me, she brought out my now-glistening
cock, And dropping to her knees, she pro-
ceeded to wash my cock with her tongue.
She ran it up and down the shaft, then she
licked my balls, and then she went back to
the head. I'd never had a better blowjob. She
then abruptly quit, got up, and said she'd be
right back.

She came back in less than a minute—
completely nude—with a chicken leg and a
bottle of barbecue sauce ... She slapped the
sauce all over my cock and started blowing
me once again. While she was licking and
sucking me, she was using the drumstick on
herself. I'd never seen a girl masturbate; so it
was very exciting to watch how she did it

She started out slowly, just rubbing the
outside of the cunt with the leg, then she
inserted it and sped up to a fast, thrusting
pace, Watching her masturbate and having
her blow me was all too much for me, and |
shot my wad. She took every drop | had to
offer and then licked up the rest of the
barbeque sauce. When she was done, she
looked up and said, “That was finger-lickin’
good."

But she still had not been completely
satisfied; so | laid her back and took over
with the chicken leg. | rammed it up and
down her cunt. She was groaning and
moaning while | kept it up. With each thrust!

could see her squirm with pleasure. It didn't
take her long. before she came, and her
orgasm seemed to last well into two min-
utes. As her love juices trickled out, | licked
them up from around her pussy and ass
hole; then | gobbled down the chicken leg.
Since then we've done it two more times.
The second time she used the barbecue
sauce on my cock while | used gravy on her
snatch, and the last time we both used some
mashed potatoes. We figure we'll be able to
do it at least one more time before business
picks up; so we're thinking about trying the
coleslaw. —Name and address withheld

Happy birthday, baby

My girl friend, Mary, and | share an apart-
ment in Anchorage, Alaska, and the night
before | left to work on the pipeline at Valdez,
we went out to dinner and later went to PJ’s,
a bottomless go-go bar (at her request,
because she was Curious).

As we sat watching the show, the subject
of my birthday came up, and she asked me
what | wanted for a present. | pointed to the
stage and said, “See the young one on the
right...2" She said, “That's pretty sexy; I'll
see what | can do.” Well, we both laughed
about it, and | said, “Well, you asked me!”
and | soon forgot about it.

Well, last Saturday | flew into Anchorage
to celebrate my birthday, and after picking
me up at the airport and driving back to our
apartment, my girl friend said, “Your present
will be here tonight." | still didn't give it much
thought—just another birthday present.

About a half hour later, we were just
talking and having another birthday drink
when there was a knock on the door, and
Mary said, "That must be her." | said, "Who?"
and she said, “Your birthday present.”

Mary went to the door and returned with a
girl who was tall, slim (but not too slim),
beautiful—and with eyes that showed her
approval when Mary introduced me as “the
birthday boy.” She was young and delicious.

Mary apologized for not getting the
dancer | had pointed out, but she said that
she was only nineteen and that it was her
first professional job. | could hardly believe
it, but my cock must have, because it was as
hard as the permafrost we have up here.

Mary gave me a phone number and asked
me to call her when we were done. Smiling
devilishly at me, she went out the door.

| felt a little awkward, and the girl was
obviously nervous, too (which made me
think she wasn't a professional—or at least
was a very new professional). We had a few
drinks and some small talk, and soon we
were botn very relaxed. Finally, | said, “Well,

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The Smokey Mary

We never dreamed when we first enthusiast, do pace your drinks.
launched the Smirnoff Bloody Mary Try to remember that where there’s
it would become a global classic. smoke, there's fire.

That doesn't mean, however, that To make a Smokey Mary pour
most folks know how to make a 1¥2 ounces of Smirnoff intoa

really good one, or even care to bother. glass with ice and fill with tomato
One fellow we know “cops out,’ as juice. Add about a tablespoon of
he says, with the Smokey Mary. barbecue sauce to taste, a squéeze
“To put the bite in, | just add red of lemon, and stir.
barbecue sauce!’ A capital idea, for
those who hate to fuss.
If you should become a Smokey Mary leaves you breathless®

i elon closed with the naked North,

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ight it out—yet the wild

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Jack

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al pof Imported Liqueur
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| wa

why don't we go into the bedroom?” She
smiled, and | took her soft hand and led her
into the bedroom.

| can't describe the feeling as she slowly
stripped the clothes off her long, slender
body and, getting in bed, molded her young
body against me. She held me tightly, as if
afraid, but her body grew warm and pliable
as my hands explored her Her kisses—
tender at first—became wild as she opened
her mouth and sucked my tongue as my
hand found her pussy. As | moved my mouth
down across her flattened but hard-nippled
breasts and into her belly button, her body
began to shake in anticipation. By the time |
got to her clit, | was surprised to find out how
small her pussy was. | was able to cover the
whole thing with my mouth as | sucked and
licked her. In the meantime she had twisted
around and was working with tender nips
and licks on my eight-inch cock. Soon she
pushed hard against me with her sweet little
pussy, and she came once in a long, low
moan.

But seeing that | was still hard, she reposi-
tioned herself below me, between my legs. |
looked down into her eyes, which were
smiling up at me with a pouting, hungry look
as she moved her mouth forward and
sucked me slowly back into her mouth. It
wasn't long before | shot a load into that
tender mouth that had her gulping to swal-
low it all. And all the time she was looking
into my eyes, loving every drop that filled her
throat.

We had both been asleep for a few
minutes when we heard the door open, and
there was Mary. “Jesus Christ,’ she mut-
tered, “they've been at it for two hours,” and
she turned and went into the living room.

| suggested to the girl that we ask Mary to
join us, and with her approval | went in to get
Mary—who kept saying no until the girl
came out and said, “Come on, Mary, it's
really good.”

| took Mary by one hand, and the girl took
her by the other, and we all went back into
the bedroom. Mary sat at the end of the bed
as | laid the girl down and spread her legs so
Mary could see. “Have you ever seen such a
small pussy?" | said and, spreading the lips
and smoothing back the sparse hair, held it
open for a couple of seconds. Then after |
could tell from Mary's expression that she
had gotten a good look, | began to eat the
girl while Mary continued to watch. | soon
heard a moan and looked back at Mary, who
was rubbing herself (her dress was hiked
above her waist) and was having a hell of an
orgasm.

Mary left us alone then, hinting that it was
time for her to go, although | had the feeling
she wanted to stay all night. So the girl and |
fucked until morning.

When Mary came back in with breakfast
for three on a tray, she whispered, "Happy
Birthday!” and held me close. | said I'd never
forget this birthday, and the girl smiled and
said she wouldn't either.

Later | thanked Mary for the present, and
she said, “Every man should have a nine-
teen-year-old on his forty-fifth birthday. Next
year I'll get you an eighteen-year-old””

| never thought I'd say it, but I'm actually
looking forward to my next birthday—and
evento my fiftieth’ — TB, Valdez, Alaska

With a fourteen-year-old? Shame on you.

Amorous Astrologer

Your “Amorous Astrologer" by Martine is
incredible. | have never been one to see any
sense in the Zodiac signs, but Martine has
been calling the shots with amazing ac-
curacy. —B.WH, Titusville, Fla.

Sorry state of feminism

| found Anne Roiphe's essay (December
1976) to be more an example of the “Sorry
State of Feminism” than a cure. As an early
and enthusiastic supporter of feminism, as a
father of two children with three years’
househusbanding under my belt, | know of
what she speaks. Yet, having been through
the wars, | no longer give much credence to
feminist attempts to define masculinity in all
its varied manifestations. Roiphe speaks of
the “women's movement needling] to do a
lot of work on redefining the meaning of
fatherhood.” A number of years ago that was
what the feminists, rightly so, were scream-
ing about—male attempts, in many of the
“women's” magazines, to define mother-
hood,

Most liberals look upon this present peri-
od of conservatism as one might look upon
death before a firing squad. It is possible,
however, to view this time in American

history in positive terms. Quite unroman-
tically, we are painfully discovering the
validity of many old truths—truths about
ourselves, our spirits, and our bodies—
which had to be challenged so that the
killing dust of complacency and conven-
tionality could be cleared away.

There are things deep inside a person that
are hard to know and seem to become
preposterous when spoken about in the
tational form of the essay. My wife is now
900 miles away, working on a Ph.D. degree,
so that in two years we might hold a dual
appointment and indeed “share respon-
sibility or ... lead lives that give to others
without total sacrifice of one’s own life-
style’ Our hopes are rather ideal, but will
they be the solution? Will such expecta-
tions bring, at last, the millennium of peace
and love between the sexes? | doubt it.

There are those things deep inside, hard
to know. My wife, not long ago, expressed
great anger and anguish because | had
“stolen” the children from her. She claimed
that they loved me more than her.| nested for
three years as the househusband, but the
activities did not sit quite right with my body.
They remained alien. Although | functioned
well enough, men range; women nest. |
know the principle sounds ridiculous in
print; but it’s there in the blood, and we need
to start listening. Men, it's time that we took
the term “chauvinist" and wore it with
honor—like the American revolutionaries’
acceptance and reversal of the term

r

“Mama! Janet is performing fellatio!”

MERI

‘Enriched Flavor proces
100mm cigarette with s

Only MERIT has the ‘Enriched Flavor’ process. A way
of packing tobacco with extra flavor without the
usual boost in tar. L

MERIT created a whole new taste standard
in low tar smoking.

Now that same taste science has
produced a 100mm cigarette.

MERIT 100’s.

Only 12 mg. tar.

Yet smokers actually
like the taste of
MERIT 100’s as
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Kings: 9 mg: ‘tar,’ 0.7 mg. nicotine—
100's: 12 mg! ‘tar;'0.9 mg. nicotine av. per cigarette by FIC Method.

E h
Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined 1r1ic €

That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health.

5 applied to new low tar
riking success.

Test Data Conclusive
New 12 mg. tar MERIT 100’s were tasté-tested against
a number of major 100mm brands ranging from
17 mg. to 19 mg. tar.
Thousands of smokers were tested.
The results: overall, they liked
the taste-of MERIT 100's as much
as the higher tar 100mm
brands tested.

The taste barrier
for low tar smoking
has been broken again.
MERIT and MERIT

MENTHOL. King

Size and new 100’.

© Philip Morris Inc. 1977

“Yankee Doodle.” It's time that we let our
rage out and fought back, no longer accept-
ing every statement of the woman's move-
ment as the gospel truth. | seem to remem-
ber Stokely Carmichael speaking of “armed
love." More dialectic, more tension, is
needed to work this all out.—Name with-
held, El Paso Tex

U.S. secret police

It is to be hoped that the article, “America’s
Secret Police Network” (December 1976)
will be read and taken seriously by young
people. If not, they and their children: very
likely will be goose-stepping

Hitler did it. And Nixon's crowd was well
on its way.

Our freedoms guaranteed in the Constitu
tion and the Bill of Rights were bought with
blood and sacrifice. And unless young
America gets off its duff and controls the
police above all other public servants, the
time is here when law enforcement will
blossom into a deadly Frankenstein.

Educated connivers and opportunists—
along with the wives of politicians, old
maids, and limp-wristed “community plan-
ners"—are outthinking most of the nation.
But young Americans should know that they
can control any element of government, €.g.,
recalling mayors who are afraid to cross
swords with the chief of police.

Police today can retire with “permanent
disability” caused by straining their back
bowling. Police demanding more from the

cities in pay and fringe benefits are to be
seen on the picket line—carrying their guns.
Police are found guilty of frauds, of accept-
ing protection money, and of theft

Police need as much watching as does
any other element of society. Nay, even
more. Or you relinquish your society to their
ilk. —R.M.R., address withheld

Apig an'a poke

My wife and | enjoy the better things in life—
like Penthouse—but, like others, find we
have to watch our money to do so. It is easy
to spend but hard to save. But we think we've
found the perfect way to save money.

We bought a large piggy bank, and we set
a price. Now every time we fuck, we pay the
piggy bank. At first it was a quarter each
time, Now we've upped it to a dollar. And we
are even thinking of raising it again, this time
to a dollar and a quarter.

An added benefit is that this scheme
enables us to talk about our sex life in public
whenever we want without others knowing
it. Anytime, anyplace, we can say to each
other, “Hey, do you have a dollar for the piggy
bank?" Or, “You already owe the piggy bank
five bucks; do you have an extra dollar?”
And who said paying for a good fuck isn't
fun?

The more we fuck, the more money we
save, What an incentive! And we've agreed
to spend our fucking money only on our-
selves, only on special things. —Name and
address withheld

Oil pump

My story took place last spring, when | was
laid off. | began lifting weights about five
days a week, and now | am very muscular.

By summer a new neighbor (female) had
begun dropping by, first in the afternoons
and then in the evenings, for coffee or a
cocktail. She is nineteen and has one of the
most beautifully healthy bodies I've ever
seen—firm, thrusting tits; a tight, flat stom-
ach; and anice, muscular, hard ass.

One hot day after working out, | was
feeling extra strong and very horny; so |
decided to make myself up to look like a
professional body builder | put on a tight
pair of men's bikini swim trunks and rubbed
oil all over my body. Standing in front of a
large, full-length mirror, | watched my mus-
cles and veins bulge out all over when |
flexed the right muscles. While | was in the
middle of one of these routines, my neighbor
walked in the door (By now she usually
walked right in unannounced.) Just out of
curiosity, | asked her how she liked my
muscles.

She said she thought they were gorgeous
and, without another word, proceeded to
take off her blouse and slip out of her short-
shorts. She was wearing a bikini under-
neath, but it was one of those string bikinis
that really only covered her pointy nipples
and the dark patch of hair between her legs.
She then asked me how | liked her muscles.
When | said they looked great, she asked if
I'd cover her with some oil, too, so we could

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THE 944

look alike. | was very willing to oblige.

| smeared oil all over her suntanned
body—up under her tits, in between her hot
thighs, and right down to the soles of her
bare feet. We then compared bodies in front
of the mirror by going through different
poses for about twenty minutes. By that time
we were both very hot.

| then pulled out a French tickler that
happened to be lying around, but | had to
playfully wrestle with her before she would
let me use it. Sne was quite strong, and it
was difficult for me to pin her—especially
with all that sweat and oil on both our
bodies. After she was pinned, | tore off my
bikini trunks and her bottom “string” (her
breasts were already wobbling free from her
top), and | slipped on —
the tickler.

She went wild,
kicking and scream-
ing, but once | got it
deep into her, she
squirmed and grunt-
ed and groaned all
over the floor. We end-
ed up sucking and
fucking and eating
the whole afternoon
away.—G.M., address
withheld

Seat of pleasure
Since | was a teen-
ager, | have had the |
tremendous desire to
have a female remove
her panties and sit on
my face. This dream
came true lastmonth. |
| was dating an
eighteen - year - old
lass, and because she
was underage in this
state, we were into the
drive-in movie scene
instead of the groovy
dance bars.

At the drive-ins we
engaged in heavy
petting, and she al-
ways allowed me to
put one hand up her
dress and feel her ass

cepted without showing any hesitation.

After dinner we had about four or five wine
flips a piece, and | was amazed at how
quickly she became so extremely amorous
and cooperative. | soon suggested we go
into the bedroom, where we could be more
comfortable.

Lying down on the bed, we locked our lips
and tongues together. and | began probing
around under her short skirt, searching for
the top band of her pantyhose and panties.
Suddenly, she rolled off the bed and stood
up, and | thought the party was over. Instead
she reached up under her skirt and peeled
off her pantyhose and panties in one quick
swoop. So fast in fact that | didn't get to see a
damn thing except her bare, tanned legs—

Thank you,

under her short skirt. But as she hiked it up
slowly and moved back, the deep crack of
her ass came looming into view. She took
one more step backward so that she had
one leg on each side of the corner of the
bed.

She was now standing directly over my
face with her thighs parted slightly. Wow!
What a view —big, circular buttocks coming
in from both sides, forming a deep, inviting
crevice. And at the bottom of the crack, there
was her puckering asshole winking at me
and, right ahead of it. her red-fuzz-covered,
wet slit. My nostrils began to drink in the
zesty aroma of fresh, dripping hot pussy.
Then she clumsily sat down.

Suddenly, | couldn't breathe, and it was

_ pitch-dark. My heart
| pounded with excite-
ment, and my dick
twitched in the air.
After all these years, a

Rev.Norman Kuck,for 9 cesoss°
our heavenly new name.

or was resting on my
face! | couldn't talk;
so | tapped her on her
back. She raised up a

What would you call a schizophrenic little
portable package that's partly a sensitive
FM/AM/PSB radio, partly a mini TV set?

You name it, you win it, we said, and
we were hit with an avalanche of names
for our Model 3050. But one caught our
eye. Gemineye.

So, thanks, Reverend Norman Kuck.

We hope you enjoy your Gemineye as

much as we like the name.
Could it have been IVI -
divine inspiration?

little, and | told her to
move back a bit. She

| did and plopped

down again. Bull's-
eye!

Her snatch made
a direct hit on my
mouth. Her clitoris
rested on my nose,
and | was becoming

CGemMineve

The personal portable | across the length of

with the dual personality.

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drunk with the tangy
scent and taste of
her running cunt
juices. | licked, and
| she twitched her hips,
and our movement
became alittle easier.
She raised up a lit-

tle bit again, and |
started with my
tongue resting on her

| butt hole, and | licked
a stroke that went up

her opened cunt,
along her juicy lips
and ended by my cir-

on the outside of her
pantyhose.

She had a nice face and very small tits
and flared out from the waist, which made
her rather hippy. In fact, by some standards,
her butt was too large. But | loved it. I've
always loved female butts of almost any size
as long as they are shaped well and. most
important, have a deep crack.

| discovered that this girl had another
delightful characteristic, however. While
necking, | would kiss and tongue her ear,
and her pussy would immediately join the
party. My left hand, which would be caress-
ing her pantied bullocks, would suddenly
become soaking wet. With this discovery in
mind, | invited her to my apartment for
dinner and drinks. To my delight, she ac-
18 PENTHOUSE

and the soaking crotch of her panties as
they lay around her ankles.

As she started to get back in bed, |
decided what-the-hell, and | asked her right
out if she would please sit on my face. To my
surprise, she only blinked a couple of times
and said, “How do you mean?”

| positioned myself diagonally on the bed
with my head on the corner of the mattress
and my face looking back up at her. In this
way she could easily sit on my face. She
looked at me and my now-swollen dick for a
long, curious moment. Then she turned
around and backed up to the bed.

| was now looking upside down at her
from the rear—the tender arcs of her plump,
still-covered buttocks peeking out from

cling and biting the
erect bud of her clitoris. Instantly, she came
violently, and her whole body twitched and
shuddered. Her female nectar dripped and
ran down onto my tongue. Stroke after stroke
of my tongue caused her to ride her ass and
cunt all over my face like a saddle on a
bucking horse. She came and came and
came until she passed out. Still hard, |
flipped her over on the bed onto her
stomach, propped pillows under her pelvis,
and fucked the shit out of her from behind,
doggy-style. Just before | came, | pulled out
of her cunt and jizzed the crack of her ass
full of my come. Then | gave her whole crack
and ass hole a leisurely rim job.

| had only a few more dates with her after
that one love session. Could you believe, she

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claimed to have been drunk and not able to
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Pedicare benefits

lam fifty-two, and right now | am letting the
polish dry on my toenails. If | do say so, | have
beautiful feet for a man. They are very well
proportioned. long. and slender, with toe-
nails that look lovely with Cutex or Revion on
them. When | see teenage girls and women
with feet like those I've just described, |
nearly come in my pants (sometimes | do). It
really excites me when | give myself a
pedicure, and sometimes | will have an
orgasm before | finish my paint job. For a
relaxing hour or so, | fill the tub with scented
bubble bath, and while the water fills the tub
| give myself a perfect pedicure. After lower-
ing myself into those beautiful bubbles, |
just liێ back and relax, thinking of all the
beautiful bare feet of girls and women | have
seen. Then | slowly raise my leg until my
lovely pink toenails are exposed in all their
beauty. | also put on my ankle bracelet,
which adds to and enhances my visual and
erotic pleasure. When we have a breather or
coffee break at the plant, | have a warm,
glowing feeling deep down inside me,
knowing that in my socks and shoes are ten
beautiful toenails.

My Polaroid comes in handy, too, for
making some very nice pictures of my
“peautification project” | now have a goodly
number of shots of my feet and legs, and |

have even manipulated the camera so that |
can get shots of me painting my “piggies”

| have assembled twelve scrapbooks of
girl's and women's bare feet photographed
from all sides, and most of them are in
glorious color. You know there are many
sources for these exquisite pictures: Sears
catalogs, Seventeen, Glamour, and the
local newspaper. After a very taxing and
nerve-racking day in the “salt mines," | come
home, sit in my easy chair with a glass of
wine, and take down one of my books to
view those beautiful heels, toes, arches,
ankles, insteps, and I'm in heaven. Some-
times the foot doesn't even have to be bare
to be exciting.

For a guessing game, | sometimes clip
out the picture of a woman's foot ina pump,
with just the cleavage of her toes showing
Then | imagine what all of her foot looks like
and whether or not she has painted toenails,
With the winter months upon us, | content
myself with the scrapbooks, but when
spring comes, and the leaves come out on
the trees, and the girls’ feet start appearing
in sandals, | seem to have to go to the
shopping center every day for the pleasure
of looking at the shape, size, and poses of
the ladies’ bare feet.—J.B., Chattanooga,
Tenn.

All that glitters
My wife, Linda, and | have decided to share
our views on bisexuality with your readers.

| am twenty-four, and Linda is twenty-two

We have been married very happily for four
years now— very happily, we think, because |
have adjusted to my wife's bisexual tenden-
cies. | would guess that many readers
imagine us (or people like us) in all sorts of
wonderful orgies—me sandwiched be-
tween two beautiful women. However, this is
just not the case.

My wife is a fashion designer and coordi-
nator. Therefore, she is associated with
many models as well as with the various
other women who fit and dress the models
into the clothing. She has had several les-
bian affairs in the past—from high school to
the present

The first time | found out about her
activities was about three years ago. She
was fitting a stunningly attractive woman
who was about eleven years her senior She
was doing this in our home; and since the
evening had just started, | excused myself to
go to a movie, But there was a mix-up in
scheduling, and the film | wanted to see
wasn't showing. | had already seen the
replacement; so, resigning myself to an
evening at home, | returned. | found just what
you might expect

As | entered, my wife greeted me, wearing
only a robe. She smiled and said, “Now you
know.” With that, she threw her arms around
me and kissed me. | detected a most
familiar taste on her slightly puffy lips. Still
smiling, she took me by the hand and led
me into our bedroom—where the stunning
older model was lying naked on the bed.

Rings — Believe It or Not/

ms f#

KING KONG [S THE LARGEST
MONSTER EVER MADE FORA MOVIE!
FORTY FEET TALL AND WEIGHING 6'4 TONS,
HE STARS IN THE NEW DINO DE LAURENTIIS
PRODUCTION OF "KI ,

DISTRIBUTED BY PARAMOUNT PICTURES.

© 1977 BY LING DE LAURENTIIS CORPUMAT In
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

@ RIPLEY INTERNATIONAL LIMITED, 1977

20 PENTHOUSE

: | orange juice and grenadine unleash a

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Now that everyone knows
alittle about citizensband radio,
Sparkomatic thinks you
should know a lot more. So.
here are some answers to the
most common q uestions
people have about CB radio.

Whv CB? There are some very
practical reasons for having a CB set
in your Car.

With a CB, you can get an up-to-the
minute traffic report. Just by asking for it.

Or if you ever have a flat tire or any
other kind of car trouble,

3 you can call for help.

Jithout even getting
at of your car.

n other words, CB is like having
a telephone in vour car. Only better

What do CB sets range from in
price? A basic rig for transmitting and
receiving in your car consists of a
transceiver and CB antenna. It costs
about $125,

If all you want to do is listen to CB
broadcasts, Sparkomatic has something
called a CB converter.

A converter costs about $25. It
plugs into your car radio. And it even
uses your car radio antenna.

A set-up for your home is called a
base station. That will run you a
little more money. About $300

There are also a lot of
accessories you can buy.
But that’s up to you.

How many channels
are there on a CB? Up until
now, there were 23 channels.
But thanks to new federal
regulations, there are 40.

You should know that channel 9

is the official emergency channel. And
channel 19 is usually considered the
truckers channel. You'll find some pretty
interesting people there

Do I have to take a foreign
language course to learn to talk
CB? CB talk is part of the fun of owning
a citizens band unit.

Here are a few basic CB terms:
“10-4 means yes, or over and out.
“10-33 is emergency. The name fora
highway patrolman is ‘smokey the bear’

Now that you have a better idea of
what CB is all about, we'd like to tell
you that any piece of CB equipment
we just talked about, or just about any
you could possibly imagine,
Sparkomatic has.

How far can I broadcast?

Most CB units today have a reach of
about fifteen to twenty miles.

Can I install my own CB?
Almost all CB’ers install their own rigs
But if you don’t want to install your unit
yourself, you'll be happy to know that
most stores that sell citizens band
units usually install them.

What if I don’t want one of
those big CB antennas on my
car? In that case. you don’t have
to have one.

You see, Sparkomatic
makes both motorized and
manually operated CB antennas
that disappear. These antennas
can also be used for your car
radio.

Don't I need a license?
Yes. But all you have to do is send
$4.00 with a form that you'll get when
Ws purchase your CB to Washinaton.

From a complete line
of transceivers and CB antennas to
external speakers.

And what's more, as any CB buff
will tell you, “From twin mamas to lunch
boxes, Sparkomatic has some mighty
fine hardware.”

That's CB talk for, Sparkomatic
makes a quality product.

If you have any other questions
about CB, you'll probably find the
answers in our booklet, “The ABC’s of
CB: To get a copy. just send 50¢ for
postage and handling to: Sparko-
matic, Dept. P-3, Milford, Pa., 18337

“10:4”

SPARKOMATIC

Milford, Pa. 18337 (717) 296-6444
and 1555 W. Rosecrans, Gardena, Calif
90249 (213) 532-8400

Until your approved form comes
back, you can use your initials and zip
code as your
call letters.

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Linda sat me down on the bed and very
patiently explained everything. | could hard-
ly believe it, but | actually understood. Our
sex life had always been good, and it still is.
And she is not ashamed of her lovers; but
she also still refuses to let me join in and
make it a threesome. She said she loves to
have me watch—which | started to do from
the beginning—and | enjoy that, too. To see
her going down on a woman or to see a
woman going down on her is a great turn-on
to me. Usually, after she has made love to a
woman, she is all thal more eager lo please
me. And sometimes the other woman
watches us.

So all | can say to all those people who
might imagine fantastic threesomes in a
bisexual marriage is this: it doesn't always
happen. But our mutual understanding has
given us a great marriage. And | am sure it
will continue

Keep up the excellent magazine and
please don't stop running those beautiful
pictorials of two women in love. For both of
us.— S.and L.B., Philadelphia, Pa.

The third freedom

In the past decade, women have achieved
two freedoms which, in turn, have produced
a third one. The Pill has freed women from
the fear of pregnancy and allows them to
enjoy their sensuality: federal law lets them
enter, and advance in, fields of their choice.
These physical and economic freedoms
also permit women to have personal rela-
22 PENTHOUSE

tionships of their choice; no longer must
they follow some outdated model.

Yet, as studies and personal observation
indicate, women often seem to desire male
domination in their private lives. A few
women, | suppose, have inner longings for
such dominance, just as some men seek
female rule; but today's liberated woman
seems to make a conscious choice. It’s a
form of “reverse freedom.” That is, since
society says women don't have to be sub-
servient, the women themselves underscore
this right by choosing to take orders

I'm employed in the home office of a
national company. with 3.100 people work-
ing under one roof. Some 60 percent are
women, generally under age thirty-five, and
range from secretaries to middle-level ex-
ecutives. Whether they are older and mar-
ried, or younger with boyfriends, they seem
to have a similar attitude toward their private
lives.

A lot of girls under age thirty work in my
area, and we get along fine. It's not unusual
to hear remarks such as, “I will, if my hus-
band says it's okay" or, “I'll have to see if Bill
will let me buy it” of, “My boyfriend says |
can't go." Also heard are such remarks as, "If
| do that, I'll get a spanking” or, “My boyfriend
got mad last night and really paddled me" or,
“Let me do the file work today so| can stand
up—| bet! can't sit fora week.” And once ina
while, one overhears such advice as, “Try not
to move around; then the rope won't leave
many marks.” After a while, one isn’t sur-

prised to learn that bondage and discipline
clubs are growing in popularity, too.

My personal experience correlates with
what | see and hear. I'm big, and still fairly
trim, at age thirty-six. Two years ago | began
dating a female junior executive. Within six
months we were living together, and last
year we got married. She is tallish, very
pretty, quite intelligent, holds a responsible
job, and earns a high income. On the job she
runs a tight ship, is very efficient, and is
always in command. At home, she belongs
tome.

| like having her run around the house
naked, and | enjoy bringing a strap down
across her firm buttocks. Our lovemaking
afterward always has fire in it. I'm certain
other women share the same, or at least a
similar, reaction.

| do not, for an instant, believe women
have some deep, inner force that compels
them to seek masters. That's a male myth.
But | do wonder what causes them to seek
this subservient status. | travel around the
country to regional offices and find this is a
widespread condition today. | wonder if
others know what might have produced this
enjoyable situation. —B8. J., Indianapolis,
Ind.

Female forum...
| still don't believe this happened.

My husband and | were at a party last
week, and later in the evening, | had to use
the bathroom. The nearest one was in the
master bedroom, off to the side. Just as |
was pulling down my panties, | heard some-
one come into the bedroom. | don’t know
why, but while still sitting, | leaned over and
opened the door just a crack to peek out. It
was my husband, and he was with one of the
most sexily dressed women at the party. She
had on a tight, white, T-shirt-type knot
dress—and no bra. She also had very high,
firm boobs.

My husband started pulling up her dress
and telling her how much he loves tits.
(Which he does, even though mine aren't
very big.) They both fell back onto the bed,
and by this time he had begun kneading and
sucking the pointy nipples right through the
material of the dress. She unzipped him and
pulled out his large dick, asking him if he'd
like to stick it in her He said yes; and while
she pulled and squeezed his cock, he pulled
her dress all the way up. She had nothingon
underneath except a garter belt and black
stockings.

She pushed him onto his back; and after
licking and biting his dick and big, hairy
balls, she climbed on top. While he grabbed
at her boobs, she rode him until they both
had terrific orgasms.

| had knelt down on the floor, and with my
knees apart all the while | was watching
them, | was worked my finger furiously in
and out of my dripping cunt. Just as they
both came, | worked my clit around with the
heel of my hand and came to a delicious
orgasm myself.

I've never told my husband about it. and
although I'm not sure, | think I'd like it to
happen again.— FB., address withheld

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...marriage bound

Ordinarily, | wouldn't think of writing to a
magazine, but recently | had an experience |
just had to share with you and the readers. To
begin with, about a week ago, | broke up
with my boyfriend of three years. It was just
no use seeing him anymore because we
fought all the time and our sex life was
completely nil. Up until recently everything
had been fine. At least five times a week, we
would get together and fuck our brains out.
A couple of weeks ago, however, everything
he wanted to do was “with the guys.’ | mean
teally with the guys! Nothing queer, but
when he would invite me over to his dorm, he
would end up playing cards, leaving me
bored and alone. So finally | told him to
shove it and gave him back the engagement
ring.

Three nights ago he came over and asked
me what he could do to get us back together.
| really wanted him to kiss my ass hole and
told him so. He thought | was kidding, but
when | stripped off my jeans, he realized |
was serious. | told him he would have to strip
completely and lie on the floor. | then bound
his feet with his belt and tied his hands to
the legs of the bed on either side of him. |
then told him he was going to have to show
me he was really sorry for his behavior |
slowly knelt down in front of him and spread
my cheeks in his face, my pink, fleshy ass
hole nearly touching his nose. | don’t know if
he was excited then or not, but his eyes were
as big as my tits. | forced his mouth open

and shoved my ass right into his nose and
mouth. “Lick it!" | said,

He readily complied as his talented
tongue darted in and out of my anal sphinc-
ter, and | started pinching his butt and
scrotum with my free hand. About this time |
noticed he was hard. | was getting pretty wet
in the crotch, too, and saliva was running
down my crack. | then stood up and grabbed
some knitting yarn and tied it around his
stiff, red cock. | stretched it back and looped
the yarn around his butt, up his back, and
tied it to his right arm. | got out my seven-
inch vibrator and greased it up with K-Y jelly.
Then—you guessed it—| shoved it up his
ass and left it there so that | could also rub
the tip of his now-rock-hard prick. Pretty
soon he started shuddering and came all
over the vibrator, the come running down the
crack of his ass. That was the biggest load
he had ever shot.

| scooped up as much come in my hands
as possible and said, “Eat it!" He hesitated;
so | smeared it all over his face. | untied him,
and a few minutes later we fucked in the
usual way, and it had never been so good.

Since then, we have repeated this bond-
age scene a couple of times, and tonight we
are going to reverse roles, Our relationship is
now better than ever, and we plan on getting
married as soon as we both graduate.— S.C.
Muncie, Ind.

...dorm discovery
| am a new devotee of Penthouse. and |

—

|
|
|
|
|

customers that will pay us ten times more than we're getting now and we don'te
have to kiss them on the lips.”

"Here comes that pimp person | was telling you about. He’s going to bring us
ven

24 PENTHOUSE

want to tell you how very much | enjoy your
magazine, especially the Forum section. In
fact, | think the way my girl friend and | came
to discover Penthouse may interest some of
your other readers.

| am a twenty-one-year-old woman stu-
dent at a southern university. | am five foot
seven inches, 115 |bs., with short blonde hatr,
gray eyes, and a slender figure. Most of the
men | know consider me fairly pretty. | was
raised in a strict home, and consequently
I'm a virgin—though only technically since
last weekend, | guess. Because my boy-
friend lives about fifty miles away | was
planning to do nothing but study last Satur-
day. | had just gotten out of the shower and
was sitting in my bathrobe, drying my hair,
when there was a knock at the door. It was
my next-door neighbor, Carla (not her real
name), who has also been my closest friend
for almost three years. She was crying
uncontrollably because she had just learned
that her fiancé was fooling with another girl
on the side. To try to comfort her, | put my
arms around her, altermpling to dry her tears
and calm her down. As we sat on the bed
and held each other, the same thought
struck both of us at the same time. The tear
drying turned into hugging, then caressing,
and eventually a long, deep, soul-stirring
French kiss. My heart was beating so hard
that | thought it would burst open!

Things developed rapidly from that point. |
felt Carla's soft, white hand slip inside my
tobe, which had fallen open, and caress my
small but, at this point, aroused nipples.
There was a brief pause as we both won-
dered if we really wanted to turn our friend-
ship into a lesbian affair Neither of us had
ever dreamed before that we had any sexual
desires for other women, but a single, silent
look told us we were in complete agree-
ment, and the unbelievably exciting adven-
ture continued.

| took my hands from around Carla's waist
and started to unbutton her blouse, all the
while kissing her face and neck. She was
sucking my swollen nipples, flicking her
tongue over one while pinching the other
with her fingers. By the time | had her bra
unfastened and off, revealing two gently
swelling, soft, round boobs, her right hand
had moved down between my thighs to rub
my drenched pussy, It was the first time
anyone had done to me the things that
seemed natural to Carla. She tickled my
clitoris with her thumb and pressed on it
with her palm while poking her other fingers
deep inside my aching cunt. |, meanwhile,
was trying to keep from shaking long
enough to pull off her slacks, pantyhose
(now | see why men consider them so
inconvenient), and lacy bikini panties. She
was as soaked as | was, her fluids prac-
tically running from her lovely, light-blonde
bush. For the first time | realized just how
beautiful the female body can be and what a
turn-on a girl's natural odors are!

| descended on Carla, wanting to devour
her juices. Knowing instinctively what would
feel good to her, and getting added direction
from her in soft moans, | massaged her clit
with my tongue and lips, teasing it with light,

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The Potion of Love.

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}

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Did the beautiful, young widow create
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Something to ponder tonight, as
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26 PENTHOUSE

circular motions. Then | would shove my
tongue inside her beautiful pussy as far as it
would go, chew her lips very delicately and
then start over, until | thought she was about
to collapse. She held back long enough to
switch us around into a sixty-nine position,
and as soon as her mouth touched my
steaming box, the waves of a violent orgasm

| began. draining the strength from both of us

and giving new meaning to the phrase
“coming together.'—C. B:, address
withheld

Glass blower

\'d like to share with you and your readers
the unsung joys of a good, old-fashioned
hobby. | am currently a student majoring in

| art. My special interest and hobby is the

delicate art of glassblowing. | have become
very adept at fashioning almost any kind of
figure. Lately, I've concentrated my efforts on
jewelry making since it seems the most
popular handicraft at present

Since | am at school and my girl friend
lives in our hometown, my thoughts often
wander to our past sexual encounters. One
evening, while experimenting on a birthday
present for her and feeling particularly horny,
| became very conscious of my aroused
penis. These thoughts led me to the idea of
giving her a replica of my cack. | imme-
diately began to “blow” a miniature but
accurately detailed penis from glass. The
finished product more than pleased me.
However, there was definitely something
missing. | had often filled glass figurines
with colored water, but | decided to do
something a little more personal for my very
special girl friend. Knowing she would be
pleased, | began to masturbate. As | came, |
filled the glass penis with my semen and

| then sealed it inside.

My girl friend was overjoyed at the inge-
nuity of my gift. She wears it around her neck
ona gold chain and has received numerous
compliments on its uniqueness. Since then,
I've made several others for male friends,
filled with their own semen

My idea seems to be a success. If this fad
catches on, | will be content to make my
millions by literally “blowing dicks"!— D. F,
adaress withheld

Bunny hug
| am a twenty-year-old male attending col-
lege in northern New York State, and the
other day | went skiing. Just before closing
time, | decided to get one last run in.

| got on the chair lift with a fairly good-
looking redheaded woman, who was about
thirty-five. Just before we reached the half-
way point on the mountain, the lift broke
down and stayed motionless for nearly forty-
five minutes. The woman (I'll call her Sue)
and | had had a friendly conversation on the
way up, but | detected an odd recklessness
in her voice. After the lift stopped, the
reckless tone in her voice increased; so |
asked her if anything was wrong. | guess |
broke some barrier, because all at once her
troubles just spilled out to me.

It seems that Sue and her husband had
just had a big fight, and she had refused to

go on the lift with him. 1 guess Sue wanted to
play games and get her husband pissed off
because soon | felt a hand on my upper
thigh and then, suddenly, on my ever-grow-
ing bulge. She soon had me unzipped and
with her soft, warm hand proceeded to bring
me to one of the sweetest climaxes ever.

Just as | came, we started to move; and |
figured the guy in the chair behind us had
just noticed what had happened because
he started yelling at both of us and told me
he was going to break me in half when he
got off the lift.

| quickly zipped up and looked at Sue
Questioningly. She just gave me a sly smile
and said, “Thank you." | was a little worried:
and when she told me it was her husband, |
hopped right off, schussed down the hill to
my Car,and took off.

I'll never know if it was a setup or the
teal thing; but from now on, | think I'll leave
the snow bunnies to the hunters.—D. K,
Buffalo, N.Y

Correction:
On rereading my article on the Law Enforce-

ment Intelligence Unit as it appeared in the |
December Penthouse, | was startled to |

encounter the following sentence

“Conspiracy to commit first degree
murder is the worst, but by no means the
only, case of lawbreaking by police intel-
ligence squads perpetrated by the LEIU.”

The original version of this sentence in my
manuscript was

“Conspiracy to commit first-degree
murder is the worst, but by no means the
only, case of lawbreaking by police intel-
ligence squads belonging to the LEIU.”
(Emphasis added.)

The murder conspiracy in question con-
sisted of the efforts of a Chicago undercover
policeman to incite members of an orga-
nization he infiltrated to murder his fellow
Officers. | have no evidence that the LEIU
“perpetrated,” or even knew about, this
incident; in fact, | very much doubt the LEIU
was involved in it at all

The point | was trying to make is this:
many members of this private, quasi-secret
organization of police intelligence officers
have been guilty of unprofessional, reckless,
and often illegal conduct. But that’s quite a
bit different from accusing the LEIU itself of
having “perpetrated” its members’ crimes,

Apparently someone at Penthouse com-
pletely misunderstood this sentence, then
tried to improve the wording.

| hope this misstatement didn't cause
readers undue alarm; an unofficial intel-
ligence network run by a private club of
police officers, many of whom consider
themselves above the same laws they are
sworn to enforce, is frightening enough.—

George O'Toole O+—

For more provocative, stimulating, and con-
troversial letters, read the exciting Forum
Magazine now on sale at your newsstand
or, for this month's copy, send $1.25 to
Forum Magazine, Dept. HM, 909 Third Ave-
nue, New York, N.Y. 10022

“Permanently wired
B-1-C”

& still pumping

| admit I’m sort of permanently wired into the audio scene, so it's a
definite kick to run another B-I-C ad in Penthouse. A couple of

years ago B-I-C came out with their Venturi concept that blew away
traditional approaches to loudspeaker design. Not long after, the same
people introduced the first belt-drive-programmable turntable which |
immediately glommed onto; and it has set the direction for record
playing devices. About that same time, we ran our first ad telling
people that we carried the stuff — cause that’s what was happening,

—Brillo Bob, WSC

Now? Just let me say one thing: Go check out the new twin-motor 1000,
or the tasty new B-I-C Venturi monitors, What are they? Call or drop

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N

THE AMOROUS ASTROLOGER

FEBRUARY 19

THE PISCES MALE

No virgins, please! Pisces wants only
the most experienced of sexual
partners. He devoutly believes that
practice makes perfect

But here's Catch-22: Pisces is also an
incurable romantic, Yet, while women
may be his natural prey, he doesn't hunt
with a shotgun or a rifle. He brings them
down with tranquilizing darts. They
don't even know what hit them until it's
too late.
28 PENTHOUSE

BY MARTINE

PISCES

The Pisces male is a charmer, the kind
of man who enjoys taking a girl for a
moonlight walk in the woods—provided
she’s willing to wander off the straight
and narrow path. He believes in fo-
mance with a capital R, but Romance
Without Reward simply isn't in his
scenario.

| know one Pisces man who hasn't
aged attractively—at almost fifty years
old, he looks like a cross between an
English bulldog and Richard Nixon—
and he isn't particularly rich, either. But

MARCH 20

he's dating four international beauties
(his tastes run to the exotic), and last
year he had to celebrate four different
holidays with these ladies—Christmas,
Chanukah, Ramadan, and Tet!

The Pisces male is a good host and a
sought-after guest at other people's
parties. His indolent ease makes other
people comfortable, and any affair at
which he presides seems to glide along
on its own momentum. Even as a guest,
he takes on part of the responsibility for
making the party a success.

- 7
=< pe

There's a smooth way
to get away from harsh taste.

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smooth faste of extra coolness.

SUPER LONGS

Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined
That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health.

Kings, 17 mg. “tar,” 1.3 mg. nicotine; Longs, 17 mg. “tar,” 1.2 mg. nicotine, av. per cigarette, FTC Report Apr.'76

y

Pisces is fascinated by women, really
responsive to them, and is always influ-
enced by the next pretty face or figure that
comes along. In his youth he samples ai/
the available wares, like a small boy let
loose in a candy factory. As he gets older,
he becomes a bit more cautious, balancing
gain against risk, like a shoplifter in a de-
partment store. Pisces likes to please, but
occasionally his moods get the upper
hand. Classify him as Unpredictable.

He's usually great fun to be with on a
date, for he is a real profligate in the pursuit
of pleasure. He's also endlessly curious
and almost impossible to shock. Tell him
anything about your past. | guarantee you'll
have a sympathetic listener, or at least
someone who acts sympathetic most con-
vincingly. For he’s very good at pretending
to be what he is not. All Pisceans know how
to project an image, and many become
actors. A Piscean can earn a reputation for
honesty, sincerity, and directness that is
really nothing but the end result of clever-
ness.

The Pisces male is not particularly adept
in business and doesn't often get up to the
topmost levels. He is lazy. Watch him at a
job: he seems to be busy, but is he getting
the job done? Most men born under this
sign are overpaid underachievers—and
they wouldn't have it any other way.

Pisces is bright and articulate but hates
to get to the point. As one exasperated
listener once remarked to a Piscean who
was giving a long, detailed report of an
amatory experience the night before: "I
wish you'd stop splitting the hairs of that
bush you're beating around!”

Pisces would if he could. He just can't
He leaves nothing out but the end

PISCES AS A LOVER

He's intensely emotional about making
love, because he considers it not merely a
physical act but the culmination of a roman-
tic yearning. And while he thinks chastity is
no more of a virtue than malnutrition is, he
isn't willing to pay for play. He demands a
genuine response from his sexual part-
ner—and will detumesce at the slightest
sign of rejection or indifference. He's al-
most too sensitive. But with the right en-
couragement, he'll rise to the occasion.

Pisces men don't flunk out at sex—
though many of them might well get Sec-
tion Eight discharges. This gentle, kind
type of man is often a pretty perverse type
in the boudoir. He has a real affinity for what
a psychologist might call “aberrant behav-
ior.” Typically, after the initial sexual excite-
ment and pleasure fade, he looks for more
and more far-out ways to revive it. There's
certainly nothing wrong with exploring the
furthest-out sexual horizons, but a woman
who thinks sex should stop with the mis-
sionary position is hereby forewarned.

Perhaps I'd better spell out what I'm talk-
ing about. In my own experience, I've had,
and enjoyed, one Piscean lover who
wanted me to press a towel containing
crushed ice against his bails just as or-
gasm began, and another who got a thrill
from sucking and caressing my nylon-
stockinged toes and ejaculating between
my feet. | don't knock it. But! draw the line
at the kind of Piscean lover who likes to bite
hard on a nipple—but rea//y—or rake a
clitoris with ragged fingernails as if it were
his own fresh mosquito bite. Enthusiasm is
grand, but what girl wants to take a first-aid
kit to bed with Kink Kong?

c

30 PENTHOUSE

“... And bananas by the bunch will bring us only pennies,
compared with my proposal. We'll sell them one at a time, as nature's
own dildoes. Why, in the American market alone..."

A WORD OF ADVICE
FOR PISCEANS

If you keep piling up grudges, you'llneed a
lawyer to help you get even with the world.
Steer a middle course and avoid extreme
reactions. Remember that people will usu-
ally like you just as much as you like ther.

THE PISCES FEMALE
(WHAT EVERY MAN
SHOULD KNOW)

Pisces is the last sign of the Zodiac, the
twelfth, and women born under this sign
truly “sum up" all the other signs.

The Pisces female is earthy and mysteri-
ous, plainspoken and enigmatic. Some-
how you can't pin her down. She's the fey
girl from Brigadoon.

If the Piscean female is hard to figure out,
she has no trouble figuring you out, Her
perceptions are so keen she can look
through you as if you were a pane of glass.
But she usually likes what she sees, for she
has a deep understanding of other
people's motives and desires and a wide
tolerance for their weaknesses. She iden-
tifies with people and seems to “take on”
their problems and attitudes. She is a
woman with much to offer.

She is also a woman who demands
much. From her friends, she expects an
almost canine loyalty. They not only must
swear fealty to her but also must have con-
fidence in her. whether or not she deserves
their confidence.

Looking for a good opening conversa-
tional gambit for a Pisces lady? You can't
go wrong with something touching on mys-
ticism, spiritualism, the occult, the super-
natural. For a first date, take her to the latest
sequel to The Exorcist at your local movie
house. (There's always a new version of
The Exorcist playing somewhere.)

Tip: Never come up short on Romance,
for that's the breath of life to her. She has no
use for the rough-and-ready, take-me-or-
leave-me type who thinks a woman should
be bedded down without any sentimental
build-up. She'll never fall into his arms.
She'd sooner fall into the arms of the Bos-
ton Strangler.

Her need is for a protector, someone
who's strong and sure, powerful and kind.
lf Sir Lancelot came riding out of the West
on his horse, he'd have no trouble sweep-
ing her up and away. One reason is that
she'd know he was taking her to his castle
and not to a deflower bower at a motel.

She is an old-fashioned female who
won't try to take the spotlight away from her
man. She is content to remain in his
shadow, to share his glory from a discreet,
unobtrusive distance, She may tell you in
all seriousness that a woman should not try
to change a man “because it just wouldn't
work." Let the male keep his role of protec-
tor and provider. She will remain his
helpmate and adviser, the queen of his
hearth, of his kitchen, of his bedroom.

It would be a foolish man who would ever
try to end her reign in any of the above.

She's a marvelous companion, has a real
talent for cooking, and in the boudoir be
comes the most dramatic monarch since
Catherine the Great. Think of Elizabeth
Taylor, a Piscean, appearing before one of
her husbands, Mike Todd, on their wedding
night, attired only in the brilliant diamond
neck he had given her. and you get the
picture; the lady knew ex wnat she
loing. So did one wor b
sign who told me that to ple
ver and show h

onged to him

rn under
ase her
ch her heart be-

had his initials printed

é

sionate creature, and her
ice should be wondertul in
or have read a
and Johnson; but when
re both under the

1€ Could write a book!

the lights are ou

Ss, belie

PISCES’S GUIDETO
SEXUAL COMPATIBILITY

ISCES AND ARIES Headstrong Aries will
) dominate, but that doesn't nec air-
disple you. What may trouble you
more is Aries's tendency to criticize. Tact is
needed to cement this otherwise sexy
partnership
PISCES AND TAURUS You're both highly
sensual, but Taur Ss too pract and
down-to-earth to satisfy your romantic in-
clinations. If you can work out this problem,
all goes well. If not, what's wrong with a
p onate three weeks?

PISCES AND GEMINI This combination is
as unstable as nitroglycerin—and likely to
blow up in somebody's face. You can't
stand Gemini's fickleness and thought-

lessness. Ge

uni cant stand your e
1 and dreaminess. The trash
SANCER You enjoy Can

s and dont m
Cancer mak n the de

You're both s

hort or the
D LEO You'll annoy
think rather

AN

your tendency
Leo won't

erate your sens

GO Your aff
ure intrigues Virgo at first, but Virgo
reserved and critical and will rese
dependency. When the sexual
Start, you're on a tobo to nowhere

nit

port from Libra that you're looking for. You
both like luxury and a lovely home, but
you're too indolent to earn the wherewitha
Physical rapport isn't enough. A short affair |
might be f though

CES A SCORPIO You've found your
match here—and then some. Scorpio
gives you emotional support, strength, and
sadership, and Scorpio's jealousy and
possessiveness won't bother you. You're
both highly sensual. What more can two
signs ask?
PISCES AND SAGITTARIUS You'll strike
some sparks in the bedroom

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e Differentiate between
sex for the sake of sex and sex
for the sake of love.
Your husband should appreciate
you more because of
these other men you've had. %

VIERA HOLLANDER

CALL ME MADAM

XAVIERA'S LETTER

OF THE MONTH

lve been a swinging house-
wife for the last three years of
my ten-year marriage. My only
regret is for those wasted
seven years, Until that fateful
evening, almost three years
ago, no man besides my hus-
band had had me.

| was a virgin when | met my
husband, and we had inter-
course only twice before we
were married. | learned to
enjoy sex. We would have in-
tercourse almost every night,
and | would usually reach a
mild and very pleasant or-
gasm. My husband was a very
gentle and tender lover. But
our sex life was completely
straight. We didn't experiment
with any of the so-called per-
verted acts. | always remained
passive throughout inter-
course.

My swinging life began at a
party, which | went to while my husband was away on a business
(rip for two weeks, The couple who had invited me were friends,
but not really close friends, and | considered it as an evening away
from my three children and household duties. | went in complete
innocence. | wore a black cocktail dress, about mid-thigh in length
and having a rather low neckline. | also wore, as always, a garter
belt and stockings—my husband objects to pantyhose. The party
consisted of five couples and an extra man. It soon became
apparent that | had been invited as a date for this Chet. whom I'd
never met before. | knew | should leave, but ! didn't know how to
get out of it gracefully.

So / had a couple of drinks with Chet, and we spent some time
dancing. At one point lights were turned out until only one small
lamp remained on. While Chet and | were dancing, ! felt him
getting a hard-on. | tried to pull away, but he only held me closer
and went on rubbing his cock against me. His hands began
playing over my tits and ass. When | moved one of his hands, the

other would attack. He started
whispering to me that he was
going to “fuck your ass off.” No
man had ever talked to me like
that before.

Chet soon maneuvered me
back into a corner and started
kissing me. And my nipples
were already erect when he
got his hand inside the top of
my dress and started playing
with my tits. | couldn't slap
him—I didn't want anyone to
know what was going on. He
had me pinned against the
wall, and his other hand was
working my dress up in front
until he was able to get his
hand inside my panties. |
thought that if | let him feel me
up a little, he might be satis-
fied. But as soon as | felt his
fingers slide up the lips of my
pussy, | found myself getting
so hot | couldn't stand it. Chet
pulled my hand to his cock and
asked how | would like to have
it rammed all the way up my cunt. He didn't wait for an answer but
worked my panties down my thighs and knees until they fell to the
floor—and he pocketed them. | made one last effort to resist and
told him | had to ieave, Unfazed, he told me if | didn't put out to him,
he would leave at the same time and then tell everyone that he had
screwed me.

We were soon dancing again, but now my dress was hiked up in
front. His cock was rubbing between my legs and over my cunt,
separated only by his trousers. Then Chet danced me into a
bedroom and pushed me onto a bed. He shoved my dress up and
spread my legs, but instead of mounting me, he went down on me.
! was horrified until | felt that hot tongue of his flicking over my
clitoris. In what seemed like only seconds, he had me on the verge
of coming

| wanted Chet to go on eating me, but his lips left my cunt, and he
moved up between my legs. He pulled my hand to his cock and
told me to put it in for him. Not until | had itin my hand did | have any

All inquiries are treated in confidence. Send to
Xaviera Hollander, Penthouse Magazine. 909 Third Avenue. New York, N.Y. 10022
Miss Hollander regrets that no private replies can be supplied

33

"idea how thick it was. | didn't think | could
take it. | couldn't even close my hand
around it—it-seemed twice as big as my
husband's. | guided the head to my pussy,
but he wouldn't put itin me. When my hips
raised up. Chet backed off and told me to
ask him to fuck me, When | said the words,
he slipped the head into me and made me
ask him again and again. Each time / asked
him to fuck me, he gave me a little more of
his cock until he was about halfway into me.
(Even then, he was farther into me than my
husband had ever been.) | guess | was
screaming at him to fuck me. He asked if I'd
suck his cock. | told him I'd do anything he
wanted if he would just give it all to me.

At that, Chetrammed his cock all the way
up my pussy, and / started coming like |
had never made it before. | guess | sort of
went wild. He pulled my legs around him
and started fucking me. There was nothing
gentle about it. He was ramming his cock in
and out of me as hard and as fast as he
could, using his hands on my hips to guide
the movements. | made it three times in that
first fucking, and the second and third or
gasms were as strong as the first one. It
wasn't just the coming. It was also lying
there with my dress up, with the feeling of
that huge prick stroking through my cunt. It
was the most beautiful feeling in the world! |
didn't want it ever to end. He taught me
more about fucking in those few minutes
than I'd learned with my husband in seven
years.

Chet pulled his cock oul of me and went

34 PENTHOUSE

i al Oe all ne

ee eee ee ee ee

down on me again. This time he went on
eating me until | made it. He went right on,
giving me more of his tongue until | was
close again. Then he moved up and strad-
died my face. Chet began by stroking the
head of his cock over my lips. | was sure
that if he actually got it into my mouth, I'd
get sick. He reached back with his other
hand and started fingering me, and he
soon had me moaning. And then his cock
slipped into my mouth. | was amazed at
how exciting | found the act to be. He told
me how to suck and lick his cock. When he
started coming, | didn't know what to do
with his jazz. | held it in my mouth for a
moment and then gulped down every last
drop of it.

Chet got off me, and another man moved
between my legs. I'd not even been aware
of the others coming into the room. But at
this point | didn't care— just wanted to be
fucked and fucked. After Bob screwed me,
they took my dress off. They explained that
it was a Swinging group and that this was
my initiation. | took on all six men in my
mouth and pussy—usually in both at the
same lime. Wher the party broke up, | went
to a mote! with Chet.

For the rest of the time that my husband
was away, | got laid by at least one of these
men every night. Bob was the first man to
fuck me in the ass. (It hurt when he first put
it in me, but after a few strokes, it felt great.)

When my husband got home from his
trip, | tried to settle down, But it was use-
less, | found myself wanting and needing

rR TSS ores ory

Fem oe i ie
these new sex thrills. | began noticing other
men. After a couple of weeks, | began ac-
cepting daytime dates with one of these six
men. | waited anxiously for my husband's
next business trip.

One afternoon | went to a bar with the
sole intention of letting a man pick me up.
Within a few minutes, | was sitting in a booth
with a rather handsome man, and he had
his hand under my skirt, stroking my thighs.
No one could see, but it was exciting to be
played with in public. He asked how much
it was going to cost him. I'd never thought
of charging to let him get into my panties,
but the idea of serving as a whore really
turned me on. | suggested fifty dollars. Of
course, | never expected him to agree. But
he did, He wanted to “feel the merchan-
dise” before buying; so | let him feel me up
and finger me before we left the bar. | also
agreed to let him do anything to me he
wanted.

At first he just wanted to get a blowjob
and to come all over my face. But he also
screwed me, and then he wanted to stroke
his cock all over my tits. He wanted to
watch me fingering myself, too. Later that
same afternoon, he became the first man to
piss on me. | loved it! (| guess | associate it
with a man coming all over me.)

The upshot of all this was that | began to
be less passive with my husband. It began
one night as we lay in bed, naked, with my
head on his stomach. | began to play with
his cock, When he didn’t object, | became
more daring: | kissed his cock arid told hit
| had been wanting to do that for a long
time. He seemed to enjoy it; so | went on
kissing and licking his cock. Eventually, |
had his entire rod in my mouth. From that
time on, a blowjob was a reguiar part of our
sex life, but it was almost two weeks before
| let him come in my mouth.

One evening | asked him if he'd ever
slept with another woman. The question
rather shocked him, and he said no. When |
asked if he'd ever wanted another woman,
he hedged a bit and then told me about a
waitress who turned him on. Subsequently,
| often brought the subject up. When we
saw a pretty girl on the street, I'd ask if he'd
like to go bed with her. | told him one night
that | didn't think I'd really mind if he had
intercourse with another woman. At that, he
asked if I'd ever wanted another man and if
I'd ever put out. | told him that I'd never
thought about it much but that the idea was
exciting. (As we talked, | had my husband
put it into me. The conversation really
turned us both on.)

It was months later before | let my hus-
band talk me into putting out for another
guy. | finally agreed—on the condition that
he be present. We decided that | would /et
aman pick me up in a bar. I'd see to it that
the man had his hand under my skirt before
my husband joined us. And my husband
would then suggest that the three of us go
to a motel. Everything went as planned.
and the evening was a tremendous three-
way success.

From that time on I've been getting laid
several times a week. My husband and |

a. ‘ . a

find each other far more exciting after
another man has had me. He is often along
on my dates to share me with other men. He
loves to fuck me while I'm sucking another
man's cock. He insists that when a man
comes in my mouth, | let a little jazz run over
my lips. He has watched me in gang-
bangs, and he has seen me in bed with
black lovers. My husband even arranged a
lesbian date for me, something I've come
to enjoy very much. My girl friends are
bisexual, and | enjoy sharing them with my
husband.

| believe that | have the right to spread
my legs for any man! meet, to be fucked as
often as | please, and to participate in any
sex act, so long as sex can be good for
both my partner and me, and so long as no
harm comes to my marital status. These are
the only rules that count

Society may frown on my sexual actions,
but that is somebody else's problem. If my
husband can enjoy watching other men
fuck me, | want him to be there to watch me
go wild while some big stud packs that
meat into me —H_A., Ohio

Long live uninhibited women like you! As
long as your husband agrees with your
ideas, there's absolutely nothing wrong
with your actions. Few people will fully
agree with your views on sexuality, of
course—some people still have the idea
that you have to love the person before you
can have sex. | myself live a life somewhat
ike yours: | definitely know how to differ-
entiate between sex for the sake of sex and
sex for the sake of love. If you love a per-
son, you should be happy to see your part-
ner having fun and pleasure. In your case,
your husband realizes that you need the
outside action. Perhaps you even appreci-
ate him more because of all these other
men you've had. Live and let live. Love and
let love

A NIGHT AT THE FIGHTS
I've wrestled several women in the past,
but just recently I've been put through my
most humiliating paces. My own wife
makes a habit of humiliating me in anyway
she possibly can. Everytime | lose, | get a
bare-assed spanking, and | have yet to
beat her. On top of that, | have to suck her
toes and lick her ass and cunt. Also, every-
time | lose, | don't get fucked: no matter
how my cock swells, my wife won't fuck me
She now says that unless | can beat herina
wrestling match, she won't fuck me again
She has had two of my so-called friends
sleep with her each night so they can per-
form my marital duties. They alternate on a
Gaily—or nocturnal—basis. She's forced
me to sleep on the hard floor, and it's not
unusual to have my wife and her lover at-
tack me in the night

I'm telling you, Xaviera, | don’t know whal
fo do. I've been punished and humiliated
by her and my so-called friends. They go
out, and | have to clean the house, make
the supper, and give her breakfast in bed.
If | say just one word out of place, I’m pun-
ished. Xaviera, how can| get my wife back?

CONTINUED ON PAGE 172

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35

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He smokes for pleasure.

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Turkish and
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me 19 mg. “tar”, 1.2 mg. nicotine av. per cigarette, FIC Report APR. ‘76.

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~ :

7

SS,

VIEW FROM THE TOP

PRESIDENTIAL PILOVV TALK

people? This nettlesome question has long troubled lofty
minds, like Suetonius, and puny ones, like Bob Woodward.
Should Caesar's and Nixon's dirty linen be hung out for all to see?
|! began to scratch at the nettles lodged in my own mind recently while |
was reading Kay Summersby Morgan's book about her love affair with
Dwight D. Eisenhower. The then-Miss Summersby was a British fashion
model who served as General Eisenhower's driver during World War II.
She admits she wanted to provide more service, but, sadly, Ike turned out
to be impotent. Sublimation may have been the creative force behind the
Pieta, and, apparently, it was no less responsible for the D-Day invasion.
| was wondering about the propriety of Miss Summersby's revelations
when the daily mail delivered a package containing several reels of tape.
Penthouse can always be counted on to come up with exclusive informa-
tion, but these tapes, even though they hummed with history, brought the
issue of private sex lives to a head. However, after deep reflection and
several consultations with our lawyers, we decided it would be wrong not
to share some excerpts with you.

Be ow much should we be told about the private lives of public

March 2, 1962 —“Angie, you've got a terrific body.”

“Thanks, Mr. President, but I'm not Angie; I'm Judy.”

“Then where's Angie?”

“There's nobody named Angie here, Mr. President. You're smoking too.
many of those funny cigarettes . . ."

“Well, who's that under the blankets?”

(Muffled) “Marilyn.”

“Come on out, Marilyn; I've got some-
thing for you.”

“No. Anyway, Bobby's bigger.”

“Ah, let me say this about that:
bullshit.”

“Mr, President, what are you doing
with that powder box with Fidel Castro's
picture on it?”

“Watch. | just sprinkle a little on your
lovely toes, and...”

“Omigod! Mr. President, all my pubic
hair fell out!”

“Yeah. That's really nifty stuff. Allen
Dulles gave it to me. Here, have a
Cigar. ...°

September 18, 1966 —“‘Okay, honey, the
president of all the people is here, and
I'm gonna hang your coonskin on the
wall.”

“Ouch, Mr. President. Quit picking me
up by the ears. We've got to quit meeting
this way. | think your wife is getting sus-

picious, and I'm goddamn sick and tired of dressing up in this silly beagle
outfit.”

“Hush, now, honey. You jes drop your drawers and I'll show you my
scar."

“Screw your scar. How many women in Washington have you slept

with anyway?”

“More 'n Kennedy. And that guy would screw anything that walked, half
that crawled, and most that creeped.”

“Yes, but Kennedy went to Harvard.”

(Sobbing) “Damn you. Here, take your Ken-L-Ration and your electric
toothbrush and scram."

June 8, 1970 —“It’s a rovery bedioom, Mr. Plesident, but what will your
wife say?”

“America can't stand Pat.”

“Lhope no one knows |'m here.”

“Only John Dean, and if | can’t trust Dean, | can't trust anybody.”

“Mr. Plesident, your Amelican frag pin is on my critoris, and someone
rubbed hamburger into your trousers. Prease, take off your brue suit and
your tie ... yes, and your shorts ... For heaven's sake, Mr. Plesident,
there must be some other reason they call you the Big Enchirada.”

(Expletive deleted)

“Hey, in the navy they told me that Chinese pussy ran athwartships . . ."

“That's sirry. We have a vertical smile
like everybody else... Ah, that’s it, Mr.
Plesident...”

(At this point there is an eighteen-
second gap in the tape.) F

“Oops, Mr. Plesident..."

“Solly, | mean sorry about that, but |
haven't slept with a woman since 1962.”

“What are you doing on your knees?”

“At a time like this, we should pray.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Plesident. Pray with me,
pray with me, prease.”

For space reasons, we cannot print any
more of the transcripts. We have learned,
however, that the complete tapes will
soon be made available for sale to the
general public. The Carter administra-
tion has been meeting with H.R. (“Bob”)
Haldeman, John Ehrlichman, and
Rosemary Woods in order to set up a
task force to edit and market the tapes.
So watch for the commercials on late-
night television announcing how you can
acquire your very own set of Presidential
Sex Tapes. —Arthur Cooper

/
8
&
¥
J

37

Ss

DISCOVERING NEW DRAMA

York Drama Critics Circle

gave only two of its Best Play
awards to American plays. The
other eight winners were British
imports. During the same period,
Broadway's Tony Award for Best
Play went to only four American
works. The British stalked off with
the lion's share again. Consistent
with this, the number of Broadway
productions of original American
plays dropped from twenty-five,
during the 1965-66 season, to
yearly figures that hovered in the
low teens to mid-teens. One bleak
season a few years back saw a
measly ten new American plays
make it to Broadway.

No, the original American play
is not dead. It's just... out there.
Broadway may indeed have for-
saken homegrown drama for mu-
sicals, revivals, and imports. But
elsewhere in the country—from
New York's vast noncommercial
theater network to the sixty-some
regional theaters thriving in every
state in the union—new plays are
alive and flourishing.

Regional theaters are nothing
new on the theatrical map. An
independent-theater movement
tried to decentralize theater in
America as early as 1910; and in
the late 1940s and early 1950s
resident repertory companies
Popped up all around the country.
Zelda Fichandler, artistic director
of Washington's renowned Arena
Stage and one of the pioneers of
the regional theater movement,

| the last ten years, the New

reminds us that many of these
theaters are still functioning. She
also points out that “women—
unique, forceful individuals like
Margo Jones, Nina Vance, and
Edith Markson—stood in the
vanguard of the resident theater
movement.”

Still, it took the decline of origi-
nal drama on Broadway, the en-
trance of the big funding founda-
tions, the reawakening of televi-
sion-besotted audiences to the
theater, and a sudden spurt of
new playwrights in search of a
stage to yank the regional theater
out of its fixation on the classics

_and to transform it into what it is
today—our most fertile source of
original American plays. And
you'd never guess, from that cap-
sule chronicle, how tough the
reawakening was to achieve.

The regional activity this sea-
son alone is prodigious. New Ha-
ven’s Long Wharf Theatre has the
distinction of premiering Arthur
Miller's new play, The Arch-
bishop's Ceiling. The Yale Reper-
tory Theatre, another New Haven
theatrical landmark, introduced
Suicide in B-flat, a new work by
our most important experimental
dramatist, Sam Shepard. Ina
boldly innovative move, the Mark
Taper Forum in Los Angeles, the

Washington Arena Stage, and the
Hartford Stage Company will
jointly mount a “split-premiere” of
Christopher Durang’s new work,
History of the American Film. The
Dallas Theatre Center will pre-
miere a new play by Preston
Jones, author of A Texas Trilogy,
last season's most well-traveled
production on the regional theater
circuit that stretches from Seattle,
Wash., to Washington, D.C. And,
come summer, the Eugene O'Neill
Theatre Center will showcase, in
a single month, another dozen
brand-new works by American
writers. So what's all this talk
about “tough”?

According to the artistic direc-
tors of some of the most active re-
gional theaters in the country,
producing new plays is the riskiest
aspect of their work. If you do off-
the-wall innovative pieces, you
lose your subscription audience.
If you don't do them, you lose your
foundation grants. If you produce
a flawed work, the critics will kill
you. If you turn down the half-
cooked script, the playwright will
clean it up and take it to another
regional house. which will then
get all the glory and the profit
percentage when the show
moves to Broadway. If you trans-
fer your shows to New York, you'll

38

Miller: New Haven premiere

get the reputation of being a “try-
out house,” and the commercial
producers will swarm all over your
bones. And if you keep yourself to
yourself, the other kids will call
you a loser.

Thus the specters that haunt a
regional theater's dreams. Of the
troublesome variables, artistic
directors seem to fret most over
their subscription audiences, the
foundations, Broadway, and the
critics. In more or less that order.

“Regional theaters are always
whining that they want to do new
plays but that their subscription
audiences won't buy the idea,”
says Adrian Hall, who started the
Trinity Square Repertory Com-
pany in Providence, R..I., thirteen
years ago, and who plays his own
10,000-strong subscribers like
Jascha Heifetz plays his fiddle.
“That's a dreary excuse and a real
cop-out,” he insists.

Hall's record of producing an
almost equal number of new
works and classic plays each
season is especially impressive
when you consider his audience
and the kind of work he does.
Providence is a politically conser-
vative city, with a 90 percent
Catholic population that probably
thinks A Man for All Seasons is
the greatest piece of theater since
King Lear. Hall zings them with
goodies like James Purdy's Eus-
tace Chisholm and the Works, a
sexually frank drama that features
nudity, homosexuality, and an
on-stage abortion.

UPI

“All hell came down on us for
that one,” Hall admits, “but | must
say that we did wonderful busi-
ness." Furthermore, Trinity's sub-
scribers, in responding to a ques-
tionnaire mailed in the wake of the
uproar, voted overwhelmingly for
more new plays. “So don't let me
hear that audiences won't support
original work,” Hall crows. “They
will, if you stay at it long enough.
And I've got the votes to prove it.”

It's harder to fiddle the founda-
tions. Gordon Davidson, artistic
director of Los Angeles’s Mark
Taper Forum since its inception
ten years ago, states candidly that
“premieres are important to a re-
gional theater's survival. Doing
new plays is how you get your
grants.”

Another untouchable, New Ha-
ven's Long Wharf Theatre, has in-
creased its ratio of original plays
to revivals to an impressive four to
three. Butits artistic director, Arvin
Brown, has some harsh words for
the “project funding” adopted by
the foundations during the late
sixties and early seventies. Al-
though that policy, now on the
wane, strong-armed many malin-
gering theaters into developing
original material, Brown feels that
its overall effect was harmful. “I
watched a lot of theaters being

forced to overextend them-
selves," he contends. “They
couldn't get funds just for their
own survival; so they had to start
special projects that foundations
would support, but that they later
had to abandon.”

Many of the lesser-light region-
al theaters, either ill-equipped or
simply resistant to springing un-
known works on their classics-
glutted subscribers, tried to
finesse the foundations by open-
ing small, secondary facilities for
“works-in-progress.” Artistic di-
rectors of the major theaters, who
take their chances with full-staged
productions of new plays, shriek
like banshees when they see
somebody getting away with this
maneuver. A more objective ob-
server, director Tony Giordano,
calls these basement projects a
“clever” way of getting funded for
developing new plays without ac-
tually doing them.

“They generally start with a
reading,” says Giordano,.who, as
a “visiting fireman" director for
several regional theaters, has ob-
served the process many times.
“If the reading goes over well,
they may do a small, workshop
production. A lot of theaters hold
audience seminars at this point to
get some feedback, so they can

A scene from Preston Jones's ATexas Trilogy.

decide whether to take the chance
and do it on the main stage.”
Under this cautious procedure,
some new plays do get on. Most
don't. And, according to Gior-
dano, “the major productions are
still things like Arsenic and Old
Lace and The Three Sisters.”

The prospect of transferring
productions of their new plays to
Broadway both thrills and chills
the regional theaters. In addition
to the profit share that a theater
gets with a commercial move, the
Broadway visibility solidifies its
reputation, making those ever-
elusive foundation grants easier
to grab. A heavy rep also attracts
the best new scripts, the best pro-
fessional creative talent. But a
cheek-by-jowl relationship with
the commercial theaters carries
darker implications.

“There are dangers,” warns
Arvin Brown, who admits to feel-
ing “defensive” about the many
Long Wharf productions that have
gone on to Broadway. “All those
producers scouting the regions
can threaten a theater's indepen-
dence, alter its identity,” he says,
adding that the Long Wharf
“doesn't do its work for any New
York sanction” and won't allow
any production to be motivated by
Promises of a future Broadway
move.

Across the country, at the Mark
Taper, Gordon Davidson feels just
as edgy. ‘The tight economic
scene on Broadway has brought
the producers out prowling the re-
gions,” he says, “and that's okay,
as long as the relationship is a
true partnership. But a lot of these
people would take an option on a
new play and then look around for
a regional house in which to try it
out in safety. They act like they're
doing us a big favor. But if we're
only their tryout house, we wind
up financing some of their work for
them.”

Some theaters, like the Actors’
Theatre of Louisville and (until
producer Robert Whitehead dis-
covered Preston Jones's A Texas
Trilogy) the Dallas Theatre
Center, achieve independence
through insularity. More indige-
nous to their regions than the

Jones: opening in Dallas.

companies along the “eastern
theater corridor,” these midwest-
ern and southern theaters actively
encourage writers to discover
their regional voices.

Neither Broadway nor the crit-
ics seem to influence such thea-
ters outside the Los Angeles-
East Coast axis. Not until some-
body like W. Duncan Ross, artistic
director of the Seattle Repertory
Theatre, reminds us that no thea-
ter anywhere enjoys complete au-
tonomy. “The development of new
dramatists is the single most in-
fluential factor in obtaining grants
from national sources,” says
Ross, addressing his Puget
Sound subscription audience.
“We started our Second Stage for
the development of experimental

UPI

and new work. The continued |

existence of that theater largely
depends on what national funding
the operation can attract. The crit-
ical climate in this town is the
single most important factor that
inhibits the development of our
theater as a force on the national
scene.”

In his attack on the Seattle crit-
ics, Ross rather nakedly sums up
the political and economic sides
to what Arvin Brown calls “the
new-play race” being played in
America's noncommercial thea-
ters. The flow of original plays
coming out of the regional com-
panies may be the healthiest thing
to happen to the theater in years.
But you've got to admit—it ain't all
aesthetics. — Marilyn Stasio

39

DREAM DATE

ight in the middle of the
dreamiest dance of her
very first high-school

prom, Carrie asks her partner,
Tommy, for the umpteenth time
why in the world he invited, of all
people, her. And Tommy, who ac-
tually has no reason except that
his girl friend, Sue, more or less
ordered him to, answers that
maybe it was because Carrie liked
his poem, the one he submitted in
English class, supporting ecology
and the right of young people tobe
young, It was an awful poem, but
sensitive, considering thatit came
from the school's star athlete. And
Carrie thought it was beautiful.

So they dance on, wallflower
Carrie now truly lovely in her
self-made gown and with her
freshly brushed hair, Tommy as
handsome as the young Robert
Redford he so uncannily resem-
bles. Then, he smiles his slightly
loony smile and mutters. not
exactly into thin air, “Only | didn't
write it.”

| don’t know what Carrie thinks
of this revelation, among the last
words she is to hear on the last
night of her life. She doesn't regis-
ter any special response. But |
find it pretty weird, assuming that
Tommy has only the kindest inten-
tions. And it becomes a troubling
and rather typical grace note to
the general weirdness of Brian De
Palma's Carrie, a horror film that
ranks among the best movies to
have opened in months.

In one sense, Carrie is a high-

40

school horror film, a genre not so
much in evidence lately but popu-
lar years ago with / Was a Teen-
age Frankenstein, | Was a Teen-
age Werewolf, | Married a Mon-
ster from Outer Space —wonder-
ful titles to remember from the late
1950s, unless you had the misfor-
tune to see the movies that went
along with them. Carrie really be-
longs a good distance out of
that league. It is a contemporary
story, with more immediate debts
to American Graffiti, The Exor-
cist, and Jaws, not to mention the
selected works of Alfred Hitch-
cock. But it looks back with pain
and pleasure at a whole world of
naive adventure, with boys in rent-
ed tuxes and girls in tulle, the
dream date for the senior prom;
even the corny, livid underlighting
that throws the facial bone struc-
ture of the bad guys into evil relief.
It also looks forward to scaring
you out of your theater seat. In her
New Yorker magazine review.
Pauline Kael knew exactly what
she was doing when she labeled
the movie—admiringly — “trash.”

But there is “trash” and trash.
Carrie has some fairly classy rela-
tions among other films, as well as
some very common ones. De
Palma has never been much for
hiding his sources. And if Carrie

i Fikz

never matches the allusive range
of his fascinating previous movie,
Obsession—which goes all the
way from playing tricks on Hitch-
cock's Vertigo to re-creating
insights from;Dante's Purgato-
rio—still, it goes far enough.
When Carrie, with a flick of her
thought processes, turns her
sex-obsessed, salvation-crazy
mother into a present-day St. Se-
bastian (thereby allowing mom to
die a martyr in an ecstasy of pain-
ful penetration), she is not only
giving us the vicarious shudder of
a lifetime. She is also confirming
her own place in a universe that
makes grim sense, from the
vengeful God at the top to the fire
and brimstone at the bottom. De
Palma may be our last medieval
moviemaker. Next to the pseudo-
mystical mumbo jumbo of The
Exorcist (which | greatly enjoy),
the scare tactics of Carrie come
across with the authority of a
cosmological order. In this movie
you have to take seriously even
the directions in the obscenely
scrawied graffiti.

Despite all that, perhaps also
because of it, Carrie is much of
the time a comedy. And it is very
definitely a romance as well. The
villains—! mean the minor vil-
lains, the ones who have the poor

Brian De Palma's Carrie: turning dream into nightmare.

Siss y Spacek

judgment to plot the humiliation of
helpless Carrie—are treated al-
most as straight-comedy charac-
ters. Nancy Allen as Chris, the
wicked high-school glamour girl,
and John Travolta as Billy, the
dumb jerk she goes out with be-
cause she can use him; their plot,
to kill a pig and have its blood slop
down on Carrie after they arrange
things so that she gets chosen
queen of the senior prom; the con-
tinuing banter of their delicate
dialogue (she to him: “You stupid
shit!” and he to her, “Don't call me
that, you fuck!")—all this comes
as honest-to-goodness comic re-
lief from the unfolding of the fate
they have in store for Carrie, and
the fate she will offer in return.
The film's romance is another,
but related, matter. Essentially,
Carrie tells the story of how a poor,
friendless high-school kid, who
suffers her first menstrual period
at the age of sixteen and doesn't
even know what it is, is cruelly
ridiculed by her classmates and
cursed by her mother but also be-
friended, first by a sympathetic
gym teacher (Betty Buckley) and
then by one repentant girl, Sue,
and her obedient Tommy (Amy Irv-
ing and William Katt—a couple of
actors to watch), until she goes to
the prom and blossoms like the
gracious, ldvely flower she wants
to be and, in large part, actually is.
The marvelous portrayal of
Carrie before and after, and espe-
cially during, the process of glow-
ing transformation owes a lot to

Sissy Spacek's performance (the
most impressive young actress
since Isabel Adjani in The Story of
Adéle H.) and possibly even more
toher presence, to the patient, po-
tent sexiness that freckled, red-
headed girls often have to such a
mysterious degree. An ordinary
kid at heart (her favorable re-
sponse to virtually anything: “It's
beautiful!"), but tremendously
appealing, she inspires us to want
her happiness, her wonderful time
at the prom, even while we anx-
iously wait for what lies in store for
her and for what she has in store
for the others.

To miss the romantic aspect of

into bloody horror.

There are’ two Carries, the one
who loves and the one who de-
stroys. And like the sinister female
doubles in some other recent De
Palma movies— Siamese twins in
Sisters, mother and daughter in
Obsession —these two exist be-
cause their world forces them into
separate beings. Carrie is a
movie with a heaven and a hell, or
at least with something up there
that menaces Carrie (which the
camera keeps rising overhead to
look at) and something down
there with which she reaches up
to respond. | don't think the film
makes major statements about

Piper Laurie: life in small-town America.

Carrie —not that there's much
danger anyone might—would be
to miss half the sense of the
movie: its very real attachment to
a young girl's awakening, as well
asits virtuoso control in making us
care about her even as we know
that the story is building toward
the unleashing of the monster
that, with her unasked-for power,
she is ready to become.

Turning dream into night-
mare—that's what Brian De Pal-
ma's Carrie is all about. From its
very first, erotic images of Carrie
fondling her own body in the girls’
shower room—voluptuous im-
ages that give way to her bleeding
and to a barrage of sanitary nap-
kins thrown by her supernaturally
vicious classmates when she
begs for help—to its very last ter-
rifying images (which are, in fact,
another bloody bid for contact), the
film repeatedly moves from reverie

this system; instead, it plays with it
a good deal—andrationalizes the
two sides of its heroine with it, too.
How much more can you ask of a
movie that is scarier than Jaws
and cleverer than The Exorcist,
and also funny and sexy, and re-
markably sympathetic as an illus-
tration of teen-age life in a small
American town?

Carrie succeeds as horror pre-
cisely because it succeeds in
several other ways at the same
time. That has always been one of
Alfred Hitchcock's important les-
sons. And Brian De Palma, a most
astute and innovative student of
the master, has understood it per-
fectly. He has also understood
something hidden in the lesson,
as is the case with Hitchcock. He
has begun to show us that the
stuff with which he teases us can
make great movies as well.
—Roger Greenspun

WORDS

BEYOND TOMORROW

\ cience fiction is a short.
snappy term for a large,
iN lumpy category. Among

the great variety of stories pub-
lished under a science-fiction
label, some try to explore the im-
pact of modern technology on so-
cial customs; others try to re-
create, in futuristic dress, the
grand old myths of yesteryear
(from Homer and Aesop to Beo-
wulf and the Norse Eddas); still
others feature Utopian (or anti-
Utopian) sermons or satires of
contemporary foibles, seen
through the distorting mirror of
the-day-after-tomorrow.

And then there is the science-
fiction adventure story, which is
unlike all other adventure stories
because it has no predetermined
rules. The science-fiction hero
may carry any weapon the author
chooses to invent for him; he may
go anywhere in the known and
unknown universe; he may en-
counter any kind of foe or friend;
and his exploits may be crowned
with any imaginable reward, from
getting the girl to becoming a god
(literally). For readers who don't
mind riding a mental roller coaster
without a seat belt, the science-
fiction adventure story is peren-
nially the most popular subcate-
gory of all.

Recent examples of the genre
include Maske: Thaery, by Jack
Vance (Putnam, $7.95). Maske is
a planet whose history and cus-
toms Vance sketches in a three-

Bettmann Archives

page introduction and a seven-
page “glossary.” The important
fact is that the planet was settled
centuries ago by fanatically reli-
gious earthmen, who suppressed
the local inhabitants and then split
up into warring factions. Thaery.
the plane's dominant region, is of-
ficially at peace, but the old
wounds still fester beneath the
Surface, and there are persistent
rumors of unrest in the hinter-
lands, The hero, Jubal Droad, is a
young man of noble breeding,
from an outlying province, who
comes to the “big city” to seek his
fortune. More or less by accident,
he gets involved in murderous
goings-on, becomes a secret
agent, follows a suspicious
character to a planet that serves
as a galactic Disneyworld, returns
to Maske to defend his family's
honor, and ends up saving his
home-world from a fate worse
than death.

Vance is a smooth, not to say
slick, writer who can laugh at his
characters and himself without
letting his story line falter. His de-
scriptions of the tourist attractions
of the far future are beguiling
and—it turns out—to the point.
One could scarcely resist, for ex-
ample, the Gardens of Paradise,
raised on glass stilts above the

4]

desert, where “the amazed tour-
ist, while sauntering along safely
elevated lanes, will behold no less
than two hundred thousand botan-
ical and quasi-botanical curiosi-
ties, imported from many distant
worlds. When pleasantly languid,
the tourist will be anxious to take
tefreshment at the Pavilion of De-
light, where superb meals are
served by our charming Flowers
of Grace, who also perform amus-
ing pantomimes.”

Mindbridge, by Joe Haldeman
(St. Martin's, $7.95), is a more
ambitious S.F. adventure. It tells
of the accidental invention of a

Joe Haldeman: space opera.

faster-than-light transportation
device, the discovery of a strange
extraterrestrial creature that
makes telepathy possible (if it
doesn't kill you first), and an en-
counter with truly intelligent, and
apparently malign, beings from
outer space. Grafted onto this al-
ready overweight plot is the story
of a love that literally transcends
the grave. To squeeze everything
into a slim 186-page novel,
Haldeman resorts to a telegraphic
style—fifty-three brief chapters,
some of them in the form of
straight narratives, others cast in
the form of interoffice memos,
newspaper clippings, scientific
papers, or tape recordings.
Newcomers to science fiction
may find this book hard going be-
cause of the recurrent technical
jargon (Haldeman is editor in
chief of Astronomy magazine).
But stripped to its essentials,
Haldeman's vision of space ex-
ploration is actually not too differ-
ent from a James Bond mission:
you take your best and your
brightest, you dress them to kill (in
weapon-laden survival suits), and
you send them out, in the hope
that they will be a match for any-
thing they meet. When these
emissaries from earth get exactly
what they are asking for, Halde-
man seems about to make a seri-
ous point, but he doesn't dwell on
it, which is probably just as well.
For all its stylistic gimmickry,
Haldeman’s prose works best
when it sticks closest to the hoary

conventions of space opera: “As
they ran, the aliens changed
shape.... Their torsos sprouted
extra limbs—claws, tentacles,
hairy spider arms. Beautiful faces
grew monstrous with huge lumi-
nous eyes, terrible fangs. Seduc-
tive curves hidden by hair, scales,
plates, feathers .... All different,
all horrible, all bent on bloody
murder.”

John Crowley's Beasts (Dou-
bleday, $5.95) demonstrates just
how serious a science-fiction
novel can be and still remain
within the compass of science-
fiction adventure. Set in a near
future, when the United States
has been torn apart by a long civil
war (causes not explained), the
book describes the efforts of vari-
ous surviving parties to pick up
the pieces. There are the rem-
nants of the shattered central
government, joined together in an
organization called the Union for
Social Engineering (USE) —ha-
bituai power wielders scheming to
regain power for its own sake.
There are individuals and groups
who are anxious to bring a sem-
blance of order to small portions
of the anarchic continent. There
are nature-lovers who welcomed
the breakdown of government
(because the resulting anarchy

ay

42

halted the rape of the environ-
ment) and who now devote them-
selves to stewardship of the con-
valescing land. And then there are
the “leos” —half man, half lion,
spawned by some ghastly exper-
iment in genetic engineering. The
leos are as intelligent as human
beings; yet they are as different
from men as any creature from
outer space could be. The min-
ions of USE recognize the leos as
the main obstacle to the reasser-
tion of man’s dominion on earth,
whereas other men see in the leos
that truly natural sovereignty
which self-alienated human be-
ings could never achieve.

Crowley writes beautifully
about a broad spectrum of
“beasts"—from falcons and dogs
to hunters and lovers. His book is
permeated with religious and
mythological overtones and a
sense of history-in-the-making.
But what really holds it together is
a strong narrative line that makes
the reader care about the fate of
Painter, the chief of the leos. Pur-
sued by a variety of characters for
avariety of reasons, Painter fights
for survival—but on his own |
terms. An enigmatic, unforget-
table character in an enigmatic,
unforgettable book.—Gerald
Jonas

SOUNDS

THE PUNK UNDERGROUND

e's tough tonight, with a
nonfilter cigarette dan-
gling from his soft, ado-

lescent lips as beads of warm
sweatrun down his hairless chest.
Standing in front of the New York
rock club, C.B.G.B., he’s imagin-
ing himself as Brando, flexing his
self-image, imagining knife fights
in alleys or plugging chicks like
there's no tomorrow. Tough. real
tough, like the rock band inside,
The Ramones, who are the es-
sence of the emerging rock trend,
Punk Rock.

To him, Punk is new. But he’s
too young to know that the
Ramones are direct recastings of
the bands that marked the Golden
Age of Rock in the sixties, when
the Stones were shit-kicking
mean, the Kinks were tough, the
Yardbirds hard, and the Velvet
Underground all that and more. All
he knows is that Punk is In. Forget
the glitter and the eye makeup,
the platforms and the Hustle. Now
it's hard rock, loud and aggres-
sive, played by horny guys no
father would let his daughter near.

The bands—The Ramones,
Television, Talking Heads, the
Runaways, Tuff Darts, and the
Heartbreakers—got together in
places like Rhode Island, Califor-
nia, Queens, and Florida, wher-
ever kids, guitars, and dreams
mix. Somehow they have all con-
verged on one club, the pagoda of
Punk, C.B.G.B., a scuzzy little
dive on the Bowery in New York.

There they flirt with stardom, re-
membering that Patti Smith
played there before it all hap-
pened for her. Indeed, the
Ramones have an album out on
Sire Records, Television is signed
with Electra and is about to re-
lease its first LP, and Atlantic has
released a double Punk album,
Live at C.B.G.B. These bands
sense the excitement around
them as the rock press flocks to
their cause, fresh from creating
stardom for Bruce Springsteen
and Patti Smith.

Not that anyone knows what
Punk really is. In the fifties,
“punks” were the skinny kids who
even smelled creepy, the kids
whom hoods used to slap around
just for the hell of it. In the prison
world, punks are the submissive
partners in homosexual relation-
ships. But in pop music, the term
connotes music's young ruffians,
those having cult followings and
futures that loom much bigger
than an interim underground
Status.

“Punk Rock?” asks Punk
magazine editor, John Holstrom.
“It's a kid picking up a guitar and
becoming a rock-'n’-roll star de-
spite or because of his lack of
ability, talent, intelligence, limita-
tions, and/or potential; and usu-

Tom Verlaine of Television.

A

The Ramones: sometimes the songs get stuck in your head

ally doing so out of frustration,
hostility, a lot of nerve, and a need
for ego fulfillment. it takes a lot of
sophistication or, better yet, none
at all to appreciate Punk Rock."
The Ramones are Punk. In the
interest of the group image, each
member “changed” his own last
name. Now they are simply Joey
Ramone, Dee Dee Ramone,
Tommy Ramone, and Johnny
Ramone. They dig hanging out
with old groupies left over from the
kinky New York Dolls, like this one
chick who scares off other girls
because of the cigarette burns on
her thighs. “Sometimes the songs
stick in your head even when you
don't want them to,” says the
Ramones’ manager, Danny
Fields. When the Ramones per-
form, one hard-rock song follows
another, all nearly identical and
separated by only a four-beat
Pause. Their progression is made
more interesting, however, by
changes of key (B,B,A,E,D,B,E,
D, E, Eb, A, and C). In “53rd and
3rd,” the Ramones’ ode to a psy-
chotic homosexual hustler, we
hear: ‘Then | took out my razor
blade / Then | did what God for-
bade / Now the cops are after me /
But | proved that I’m no sissy.”*
Similarly adolescent is the
music of Television, a group that
owes a lot to the mid-sixties
group, Thirteenth Floor Elevator.
A mixture of pinball and poetry,
their music draws on sexual frus-

*Copyright © 1976 Taco Tune/Blue Disque
ASCAP

tration heightened by frantic
needs and heroic self-images.
These guys are anguished and
cynical, demanding that they be
accepted as everything they
aren't. Their lyrics are suggestive
of a horny, T-shirted kid at a drive-
in with his date, as even the song
titles indicate: “Hard on Love,”
“One on Top of Another,” “Love
Comes in Spurts." Television's
lead singer, Tom Verlaine, as-
sumes the beat pose, wearing
torn T-shirt, black jeans, and worn
sneakers. He is the Punk Sex Ob-
ject: skinny, languid, and, as Patti
Smith has put it, “blessed with
long-veined hands reminiscent
of the poet strangler, Jack the
Ripper ... a guy worth losing your
virginity to.”

These Punk bands carry on the
tradition of underground stars
such as Lou Reed. The Ramones
toy with toughness, thinking their
leather jackets make them men.
Television lounges in a romantic
self-image that borders on self-
indulgence. And these two groups
and the other Punk bands are now
riding out the growing Punk Wave.
It's a pop phenomenon that's
been seen and heard before, a re-
turn to the sound and look of hard
rock that is supported by the tradi-
tional adolescent concerns of sex
and self-image. But trend or no
trend, the Punk Wave has offered
little in the way of musical sub-
stance. As pop phenomena go,
Punk Rock should. And quickly.
—Henry Post

43

THE HOLY GHOST OF C&W
When Bob Dylan finally yielded to
the pressure of extensive an-
noyance maneuvers and permit-
ted Rolling Stone Editor Jann
Wenner to interview him in 1969,
the result was an assault on the
sensibilities Dylan had midwifed
earlier in the decade. Plainly,
truculently, he insisted that his
songs were empty of hermetic
message, that to think of them
elsewise was stupid. To the glar-
ing chagrin of his interviewer,
Dylan spoke in prose bare of pre-
tension and intellectual conceit.
When asked which songs of the
past year he had especially liked,
Dylan named a record and a
singer unknown to most of Rolling
Stone's readers: “Small-Time
Laboring Man,” a 1968 country hit
by George Jones.

Bob Dylan's praise of George
Jones—admirably shocking in
the context of late-sixties media
spray—was far less remarkable
to followers of real southern
music, for whom the reliable fire of
George Jones's greatness had
been a truism for fifteen years.

Nor today, as George Jones
begins his third decade of records
and fame, has the truism dimmed.
Ask Waylon Jennings, ringleader
of country music's outlaw fops,
who his favorite singer is. Ask
Delbert McClinton, avatar of
Texas rock'n'roll, who his favorite
singer is. Their answer is George
Jones.

Jones was born September 12,
1931, in Saratoga, a small town in
east Texas, about twenty miles
from Beaumont. East Texas has
been called, by Texans, the red-
neck capital of the world. Vidor, a
town just east of Beaumont, has a
newspaper that has been known
to cover Ku Klux Klan activities in
its society column.

George cut his first records in
Beaumont in 1953 for Pappy Daily
and Jack Starnes's new record
company, Starday. Late in 1955 he
had his first hit, “Why, Baby,
Why?” a strong, up-tempo “cheat-
ing” song in the Hank Williams
style. The following year George
had another hit on Starday, “What
Am | Worth?” a heart-in-m’-hand

honky-tonker that was blander,
lyrically, than “Why, Baby, Why?”
but that offered a richer, more po-
tent vocal.

From 1957 to 1961 George re-
corded for Mercury. His best-
selling and best-known records
from these years are “White
Lightning,” a hard-pulsed rocker
that crossed over to the pop
charts; “The Window up Above,”
asong of adultery and despair, full
of fast, concise cruelties; and
“Tender Years," written by Jones's
friend, Darrell Edwards.

In the fall of 1961, George
signed with United Artists. and it
was for United Artists that he re-
corded his first fully mature work.
No longer did George’s voice
bring Hank Williams to mind (nor
Lefty Frizzell, as in “The Window
up Above”). His powers of mouth,
his preternatural sense of rhyth-
mic nuance, his mastery of sound
itself, were brilliant. To call him the
red-neck Caruso is too coy; he is
the spirit of country music, plain
and simple, its true Holy Ghost.

Listen, for example, to “Open
Pit Mine,” recorded in 1962. The
song possesses all the stuff of a
classic country song plus’ some
dark twists: sex, jealousy, murder,
suicide, and the great, grim neon

mandala. In it George's voice glim-
mers between sadness and icy
detachment. He sings the words
loved and shot without emotion,
as if he were mouthing common-
place verbs; at times he seems to
implode with insanity, as when he
utters the words open pit mine.
It's one of the most macabre,
powerful performances in country
music. Likewise, his version of
“Warm Red Wine,” which Cindy
Walker wrote for Bob Wills in
1949, is an unrelenting tale of
compulsion and ruin, almost mys-
tical in the strengths of its
simplicities.

In 1965 George joined Musicor;
it was a move that he now regrets.
His work during this period was
weak, dull, and mushy. There were
hits, nonetheless, and George
stayed with Musicor for five years.
In 1971 he went to RCA, and later
in that year he moved over to Epic,
his present label.

Since 1955 Jones has had more
than a hundred records on the
charts, and literally no one—not
even George himself—knows
exactly how many albums he has
released in the last twenty years.
The only criticism George has
sustained has been a recurrent
one: musically, the production of

Georges Jones: “| like a good, solid honky-tonk song.”

44

most of his records, especially in
recent years, has been ill-fitting.
Cloying, overladen arrange-
ments, replete with string sections
and spun-sugar background
voices, have often brought him
down to the level of an ordinary
Nashville singer. In 1976 George
himself began to feel the adverse
effects of this and set out to cure
the sickness. Alone Again, his
most recent album, is a confident
step toward frill-less, hard-edged
music, of which George is master.
Billy Sherrill, George's present
producer, is one of Nashville's
superlative craftsmen. and I'm
convinced that George and Billy
together will wreak the Jones
voice as never before, in a mix of
old-line honky-tonk and new-line
production technics. When that
happens, the truism shall spread,
and more people will become
aware of what George Jones is:
the best country singer alive.

Much of George's greatness is
physical, the blessing of synapse
and tissue and muscle; but much
of it is also rooted in his vision of
country music. George Jones is
a powerfully wise and modest
person who knows that middle-
of-the-road country music and
cosmic-cowboy country music are
equally deplorable, and that Roy
Clark and Jerry Jeff Walker are
the same, tedious glob of plasm.

“I get a thrill out of the old rec-
ords—Hank Williams, Lefty Friz-
zell, Ernest Tubb," he confesses.
“I've got too much respect for
country music to abuse it. | don’t
want 11,000 violins and twenty
trumpets on my records. If the
song's there, that's all | need.
That's all anybody needs. Willie
Nelson proved that with ‘Blue
Eyes Crying in the Rain.’ But on
the other hand, progressive coun-
try music to me means very little. |
like a good, solid honky-tonk
song.”

Vogue rides the wind; fad
thrashes and ebbs. The smooth
crooners of wimpy tropes, the
fake outlaws with their spirit-gum
saddle sores and outdated pre-
tensions—they come and go, but
George Jones is always there,
singing. —Nick Tosches

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FORGET WATERGATE!
THE DESTRUCTION OF RICHARD NIXON
‘TOOK PLACE BECAUSE HE
PISSED OFF TOO MANY POWERFUL PEOPLE.

THE BREAKING
OF A PRESIDENT

BY NICHOLAS VON HOFFMAN

inety-nine years after Tammany Tlul’s infamous Boss ‘Kweed died

in jail disgraced. historian Leo Tershkowitz has questioned the

judgment of history. Far from being the symbol of big-city corr up-
tion and machine politics his name has come to stand for. William M. Tweed
may have been a victim of the Vew York Times and the reform crowd, a man
unjustly driven from office and jailed for his championship of the rights ol
the Irish and Jewish immigrants flooding into New York.

Must we wait another century before someone pulls out the old records
and asks what really happened to Richard M. Nixon anc why? A hundred
Vcars from how, a historian may sec Nixon as le ss a criminal than ase lup.
He casily lent himself to being tumed into the ugly frog in the national fairy
tale that has been spun around him—physically ugly, cornmeal mouthed,
without charm or humor, a petty and ungraciously vindictive man to his

ILLUSTRATION BY SEAN EARLEY/SKETCHPAD STUDIO

47

enemies. All he could do in his last months
in office while he was being whacked to
pieces was to perspire and to lick his upper
lip in nervous fright. His considerable polit-
ical skill availed him nothing because he
didn’t understand the nature of the enemy
coalition gathered against him.

As the day of Nixon's. beheading came
nearer, the anger and the shouting grew
louder and the political questions grew
more obscure. A visitor from abroad might
have thought that he was being run out of
town for bad language and breach of
etiquette. The bill of impeachment being
drawn up in the House of Representatives
had dropped minor matters like making
secret war in Cambodia, but those awful
expletive-deleteds were being cited ev-
erywhere as proof of his presidential un-
worthiness. Nary a mention of the fact that
politics is a foul-mouthed trade and that
we've had four-letter word experts in the
White House for at least as far back as
Andrew Jackson's presidency. Articles
were even written attacking Nixon for the
way the tape-recorded conversations with
Ehrlichman and Haldeman drifted through
floating islands of unfinished sentences.

Nixon himself, by most reports, was
flabbergasted, How could he get the bum’s
rush for a third-rate cover-up of a third-rate
burglary attempt?

Since the dawn of the mass-media age,
no other American president has gotten the
treatment Nixon did. By the time he took the
final whirlybird ride, there couldn't have
been fifty daily papers in the country with a
good or even mitigating word for him, The
media roar was necessary for his removal.
Because the American political system
didn't have any precedent for removing a
president, it could only be done in an hour
of terrible anger and unanimity. For that you
need a media rage. Nor can it subside
immediately after the deed is done. No re-
grets must be allowed; everybody must be
spiritually joined in this act of regicide, and
none can be permitted a moment of guilt.
Truman, Ike, and even Lyndon spent their
last years in the pantheon of the living that
Americans erect for their former presi-
dents. But not Nixon. Obloquy has tollowed
him to this hour In Woodward and Bern-
stein's Book-of-the-Month Club selection
things have been written about him that you
couldn't have safely whispered about Ike
in a bar in the years of his retirement. The
media has reviled and degraded Nixon
with everything from accusations of cheat-
ing on his income tax, to sexual impotence,
to broad hints that he’s gay.

In this tornado of diddlybob and vilifica-
tion, Nixon, the politician, absolutely van-
ishes. We're left with the implied proposi-
tion that the only president ever to be run
out of office paid this price for being a
monster in his private life. We're left with a
guy who was a tax cheat, who chiseled
public money for fixing up his houses, who
broke the law and covered it up to win an
election that he'd already won, and who
spied, tapped, peeped, and generally
used the power of the federal government
48 PENTHOUSE

in especially nasty ways against people he
didn't like. He is presented to us as a politi-
cian without politics, a man whose per-
sonal ambition was unconnected to any
policies, any values, any programs

It won't take 100 years for the historians
to see through this one. There are no politi-
cians without politics. And presidents who
do nasty, dishonest, and illegal things get
their sins covered up or forgiven or over-
looked, unless there are political reasons
for nailing them. (For example, RMN wasn't
the first president to be caught lying or
cheating on his taxes. Theodore Roosevelt
was, but his political base was strong, and
the incident was dropped, Bul the media
has sold us the idea that Nixon was the first
and the worst.)

To begin to accept the possibility that
Nixon's premature departure from the
White House may have had something to
do with practical politics, and not just the
triumph of pure good over pure evil, you
have to understand that Nixon's most ad-
vertised crimes weren't unique to him,

%

The media has reviled
and degraded
Nixon with everything from
accusations of cheating
on his income tax,
to sexual impotence, to broad
hints that he's gay.

S

The Nixon people kept asking, “Why are
you picking on us? We're not the first.” They
might also have said, “We're not the worst.”
As wartime presidents go, Nixon had a
record for depriving people of their civil
liberties that was no worse than Truman's or
Johnson's and was incomparably superior
to Franklin Roosevelt's or Woodrow Wil-
son's. It's a wretched, despicable busi-
ness, the government tapping phones,
burglarizing its own citizens at the direc-
tion—explicit or implicit—of the president;
but by the time Nixon had been sworn in to
office, these outrages had come to be con-
sidered part of the ordinary functioning of
the office. Mind you, that doesn't make it
right. But it is suspicious that congressmen
and media executives and other highly
placed people who had known about this
kind of stuff for years suddenly began hol-
lering that our liberties were in jeopardy.
Why didn't they try to impeach Johnson or
Kennedy for the same things? Papers like
the Washington Post knew fourteen years
ago that the FBI was doing a sinister and
unconstitutional number on Dr. Martin
Luther King, Jr. They had to know because
the FBI went around to scores of newspa-

per offices, identified themselves officially
as agents, and offered tapes of King’s sex
life.

For nearly fifty years, since the IRS was
used to nail Al Capone, it has been em-
ployed to nail political unpopulars. That's
how the feds got Dave Beck, Jimmy Hoffa's
predecessor as the president of the Team-
ster's Union; that's how they tried to get
objectionables like the late radical orga-
nizer Saul Alinsky. Then Nixon tried to use
the IRS in the same way, often with limited
and strained cooperation, and the same
elements who were quiet before screamed
for his impeachment. It simply makes no
sense to say that the members of the
House Judiciary Committee were sur-
prised, shocked. and outraged when they
found out that the IRS was being used for
something besides collecting taxes. The
suggestion that Pete Rodino of Newark,
N.J. (that garden spot of naiveté), didn't
know what the IRS does for a living is
ridiculous.

The execution squad needed a bill of
particulars to go after Nixon; so they drew
up a list that included a vast number of
things that had been going on for years.
The question is, Why?

Part of the answer is that it's one thing to
bug black preachers and frame silly little
radicals and another thing to mess with
white men, (Tap King's phone but not Joe
Kraft's.)

And Nixon took on the higher circles ina
variety of threatening ways. By so doing, he
raised up a huge and strategic coalition
against himseif. This coalition was made
invisible by the noise of Nixon's oppo-
nents on the antiwar Left. The giant dem-
onstrations and the ham-handed retalia-
tions by the administration gave Nixon
such a reactionary shape that it obliterated
the hostility to him on the Right.

For instance, the antiwar groups were
enraged by the mining of Haiphong harbor,
bul conservalives viewed as a humiliating
document Nixon's cease-fire agreement
leaving the North Vietnamese army in the
South and ensuring its eventual victory.

The CIA may have been quite willing to
take Nixon’s word that he was a peace-
maker and to hate him for it. Ex-ClA Direc-
tor William Colby's line on Vietnam is a ver-
sion of the stab-in-the-back line that the
German general staff used to explain the
defeat after World War |. Coloy contends
that we didn't win the war because we
didn't follow the CIA's advice, meaning that
Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon didn't
follow its advice. And the CIA or, to be more
cautious, elements in it had other grounds
for resentment toward Nixon, such as his
Russian policy or his playing footsie with
Egypt and Saudi Arabia in the Middle East

It's all highly speculative. The CIA and
Howard Hughes have been blamed for
every unsolved major crime here and
abroad for the past fifteen years. It’s not
surprising that the only explanation for Nix-
on's fall, other than his own villainy, is that
the CIA contrived to destroy him. Many of
the key Watergate figures were or had been

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ClA agents, and Robert Bennett, the Wash-
ington public-relations man whose firm, the
Mullen Company, was considered a CIA
front. is thought by many conspiracy buffs
to be Deep Throat.

The speculation that the CIA did Nixon in
recirculates over and over in various forms.
Alexander Butterfield, the Nixon aide who
told the Senate Watergate Committee
about the White House tapes, has been
accused of being a CIA agent although he
always denies it, (The theory is that Butter-
field was ordered by the High Spooks of
Darkness to let the secret out and ruin Nix-
on.) Another theory goes even further and
suggests that Nixon was somehow set up
even on the burglary. John Dean records a
jailhouse conversation he had with born-
again-Christian Chuck Colson in which the
repentent White House hatchet man asks,
“Do you have any idea why it was Spencer
Oliver's phone in the [Democratic National
Committee] that wound up getting
bugged? . . . Did you know Spencer Oliver
was once planning to ga into business with
Bennett at the Mullen Company? Or that his
father worked for Bennett . . . on the How-
ard Hughes account? Or that [E. Howard]
Hunt says Spencer Oliver worked for the
CIA?"

The CIA may have the means to assassi-
nate a president—although judging from
its record with Castro, it may not have the
aim—but it doesn’t have the power to ruin
him politically. Unmitigated intrigue can
cause mischief and embarrassment for a
president, but if his political base—his
overall popularity—holds up, ClA-planted
revelations can't sink him. That's the pri-
mary reason why Nixon didn't begin to hit
the skids until nearly a year after the Water-

ate break-in, after he had been reelected
py the biggest landslide since G. Washing-
ton ran for a second term. The coalition of
Nixon's enemies had jelled sometime after
the elections.

It must be stressed, again, that Nixon
nad cut off his right-wing support. The de-
feat in Vietnam wasn't all. There was a suc-
cession of actions, such as the establish-
ment of relations with the hated Red
Chinese and the Strategic Arms Limitation
Treaty (SALT) with Russia. Nixon, who al-
ways liked to boast of his firsts, was the first
president since Harding to attempt a seri-
ous disarmament program and the first
president since FDR to make significant
changes in American foreign policy by
recognizing that all Reds aren't brothers
under the skin and by acting accordingly.

At home these policies cost him, He had
to deplete his political savings to get the
hard-liners to go along with him. Disasters
like the Russian wheat deal weakened him
even more, and although the moderate-
liberals in both parties supported the new
departures, they couldn't stand to give him
credit for it. So Henry Kissinger was
lionized and pictured as the brilliant pro-
fessor who was somehow able to sweet-
talk the fanatical. hard-hat president into
refraining from blowing up the world. The
Nixon haters and the Nixon snubbers
50 PENTHOUSE

couldn't believe that Milhous, old droopy-
jowled, disagreeable, commie-baiting
Milhous, had the idea of the opening to
Peking before he'd even met Kissinger, as
this quote from a 1967 Nixon article in For-
eign Affairs shows: “Taking the long view,
we simply cannot afford to leave China
forever outside the family of nations, there
to nurture its fantasies, cherish its hates.
and threaten its neighbors. There is no
place on this small planet for a billion of its
potentially most able people to live in angry
isolation.”

SALT must have put a special strain on
the White House's relations with the State
and Defense departments. Not only did
many of the generals and the diplomats
fear that Nixon had conceded too much.
but also he pissed them off by cutting them
out of the negotiations. (At one point
Semenov, the top Russian negotiator, gave
our top negotiator, Gerard Smith, classified
information about American weaponry that
Smith himself wasn't in possession of. The
Russians hadn't stolen it, they'd been given

®

People who knew
about government burglaries
and wiretaps for years began
hollering that Nixon
threatened our liberties. Why
didn't they impeach Kennedy or
Johnson for the same things?

°

it by Nixon and Kissinger.)

Nixon didn't trust the bureaucracy over
which he was the nominal and the constitu-
tional head. For the nearly six years during
which he was in office, he sought to cir-
cumvent it, clip it, bypass it, and work with-
out it. Kissinger was of the same mind as far
as the State Department was concerned.
Bad relations were made worse by Nixon's
failure to get the money for new weapons
systems, as Johnson had done and as
Ford was able to do, a fact which has per-
suaded the Kremlin that Nixon's downfall
came about because the military-industrial
complex dumped him.

The Pentagon's failure to lift an eyebrow
to help him when he got into trouble is proot
enough that the Russians are at least partly
right, But relations between Nixon and the
inhabitants of the five-sided war palace
were rotten in every way. There was the
matter of Alexander Haig's appointment to
the rank of four-star general and army
vice-chief of staff. Nixon jumped Haig over
240 more senior generals, every last one of
whom must have seen this as a move to-
ward stocking the upper ranks with political
generals who would owe their careers and

give their allegiance to Nixon. Tactics like
this could reduee the admirals and the
generals to a state of subservience to their
commander-in-chief unknown since the
1930s, when the boys in khaki were kept on
such short budget that they had to use
cardboard tanks when they played their
war games.

The brass had to be circumspect when
they made war on their president.
Nevertheless, the evidence of their disloy
alty abounds. They cooperated with Sen,
Henry Jackson in resisting the arms-
limitations agreements and even had their
people spying on Nixon. One of them,
Yeoman First Class Charles E. Radford, as-
signed to clerical duties in Doktor Henry's
National Security Council office, got
caught passing America’s military and dip-
lomatic secrets to the American high com-
mand,

(The spying wasn't all one way, ot
course. Air Force Col. Robert E. Pursley. a
senior assistant to then Secretary of De-
fense Melvin Laird, had insects put on his
telephone, most probably by orders of Nix-
on’s national security adviser, the deep-
toned dumpling of diplomacy, our sweet
Henry. A swell bunch of fellas.)

By election day 1972 the national de-
fense community, as the gun sellers and
the gun buyers are sometimes called, was
alienated. If someone had the power to
knock Nixon off, it wasn't going to try to
save him. Somebody had to take the lead,
and it would follow. But in November of that
year, there was only George (Perish the
Thought) McGovern and Ohio Con-
gressman John Ashbrook, the right-winger
who tried to deprive Nixon of renomination
Republicans have, as we have since
learned, too great a regard even for ap-
pointed presidents to dare to refuse to re-
nominate one. Ashbrook was a sign of the
anger and disappointment all over the
Right with a Republican president who had
not once, but twice, imposed wage-and-
price controls, and also had seriously pro-
posed to Congress that it pass a form of the
negative income tax, the beastly and un-
clean thing that George McGovern was
stumping for.

The Left, the Right, the military, and
spooks all disaffected—that's enough to
give a president a hard time but not to
bring him down. For that more factions were
needed. The next major group to join the
anti-Nixon coalition came from the busi-
ness world, which not only was tired of
controls but also had endured two stock-
market crashes, a liquidity crisis so severe
that some of the biggest corporations in
America were meeting their payrolls by de-
ferring their taxes. Nixon tried to help them,
but he got a lot of bum economic advice,
which is understandable when you make a
cardsharp like John Connally of Texas your
secretary of the treasury. On top of that;
Nixon supported clean air, clean water,
safe jobs, and consumer protection legisla-
tion of all sorts. It didn’t satisfy Ralph Nader,
but it made a lot of businessmen miserable.

So the Nixon administration came to be

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regarded by many businessmen as erralic
and incompetent. But when that happens,
businessmen usually wait until the next
election and hope that the new guy is bet-
ler The government's handling of the
economy was merely negative back-
ground noise for what made Nixon some
serious and unforgiving enemies among
businessmen—the CREEP extortion oper-
ation, with its 10,000-ton, government-
powered, hydraulic press mashing the
campaign contributions out of the corpo-
rate givers.

In one form or another, national politi-
cians have been socking it to big business
for dough tor a long time. As government
has grown and changed, its socker muscle
has grown apace. Today the government
contracts oul many jobs to private industry.
That is why an administration can put the
bite on as never before. Mark Hanna, Wil-
liam McKinley's campaign manager, was a
master at making the guys come across
with the big bucks, but he didn't have much
to work with beyond class solidarity and the
tycoon's general feeling that a man works
best if his foreman's foot is on his neck;
Lyndon Johnson had his President's Club,
which you got to join by kicking in plentifully
and joyfully, in return for which there was
the unspoken, unwritten promise that your
firm would get first crack at the government
goodies. If the Johnson people could be
very friendly. they could also be very un-
friendly, but their shakedowns weren't so
gross, so relentless, and so frighteningly
systematized as Nixon's were.

In 1972, as now, the law makes it a felony
to use corporate money for political con-
tributions. But the pressure by Nixon's
people on scores of businessmen made
them break the law. Because they didn't
have the kind of scratch for which they
were being squeezed, they had to get it out
of the company’s treasury, often by devious
and illegal means, Exactly how much
money was forced out of the business
community may never be known, but the
whole campaign raised tens of millions and
a sizable chunk of that must have arrived in
CREEP'’s vaults via the extortion route. Tip
O'Neill. the new Speaker of the House of
Representatives, tells his story about
George Steinbrenner, a big-shot busi-
nessman with many government contracts,
the major stockholder in the New York Yan-
kees, and a contributor to the Democratic
party. Steinbrenner eventually pled guilty to
violating the campaign law by giving cor-
porate donations to Nixon and Democratic
congressional candidates. In addition, he
had to fess up to inducing his employees to
give false testimony on these matters to the
grand jury and the FBI. Here's Tip O'Neill's
version of these events (as quoted by
Jimmy Breslin in How the Good Guys Fi-
nally Won):

“ _. George Steinbrenner. He's a helluva
guy, | called him up and | said, ‘George, old
pal, what's the matter? Why don't we hear
from you anymore? Is something the mat-
ter? .. .. So what does Steinbrenner say to
me? He said, ‘Geez, Tip, | want to come to
52 PENTHOUSE

see you and tell you what's going on.’ And
he came into my office. He said, ‘Gee, they
are holding the lumber over my head.’ They
got him between the IRS, the Justice De-
partment, the Commerce Department. He
was afraid he'd lose his business. He
said Stans’s [Maurice Stans, ex-secretary
of commerce and top money-raiser for
CREEP] people wanted a hundred
thousand dollars for Nixon's carnpaign,

| guess he had no choice. This Maurice
Stans He has to be the lousiest bastard
ever to live. Now, | was getting this from all
over. Guys began to come in and see me
and say, ‘Tip, I'm having trouble with a con-
tract. | never had trouble before. It's legiti-
mate business. They tell me to see Stans
What can! do?’ . . | said to myself some-
where in the 1972 campaign ... , ‘This fel-
low is going to get himself impeached.’ The
strange thing about it is that | never gave
much. thought to the Watergate break-
in... | never thought it was important. |
was concentrating on the shakedown of
these fellas like Steinbrenner”

When the time
came to shoot Nixon down,
the business
community, like the Pentagon
death community,
stood aside and let
it happen.

®

=

The Noble Tipster is a very smart man,
and in the years that it took him to work his
way up to Speaker of the House he learned
that you don't get impeached if a couple of
dumb schleppers on your payroll get
caught bugging the other side in an elec-
tion. But you do indeed get impeached if
you try to muscle excessive amounts of
money out of scores of the nation's most
influential business types. Moreover, that
extortion scared executives who weren't
being leaned on. They'd know how easily it
could happen to them. But in 1972, al-
though the Steinbrenners around the coun-
try were bitter and angry, most busi-
nessmen felt that they had no place to go.

But by the winter of 1973, four or five
months after the election, when McCord
sent his famous letter to Sirica saying that
the Nixon crowd was paying hush money
and that a cover-up was underway, the
businessmen understood and were quite
capable of telling their buddies, executives
in the media industries, that Nixon was a
louse. Why not? The only compensation for
putting up with that kind of fear of bad
treatment is high profits, and Nixon had
shown that he didn't know how to control

the economy. When the time came to shoot
him down, the business community, like the
Pentagon death community, stood aside
and let it happen.

Another group that did nothing to save
Nixon was composed of the people who
had elected him. The Nixon landslide was
really an anti-McGovern landslide, and
there was no enduring loyalty toward the
president. Oul of all the grass roots, Baruch
Korff, a retired New England rabbi, almost
alone was able to put together the skeleton
of a supporting organization. Korff, who
tried to rescue Nixon, not because he
thought that he was a nice man, bul be-
cause he could still see the president as a
political figure, was unable to generate the
parades, the petitions, the letter writing, the
hoopla and howling that could have saved
him from decapitation

Had Nixon been a proper Republican.
and had the party structures been in a less
advanced stage of decomposition, he
couldn't have been knocked off even if the
mass of voters were indifferent. But Nixon's
Republicanism, for all his treacherously
vicious political scorekeeping on those
who opposed him, was nominal. His New
Majority wasn't Republican; it was “ideo-
logical.” as the Nixon people said by way of
explaining their support for certain Demo-
crats in the 1970 congressional elections,
“Any time you talk Democrats versus Re-
publicans, we lose,” Nixon remarked; “any
time you talk radicals versus responsibles,
we win,” which was fine and true but left
him without allies when he got into trouble.

A president without a party to defend
him, elected by a shapeless mass who
chose him over an opponent whom they
dismissed as a fool, Nixon was already
highly vulnerable betore he began alienat-
ing all the power groups. After having taken
care to make enemies of business, the mili-
tary, agriculture, and half a dozen other
groups, he next proceeded to do a job on
himself with his own federal bureaucracy

One of the problems of being president
of the United States is that—while every-
one thinks the president is the most power-
ful person in the world—he knows that he
can't get anything done. It took thirteen
months of Nixon's almost daily attention to
raze the temporary Navy Department of-
fice buildings, located just to the west of the
White House, which had been built during
the Woodrow Wilson administration. Every
president from Harding's time had wanted
them knocked down, but only Nixon was
willing to hang in and hang tough until the
eyesores were eliminated. Obviously, the
number of projects a president can give
that kind of time and attention to are few
Much of his living at 1600 Pennsylvania
Avenue consists of going through empty,
ceremonial order-giving, which no one un-
derneath him pays much attention to, This
Charles Colson anecdote probably sums
up the modern presidential experience:

“On Friday afternoon early in 1970, Nixon
flew into one of his angry tirades against
the federal bureaucracy. For a year he had
been asking for a simple executive order to

CONTINUED ON PAGE 150

Gallanhens!s

BY ART CUMINGS

“All right, Gregory, get out there and wow them!"

54

PENTHOUSE

SNAP SHOc

PHOTOGRAPHS BY ANTONIN KRATOCHVIL

"Wanted: Woman to share my impossible dreams. She must be blonde,
menacing, gorgeous, with a passionate desire for control over another
woman. Serious replies only, please send snapshot” Monica circled the
ad in the swinger'’s monthly thoughtfully. She thought about it for a while
and then dialed the number of her most trusted friend, Andrea. When
Andrea arrived with camera, as requested, Monica posed for her on the
zebra skin. Her lips gleamed invitingly as the flash cube exploded.
Andrea's fingers shook as she read the circled words in the magazine that
Monica handed to her. “I'll be back tomorrow with a print” she said
tremulously, gazing deep into Monica's eyes, "I think you'll like the results.”

The next day Andrea arrived as promised. She was dressed more
dramatically than Monica had ever seen her, with her glossy black locks
cascading down her back and a low-cut, skin-tight dress revealing her
voluptuous body. “I will show you the snapshot, Monica, but first let me
show you something else,” Andrea said, and slowly she began stepping
outof her clothes. As she undressed, Andrea stroked Monica's astonished
face with her free hand and then pulled Monica to her for a fierce
embrace. “Here's the snapshot, darling.” she purred. "Come and get it"

57

Monica was shocked for a moment. Was this the very same friend with
whom she had laughed, gossiped about men, traded secrets? But as
Andrea's caresses became more insistent, Monica gladly realized that the
advertisement in the paper need never be answered, Here, in her arms,
was the answer to her deepest desires. Her body responded mightily as
Andrea's mouth encircled her upright, rosy-hued nipple. “Fuck that silly
picture,’ Monica whispered into her friend's ear. “I've got everything | need
right here.” She yanked Andrea’s head down fiercely.

58 PENTHOUSE

59

60 PENTHOUSE

Shoes by Right Bank Clothing Co., Beverly Hills; robes by Agardvark’s Ark and Paleeze, Hollywood; lingerie by Frederick's of Hollywood.

"Somehow, Monica, | knew you'd see it my way,’ said Andrea, a gurgling
laugh percolating from deep within her throat. She put a hand over
Monica’s mouth and threw her down on the zebra skin. Then Andrea
tossed the picture casually onto her friend's belly and proceeded to grind
her stiletto heel into it. Monica's sharp shriek of fear and pain soon
modulated into a long squeal of delight, which trailed off into a series of
contented whimpers. “Come here, Monica darling, it's my turn now”
Andrea whispered, transfixed with desire, “I want your tongue inside me”

61

Andrea‘s pulse throbbed as Monica's tongue darted in and out, and wave
upon wave of ecstasy swept her into a world she had never known. She lay
still. spent and gasping. As the final quiver died away, she took Monica's
sharp heel in her mouth, licking it in supplication. Monica’s icy smile
turned to shock as Andrea took the stiletto heel and used it on her as an
instrument of strange and terrible passion. Monica cried Andrea's name
again and again, till the sweet pain subsided. They lay in each other's
arms the rest of the day, gentle tongues soothing the hurt away. O+—>5

62 PENTHOUSE

iE

\

any “Mr 5 ai, has

bal TRA

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NP
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+

And the Lord said, "Let there be death’

CHILDREN
OF THE CORN

urt turned the radio on too loud

and didn't turn it down because

they were on the verge of an-

other argument, and he didn't

want It to happen. He was des-
perate for it not to happen

Vicky said something.

“What?” He shouted.

“Turn it down! Do you want to break my
eardrums?"

He bit down hard on what might have
come through his mouth and turned it
down

Vicky was fanning herself with her scarf
even though the T-Bird was_ air-
conditioned. “Where are we, anyway?"

“Nebraska.”

She gave him a cold, neutral look. “Yes.
Burt. | know we're in Nebraska, Burt. But
where the hell are we?"

“You've got the road atlas, Look it up, Or
can't you read?”

“Such wit. This is why we got off the turn-
pike. So we could look at three hundred
miles of corn. And enjoy the wit and wis-
dom of Burt Robeson.”

He was gripping the steering wheel so
hard that his knuckles were white. He de-
cided he was holding it that tightly because
(fhe loosened up, why, one of those hands
might just fly off and hit the ex-prom queen
beside him right in the chops. We're saving
our marriage, he told himself. Yes. We're
doing it the same way our Gls went about

saving villages in the war.

“Vicky,” he said carefully. “I have driven
fifteen hundred miles on turnpikes since we
left Boston. | did all that driving myself be-
cause you refused to drive. Then

“| did not refuse!" Vicky said hotly. “Just
because | get migraines when | drive for a
long time——"

“Then when | asked you if you'd navigate
for me on some of the secondary roads,
you said, ‘Sure, Burt.’ Those were your
exact words, ‘Sure, Burt. Then

“Sometimes | wonder how | ever wound
up married to you.”

“By saying two little words. And | think
you've been saying the opposite two ever
since then.”

She stared at him for a moment, white-
lipped, and then picked up the road atlas,
She turned the pages savagely.

It had been a mistake leaving the turn-
pike, Burt thought morosely. It was a
shame, too, because up until then they had
been doing pretty well, treating each other
almost like human beings, It had some-
times seemed that this trip to the coast,
ostensibly to see Vicky's brother and his
wife but actually a last-ditch attempt to
patch up their own marriage, was going to
work

But since they left the pike, it had been
bad again. How bad? Well, terrible, actual-
|

“We left the turnpike at Hamburg, right?"

FICTION BY STEPHEN KING

65

“Right.”

"There's nothing more until Gatlin," she
said. “Twenty miles. Wide place in the road.
Do you suppose we could stop there and
get something to eat? Or does your al-
mighty schedule say we have to go until
two o'clock like we did yesterday?"

He took his eyes off the road to look at
her, “I've about had it, Vicky. As far as I'm
concerned, we can turn around right here
and go home and see that lawyer you
wanted to talk to. Because this isn't working
at—"

She had taced forward again, her ex-
pression stonily set. It suddenly turned to
surprise and fear “Burl, look out; you're
going to——"

He turned his allention back to the road
just in time to see something vanish under
the T-Bird's bumper. A moment later, while
he was only beginning to switch from gas to
brake, he felt something thump sickeningly
under the front and then the back wheels,
They were thrown forward as the car
braked along the center line, decelerating
from fifty to zero along black skid marks.

“A dog,” he said. “Tell me it was a dog,
Vicky”

Her face was a pallid, cottage-cheese
color. “A boy. A little boy, He just ran out of
the corn and .. . congratulations, tiger.”

She fumbied the car door open, leaned
out, threw up.

Burt sat straight behind the T-Bird’'s
wheel, hands still gripping it loosely, He
was aware of nothing for along time but the
rich, dark smell of fertilizer.

Then he saw that Vicky was gone: and
when he looked in the outside mirror, he
saw her stumbling clumsily back toward a
heaped bundle thal looked like a pile of
raas. She was ordinarily a graceful woman.
but now her grace was gone, robbed.

It's manslaughter. That's what they call it.
| took my eyes off the road,

He turned the ignition off and got out.
The wind rustled softly through the growing
man-high corn, making a weird sound like
respiration. Vicky was standing over the
bundle of rags now, and he could hear her
sobbing.

He was halfway between the car and
where she stood, and something caught
his eye on the left, a gaudy splash of red
amid all the green, as bright as barn paint.

He stopped, looking directly into the
corn. He found himself thinking (anything
to untrack from those rags that were not
rags) that it must have been a fantastically
good growing season for corn. It grew
close together, almost ready to bear You
could plunge into those neat, shaded rows
and spend a day trying to find your way out
again. But the neatness was broken here.
Several tall cornstalks had been broken
and leaned askew. And what was that
farther back in the shadows?

“Burt!” Vicky screamed, “Don't you want
to come see? So you can tell all your
poker buddies what you bagged in Ne-
braska? Don't you——" But the rest was
lost in fresh sobs. Her shadow was puddled
starkly around her feet. It was almost noon.
66 PENTHOUSE

Shade closed over him as he entered the
corn, The red barn paint was blood. There
was a low, somnolent buzz as flies |it,
tasted, and buzzed off again. . . maybe to
tell others. There was more blood on the
leaves farther in. Surely it couldn't have
splattered this far? And then he was stand-
ing over the object he had seen from the
road, He picked it up,

The neatness of the rows was disturbed
here. Several stalks were canted drunken-
ly; two of them had been broken clean off.
The earth had been gouged. There was
blood, The corn rustled. With a little shiver,
he walked back to the road

Vicky was having hysterics, screaming
unintelligible words at him, crying, laugh-
ing. Who would have thought it could end in
such a melodramatic way? He looked at
her and saw he wasn't having an identity
crisis or a difficult life transition or any of
those trendy things. He hated her, He gave
her a hard slap across the face

She stopped short and put a hand
against the reddening impression of his

*

The boy's face
was dirty, his expression
a grimace
of terror. His throat
had been
cut.

°

fingers. “You'll go to jail, Burt,” she said
solemnly.

“| don't think so," he said and put at her
feet the suitcase he had found in the corn.

“What——?"

“| don’t know. | guess it belonged to him.”
He pointed to the sprawled, face-down
body that lay in the road. No more than
thirteen, from the look of him.

The suitcase was old, The brown leather
was battered and scuffed. Two hanks of
clothesline had been wrapped around it
and tied in large, clownish grannies. Vicky
bent to undo one of them, saw the blood
greased into the knot, and withdrew.

Burt knelt and turned the body over gent-
ly.

“| don't want to look,” Vicky said, staring
down helplessly anyway. And when the
staring, sightless face flopped up to regard
them, she screamed again. The boy's face
was dirty, his expression a grimace of ter-
ror. His throat had been cut.

Burt got up and put his arms around
Vicky as she began to sway. “Don't faint."
he said very quietly “Do you hear me,
Vicky? Don't faint."

He repeated il over and over, and at last
she began to recover and held him tightly.

They might have been dancing, there on
the noon-struck road with the boy's corpse
at their feet. Burt's stomach churned.

"Vicky?"

“What?” Mulfled against tis shirt,

"Go back to the car and put the keys in
your pocket. Get the blanket oul of the
backseat and my rifle. Bring them here."

“The rifle?"

“Someone cut his throat. Maybe he's
watching us.”

Her head jerked up, and her wide eyes
considered the corn. It marched away as
far as the eye could see, undulaling up and
down small dips and rises of land.

“| imagine whoever did it is gone. But
why take chances? Go on. Do it.”

She walked stiltedly back to the car, her
shadow following, a dark mascot that stuck
close at this hour of the day. When she
leaned into the backseat, Burt squatted
beside the boy. White male, no distinguish-
ing marks. Run over, yes, but the TBird
hadn't cut the kid's throat. It had been cut
raggedly and inefficiently—no army
sergeant had shown the killer the finer
points of hand-to-hand assassination—but
the final effect had been deadly. He had
either run or been pushed through the last
thirty feet of corn, dead or mortally
wounded, And Burt Robeson had run him
down, If the boy had still been alive when
the car hit him, his life had been cut short by
thirty seconds at most

Vicky tapped him on the shoulder, and
he jumped

She was standing with the brown army
blanket over her left arm, the cased pump
shotgun in her right hand, her face averted.
He took the blanket and spread it on the
toad, He rolled the body onto it. Vicky ut-
tered a desperate little moan.

“You okay?" He looked up at her. “Vicky?”

“Okay,” she said in a strangled voice.

He flipped the sides of the blanket over
the body and scooped jt up, hating the
thick, dead weight of it. It tried to make a U
in his arms and slither through his grasp.
He clutched it tighter, and they walked
back to the T-Bird,

“Open the trunk,” he grunted.

The trunk was full of travel stuff, suit-
cases, and souvenirs. Vicky shifted most of
it into the backseat, and Burt slipped the
body into the made space and slammed
the trunk lid down. A sigh of relief escaped
him.

Vicky was standing by the driver's side
door, still holding the cased rifle.

"Just put it in the back and get in.”

He looked at his watch and saw that only
fifteen minutes had passed. It seemed like
hours,

“What about the suitcase?” She asked,

He trotted back down the road to where it
stood on the white line, like the focal point in
an Impressionist painting. He picked it up
by its tattered handle and paused for a
moment. He had a strona sensation of
being watched. It was a feeling he had
read about in books, mostly cheap fiction,
and he had always doubted its reality, Now
he didn't, It was as if there were people in

The sit at Nantro
‘Marlboro
Lights |

for

Marlboro

LIGHTS Lighter in taste. Lower in tar.
eee And still offers up the samequality
that has made Marlboro famous.

i 74

:

a:
Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined .
That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health. .
13 mg: 'tar;’ 0.8 mg ee es :

S

—_—.

the corn, maybe a lot of them, coldly es-
timating whether the woman could get the
gun out of the case and use it before they
could grab him, drag him into the shady
rows, cul his throat——

Heart beating thickly, he ran back to the
car, pulled the keys out of the trunk lock,
and got in

Vicky was crying again, Burt got them
moving, and before a minute had passed,
he could no longer pick out in the rear-view
mirror the spot where it had happened.

“What did you say the next town was?"
He asked.

"Oh." She bent over the road atlas again
"Gatlin. We should be there in ten minutes,”

"Does it look big enough to have a police
station?"

“No. It's just a dot,”

“Maybe there's a constable.”

They drove in silence tor a while. They
passed a silo on the left. Nothing else but
corn, Nothing passed them going the other
way, not even a farm truck

“Have we passed anything since we got
off the turnpike, Vicky?”

She thought about it. “A car and a tractor.
At that intersection,”

“No. since we got on this road. Route 17.”

“No, | don’t think we have." Earlier this
might have been the preface to some cut-
ling remark, Now she only stared out of her
half of the windshield at the unrolling road
and the endless dotted line.

‘Vicky? Could you open the suitcase?"

‘Do you think it might matter?"

‘Dont know, It might.”

While she picked at the knots (her face
was Set in the peculiar way—expression-
less but tight-mouthed—that Burt remem-
bered his mother wearing when she pulled
the innards out of the Sunday chicken),
Burt turned on the radio again.

The pop station they had been listening
to was almost obliterated in static, and Burt
switched, running the red marker slowly
down the dial. Farm reports. Buck Owens.
Tammy Wynette. All distant, nearly dis-
torted into babble. Then, near the end of
(he dial, one single word blared out of the
speaker, so loud and clear that the lips
which uttered it might have been directly
beneath the grill of the dashboard speaker.

“Atonement!” This voice bellowed.

Burt made a surprised, grunting sound,
Vicky jumped.

“Only by the blood of the lamb are we
saved!" The voice roared, and Burt hur
riedly turned the sound down. This station
was close, all right. So close that yes,
there it was. Poking out of the corn at the
horizon, a spidery red tripod against the
blue, The radio tower

“Atonement is the word, brothers ‘n’ sis-
ters,” the voice told them, dropping to a
more conversational pitch. In the back-
ground, off-mike, voices murmured amen.
“There’s some that thinks it's okay to get out
in the world, as if you could work and walk
in the world without being smirched by the
world. Now is that what the word of God
teaches us?”

Off-mike but still loud: “No!”

68 PENTHOUSE

“Holy Jesus!" The evangelist shouted,
and now the words came in a powerful,
pumping cadence, almost as compelling
as a driving rock-and-roll beat: “When they
gonna know that way is death? When they
gonna know that the wages of the world are
paid on the other side? Huh? Huh? The
Lord has said there's many mansions in His
house. But there's no room for the for-
nicator. No room for the coveter, No room
for the defiler of the corn. No room for the
hommasexshul. No room——"

Vicky snapped it off. "That drivel makes
me sick.”

“What did he say?” Burt asked her. "What
did he say about corn?"

"| didn’t hear it.” She was picking at the
second clothesline knot,

“He said something about corn, | know
he did”

"| got it!" Vicky said, and the suitcase fell
open in her lap. They were passing a sign
{hat said) “GATLIN 5 Ml. DRIVE CARE-
FULLY PROTECT OUR CHILDREN.” The

2

"He Who Walks
behind the Rows,” Burt said,
turning off the ignition.
“One of the
nine thousand names
of God only
used in Nebraska, | guess."

=

sign had been put up by the Elks. There
were .22 bullei holes in it.

“Socks,” Vicky said. "Two pairs ol pants

a shirt a belt a string tie with a
—" She held it up, showing him the peel-
ing gilt neckclasp. “Who's that?"

Burt glanced at it. "Hopalong Cassidy, |
think.”

"Oh." She put it back. She was crying
again,

After a moment Burt said; “Did anything
strike you funny about that radio sermon?”

"No. | heard enough of that stuff as a kid
to last me forever, | told you about it.”

"Didn't you think he sounded kind of
young? That preacher?”

She uttered a mirthless laugh. “A teen-
ager, maybe—so what? That's what's so
monstrous about that whole trip, They like
to get hold of them when their minds are still
rubber, They know how to put all the emo-
tional checks and balances in. You should
have been at some of the tent meetings my
mother and father dragged meto. . . some
of the ones | was ‘saved’ at.

“Let's see. There was Baby Hortense.
The Singing Marvel. She was eight. She'd
come on and sing ‘Leaning on the Everlast-
ing Arms’ while her daddy passed the

plate, telling everybody to ‘dig deep, now;
Jet's not let this little child of God down.’
Then there was Norman Staunton. He used
to preach hellfire and brimstone in this Little
Lord Fauntleroy suit with short pants, He
was only seven.”

She nodded at his look of unbeliet

“They weren't the only two, either. There
were plenty of them on the circuit. They
were good draws," She spat the last word.
“Ruby Stampnell, She was a ten-year-old
faith healer The Grace Sisters. They used
to come out with little tinfoil halos over their
heads and—oh!"

“What is it?” He jerked around to look at
her and what she was holding in her hands.
Vieky was staring at it raptly Her slowly
seining hands had snagged it on the bot-
tom of the suitcase and had brought it up
as she talked. Burt pulled over to take a
better look. She gave it to him wordlessly.

It was a crucifix that had been made from
twists of corn husk, once green, now dry.
Attached to this by woven corn silk was a
dwarf corncob, Most of the kernels had
been carefully removed, probably dug out
one at a time with a pocket knife, Those
kernels remaining formed a crude cruci-
form figure in yellowish bas-relief. Corn-
kernel eyes, each slit longways to suggest
pupils. Outstretched kernel arms, the legs
together, terminating in a rough indication
of bare feet. Above, four letters also raised
from the bone-white cob; | N R |

“That's a fantastic piece of workman-
ship," he said.

“It's hideous,” she said in a flat, strained
voice, “Throw it out.”

“Vicky, the police might want to see it."

“Why?"

“Weill, | don't know why. Maybe——”

“Throw it out. Will you please do that tor
me? | don't want it in the car."

"I'll put iLin back. And as soon as we see
the cops, we'll get rid of it one way or the
other. | promise. Okay?"

"Oh, do whatever you want with it!” She
shouted at him. “You will anyway!”

Troubled, he threw the thing in back,
where it landed on a pile of clothes. Its
corn-kernel eyes stared raptly at the
T-Bird’s dome light. He pulled out again,
gravel splurting from beneath the tires

“We'll give the body and everything that
was in the suitcase to the cops,” he prom-
ised. “Then we'll be shut of it.”

Vicky didn't answer. She was looking at
her hands.

A mile farther on, the endless cornfields
drew away from the road, showing farm-
houses and outbuildings. In one yard they
saw dirty chickens pecking listlessly at the
soil. There were faded cola and chewing-
tobacco ads on the roofs of barns, They
passed a tall billboard that said: “ONLY
JESUS SAVES.” They passed a café with a
Conoco gas island, but Burt decided to go
on into the center of town, if there was one.
If not, they could come back to the café, It
occurred to him only after they had passed
it that the parking lot had been empty ex-
cept for a dirty old pickup that looked as if it
were sitting on two flat tires.

CONTINUED ON PAGE 124

X

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Behind the scenes with

Washington's lobbyists —a world of

In late 1975 President Ford walked into the
Sheraton-Carlton Hotel in Washington as
the main attraction of a $100-a-ticket fund-
raising party to help finance the reelection
of Rep. John Rhodes of Arizona, the Re-
publican leader in the House of Represen-
tatives.

| made sure that | was among the first to
grab the president's hand while the
flashbulbs were still popping and the tele-
vision Cameras were rolling.

“Hi, Mister President,” | said. "I'm Chuck
Lipsen. I'm a Democrat. . . (he smiled), but
I'm also a lobbyist.” His smile broadened.
He knew that while | was from The Other
Political Faith, | was also among that legion
of Washingtonians—about 2,500 of us at
any given time—who put their money
where their professional. rather than politi-
cal, interests lie

The party teemed with political luminar-
ies of the day. But Donald Dawson, a one-
time aide to Harry Truman, surveyed the
room and said: “Everyone likes John
Rhodes, but most everyone here is a lob-
byist.”

lf we weren't there, Rhodes would have
been sorely disappointed—and a lot
poorer. The president, the vice-president,
and numbers of senators and congress-
men were there, too. But they didn't pay to
get in. They were there to attract the press
and to impress the contingent of homefolks
who would return to Arizona more dedi-
cated than ever before to the reelection of
John Rhodes. We were there to fatten his
political treasure chest

The next day a colleague at the National
Cable Television Association, for which |
was then chief lobbyist, was horrified at an
account in the Washington Star of my en-

sex, sin, and sleaze.

counter with the president.

“How could you say that to the president
of the United States?" he demanded.

“Say what?”

“That you were a... alobbyist?" He spat
the word as if he were saying | was a Com-
munist or a homosexual.

“Because | am a lobbyist,” | said. He
shrugged, opened his hands to the heav-
ens, and walked out of my office.

Well, | said to myself, | am a lobbyist. |
had been—officially, at least—for the pre-
vious twenty years. Before that, working in
a law office or as an aide in Congress, | had
been a lobbyist, too, though in a subtler
way. Lobbying, by legal definition, is the
effort (for pay) to influence legislation on
behalf of a special interest group. But
hundreds of Washington lawyers, who fre-
quently earn five times as much money as
professional lobbyists do, never register as
lobbyists. They maintain, in their dealings
with Congress and with executive branch
agencies, that they are merely legally rep-
resenting their clients. And congressional
aides lobby all the time on behalf of their
boss's proposed legislation (as do White
House aides); and often their primary goal
is not to improve the Republic but to en-
hance the reelection potential of the
senators or the representatives who em-
ploy them.

But, | conceded, being a lobbyist and
saying that you're one are different things
The term /obbyist does, after all, have a
pejorative connotation. My mother has
never introduced me to her friends as, “My
son, the lobbyist.”

| can't say that | blame her. Being a lob-
byist has long been synonymous in the
minds of many Americans with being a

glorified pimp. You provide members of
Congress, they think, with the Three B's of
politics—Booze, Broads, and Bribes.

A more conventional wisdom arose
about a decade ago, largely through
academic studies by the likes of Alexander
Heard and the Brookings Institution, main-
taining that lobbyists’ money rarely influ-
enced legislation; lobbyists were prized,
instead, because they furnished vital in-
formation to congressmen concerning the
points of view (supported by facts) of the
myriad interests that make up the Ameri-
can Public

As is conventional with most “conven-
tional wisdom" about anything, both of
these ideas are partly wrong—and partly
right.

A lobbyist can rarely influence a vote in
Congress by plying members of Congress
or their aides with whiskey and wild wom-
en—at least, not directly. Nor is money toa
politician ever openly considered a quid
pro quo for previous or later support. But
the relationship between money and favors
from a lobbyist to a politician, and that
politician's response to the lobbyist, is so
closely intertwined that it is mere sophistry
to suggest that none exists.

And it is the rare lobbyist who represents
the American Public. Even the so-called
Public Interest Lobbyists—environmental-
ists, Consumerists, and the like—don't
work for free. The heads of several of these
“public interest” associations earn at least
as much money as do senators and repre-
sentatives. Take away their $45.000-plus
annual salaries and see how hard they'd
work against the oil industry or the SST,

The truth is that lobbyists generally rep-
resent the nonpublic interest—those indi-

BY CHARLES B. LIPSEN WITH STEPHAN LESHER

71

——— Sl

The rule was that no one answered incom-
ing calls. So | took a cab over to the apart-
ment, and, sure enough, the venetian blind
was at half-mast. Cautiously, | climbed the
stairs and rapped gently on the door.

“It's Chuck Lipsen," | called out. “I'm here
with the delivery." No answer. | tried again.
“It's Lipsen, It's only the delivery | prom-
ised,” Still nothing. | put my ear to the door
but could hear no sound.

My heart skipped a beat. What if one of
the men had been there, had a heart at-
tack, and collapsed, the broad having fled
out of pure fear? What if a senator was
dead in there? Oh, Christ, | thought, what
would | do? How would | explain his pres
ence there? It was bad enough that the guy
was dead, Now his reputation would be
ruined, to boot

| tried the door. It was locked. | opened it
with my key and stepped into the room.

“Hello,” | called. “Anybody here?”

| walked toward the kitchen. Just then |
heard a sound. | stepped quickly into the
kitchen, just in time to see a mouse disap-
pear through a crevice in the molding. Ex-
cept for this creature, no one was around.

| sighed, slumped on the couch, and
called one of the other three senators who
shared the apartment. | hit paydirt with the
first one.

“| was there a few days ago, Chuck,” he
explained. "But then my girl saw this mouse
and like to peed in her pants. We got the
hell out of there. | must have forgot to lower
the blinds.”

Well, that explained it. But | couldn't help
being a little sore. “Jesus, Senator,” | com-
plained, “one of the other guys has been all
over me. He thinks | screwed up the
schedule."

“Tell the bastard to cool it," he answered.
“Besides, it's your job to keep the place
nice. Why don't you call the Orkin man or
something and get that damn mouse outta
there?"

| assured him that | would, | sighed, and |
hung up the phone, You never win an ar-
gument with a senator, even if you're his
social director.

With still others, the game gets more
complex. One senator, a sometime presi-
dential candidate, regularly enjoyed the
company of various girl friends. But his
campaign travels not only made him widely
recognizable but also kept him from being
in one place long enough to make a per
manent arrangement for a “safe house.”
But, bless him. his tastes were impeccable.

Once, when his current paramour was
the wife of a wealthy businessman, he tele-
phoned me with a specific request,
“Chuck,” he said, “I'll be in Florida next
week. I'd like you to arrange to get me a
house. I'd like it to be large, nicely fur-
nished, secluded, and—oh, yes, this is
important—it has to have a swimming pool
that is completely private. We'd like to do a
little skinny-dipping.”

“And you need me to get you this next
week?"

“Three days from now, actually. I'm
counting on you.”

76 PENTHOUSE

1 failed. and | don’t know if the senator
found his hideaway. We never discussed
the matter, except once, a few months later,
when | told him that, by coincidence, | had
found a business acquaintance who had
such a house near Fort Lauderdale, which
could have been available only a week
after the senator had wanted it.

“Good,” he said with a straight face.
“Next time | need one, you'll know where to
look.”

One way or another, the word spreads
quickly on Capitol Hill that a particular indi-
vidual, almost always a lobbyist, can be
trusted to assist in, shall we say, embar-
rassing or difficult situations.

| suppose that a lobbyist is sought out by
members of Congress in these circum-
stances because the members know that
the lobbyist has nothing to gain and every-
thing to lose if he is indiscreet. The sea-
soned lobbyist knows that favors of this
kind won't be repaid through votes on bills
that a member might oppose because of a

®

One way or another,
the word spreads
quickly on Capitol Hill
that a particular
lobbyist can be trusted
to assist in embarrassing
situations.

°

deep, personal conviction or the political
makeup of his constituency But he does
believe that on those issues which make
scant political or conscientious difference
to a congressman, the lobbyist will be
femembered—and supported. And, once
in a while, a member may even bend his
politics or his principles just a bit to help
a lobbyist in need whom he, from time to
time, has needed—and used—himself.

This happens most often when the
congressmen get themselves in trouble for
reasons other than their occasional dal-
liances. In the early 1960s Congress re-
mained in session longer than had been
anticipated, and, as a result, many con-
gressional wives had already returned to
their husbands’ home districts to prepare
for the usual out-of-session get-togethers
with constituents and local political lead-
ers. One night six congressmen whose
wives had left town decided on a boys'
night out.

At 3:00 am. the next morning. my tele-
phone rang. My wife sleepily answered it
and handed me the phone.

“Ish thish Charlsh Lipshen?” an unfamil-
iar and obviously liquor-thickened voice
asked.

“Yes. Who is this?"

“Never mind about that,” he said, spac-
ing his words drunkenly. “We're at police
headquartersh, and you're the man to get
ush out.”

“What is this, some kind of joke?”

“No. No joke. Wait a minute." He turned
his face from the mouthpiece. “Offisher,
would you please eshplain to the gennel-
man?"

A cop came on the phone and
eshplained. He said that he had taken six
congressmen into custody after he had an-
swered a complaint about a raucous party.
The congressmen were there and were
drunk.

“| took them in for their own protection,”
the policeman said apologetically. Indeed,
Washington police never arrest members
of Congress if they can possibly avoid
doing so. A case in point is that of Wilbur
Mills, once one of the most influential
members of the House, The night Fanne
Fox jumped into the Tidal Basin, Mills was
drunk. A policeman led him away from the
scene—and from a television cameraman.
But he was recognized in a snatch of the
film, anyway. That recognition led to the
eventual disclosure of Mills's serious prob-
lem, alcoholism, and to his agreement
to step aside as chairman of the House
Ways and Means Committee. In the situa-
tion in which | was involved, the police had
spirited the six congressmen from the
scene. One of them then gave them my
name as someone trustworthy whom they
could call and to whom they could safely
be released.

“The gentleman you spoke to,” the of-
ficer said, “didn’t know you. One of the
others gave him your name. But the one
who called ... well, sir, he was the most
sober of the lot."

“God,” | breathed. “I'd hale to see the
rest of them.”

“Yas, sir, but I'm afraid you're going to
have to. They say you'll pick them up and
get them home."

He told me the precinct where they were
and gave me directions. | told him I'd be
there shortly.

Jan, my wife, protested.

“Why do you have to go in the middle of
the night?” she challenged. “Why don't
they call a lawyer or something?"

“lam a lawyer, remember?”

"| don't mean a person with a law degree.
| mean someone to take their case.”

“Jan.” | explained. “there is no case. The
cops just want them off their hands. Be-
sides, | know most of those guys. They've
been helpful to me, and | think they're cail-
ing me because I'll be helpful to them.”

“And because you'll keep your mouth
shut."

“That, too."

So off | went. As bad luck would have it,
they lived all over the Washington met-
fopolitan area. One lived in the District of
Columbia, two in the Virginia suburbs, two
in southeastern Maryland near Washing-
ton, and only one—the one who had sug-
gested that | be called in the first place—

CONTINUED ON PAGE 100

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73

and the sun shone through the haze.

“Yes, indeed,” | stammered and then led
her to a table | had reserved for three.

We had had about two drinks when the
senator appeared.

“Chuck,” he called out. “Chuck Lipsen!
Good to see you.”

He stood next to my chair, and | rose to
shake his hand. “Hi, Senator," | said. “May |
introduce you to a friend of mine? This is
Gail Smith." (| didn’t know what her last
name was, but | had realized that it didn't
make any difference—to me, anyway.)

“Well,” the senator said. “So nice to meet
you, too.”

“Won't you join us?" | asked needlessly.

“That's very kind of you. | must spend
another moment or two with one of my
aides, but then I'd be happy to, if you're
sure | won't be interrupting.”

"Not at all," | assured. "We'd be de-
lighted."

The conversation was loud enough to be
noticed, if not heard word for word, above
the chatter in the restaurant. The senator
rejoined us, we all ordered dinner, and,
shortly after coffee, he excused himself. “I
suppose you have to stay here a while
longer,” he said to me rather pointedly. |
said that | did.

“Too bad,” he said. “| was going to offer
you a ride home.” The hell he was. He lived
in the District of Columbia while | had a
house in a Maryland suburb. | began to
sense what would happen next

And it happened about ten minutes later.
Gail tapped my arm and said, “! guess it's
time for me to be going, too. !'ll be back ina
couple of hours, honey.”

Then she left, too. What happened was
that she went directly to a room upstairs at
the Carroll Arms, to which another lobby-
ist—one whom the senator didn't trust to
hold his liquor in public—had already pro-
vided the senator with a key, | sat and
swilled Rob Roys for a bit, took a walk
around the block, came back and chatted
with a couple of acquaintances of mine
who had dropped in for a drink, and even
did a crossword puzzle from the morning
Paper that a customer had obligingly left on
the bar.

Gail returned, looking as lovely as she
had a few hours before. “Hi, Chuck,” she
said. “Sorry | took so long in the ladies
room. Ready to go? Or would you like an-
other drink?"

| was ready, | said. We left, and | offered
her a lift home. “No, thanks, honey,” she
said. "I've got cab fare.”

| hailed a taxi and off she went. | would
see her again in the years to come, some-
times with different senators, Gail was a
pro. Sometimes the game would be played
with a woman who worked in the office of a
senator with whom she was having a cur-
rent affair. But it didn't matter. The game
was always the same. Sometimes the hotel
was different, the senators different, or the
women different and sometimes | used

“Have you ever played a rhinoceros before?"

74 PENTHOUSE

the time to take in a movie. But the game
didn't change.

| always was rather philosophical about
the role | played in these affairs. | was
hardly anyone to make judgments about
the morals of others. Besides, | figured that
| didn't care whether a senator liked to play
cribbage or not. Why should | care if he
liked to play with women?

Maybe | even did some good. Perhaps
the guy felt better after spending an eve-
ning with his girl friend. Maybe that way
he'd feel better the next day when he had to
vote on issues like paying a higher mini-
mum wage or providing aid to education or
creating the Head Start program or God-
knows-what-else that might make other
people feel better And perhaps he was
nicer to his wife that night than he might
otherwise have been.

So that no one thinks I'm a sexist, | should
mention that I've played the role, with only
slight variations, for two women members
of Congress.

In one case, a lovely congresswoman
who wanted to stay married simply couldn't
reach an orgasm with her husband. The
other case was Clearly a situation in which
the marriage was about to break up. Each
of these women would tell her husband that
she was working late and had a meeting
scheduled, She would instead meet her
lover, presumably in a discreetly out-ot-
the-way apartment. and would end the
evening with me. For some reason, both
women liked a little bar called “The Place
Where Louie Dwells.” We'd have a night-
cap. and then I'd take them home. They
would generally say that they met me after
leaving the office—in the rare event that a
question would be raised. Sure enough,
one of the women is still married. The other
is divorced.

As a member of Congress grows in
stature—and, it follows, in visibility—the
tactics change. One group of three
senators decided to rent an apartment (in
my name, of course) in a building at which
a restaurant called Club 11 is now lo-
cated, My job was simple. Once a month
I'd pay the rent from the money that they
would send me. Also, it was my job to keep
the apartment stocked with whiskey, ice,
cheese, and crackers.

The members had a signal should there
ever be any mixup in the schedule for the
apartment's use: the venetian blind visible
from the street was to be kept pulled half-
way up if the place was occupied, One day
one of the three senators called me at my
office, and he was fuming. “What the hell's
going on at the apartment?" he demanded.

“What do you mean, Senator?” | asked.

“I've been down there three straight days
with my girl friend,” he fumed, “and | can't
get in. One of my son-of-a-bitching col-
leagues has been there every damn after-
noon.”

| told him not to worry, explaining that I'd
take care of it

“Well, see that you do. For Christ's sake,
it's downright embarrassing.”

| knew that it was useless to telephone.

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75

viduals or businesses or groups that can
afford a full-time professional whose job it
is to develop access to those in power, and
then to use that access to influence Con-
gress or regulatory agencies or even the
White House on behalf of whoever is pay-
ing the bill.

A not-so-noble profession, perhaps. But
it clearly serves a key function that was
ensured by the First Amendment to the
Constitution. It permits the free assembly of
people into self-serving organizations and
provides them a direct pipeline into the
halls of Congress. | have always believed
that | play a role in the governmental pro-
cess; and, unlike those who hypocritically
profess to more noble callings like law
(when, in fact, they lobby like the rest of us),
| lay my cards on the table about what | do
and for whom I'm doing it.

But power is the name of the game in
Washington, and a lobbyist sells access to
thal power.

What made me among the more suc-
cessful lobbyists in Washington for a gen-
eration is that, at any time, at least 90 of the
100 senators knew my name and face. The
same can be said for about two-thirds of
the 435 members of the House. And for
Jack Kennedy. And for Lyndon Johnson.
Even for the governor of Samoa.

There are, however, countless rip-off art-
ists who call themselves lobbyists. Not only
do congressmen not know who they are,
but also they don't know the congressmen.

Take organized labor, in whose political
vineyard | toiled for fifteen years as chief
lobbyist for the Retail Clerks International
Association. Weekly, some thirty-five labor
lobbyists would meet under the chairman-
ship of Andrew Biemiller, a one-time
congressman who for years has been the
director of the legislative department
(read! chief lobbyist) of the AFL-CIO. At
these meetings it became clear to me that
most of my colleagues, drawing high
salaries to a man, hadn't the vaguest idea
what most members of Congress looked
like,

| took Biemiller aside one day. “Andy,” |
asked, “what do you think about conduct-
ing a test?"

"A test?" he responded. “What kind of
test?”

“Oh, nothing complicated,” | said, my
tongue in my cheek. “Let's just hold up
pictures of the members of Congress and
have the lobbyists identify each one.”

“You out of your goddamn mind?” he
blurted. “You know damn well half our
people don't Know who half the members
are.”

“Well, then, it seems to me it's time they
learned. How the hell can they do any good
in Congress if they don't know the players
without a scofecard?"

Bierniller's problem was that he believed
the power of organized labor of itself would
persuade members to vote labor's line. To
some extent, he was right. Labor, perhaps
more than any private force in American
politics, could provide money and man-
power for election campaigns. To get those

72 PENTHOUSE

indispensable goodies, congressmen
used to have to walk that extra mile with
labor and with George Meany, chief of the
AFL-CIO, That meant not only voting for
“gut” labor issues like minimum wage in-
creases and against “antilabor” laws like
the so-called right to work. but also sup-
porting the liberal issues so long espoused
by Meany, such as civil rights and social
welfare.

Times change, and—except for
Meany—few labor leaders want to push for
government expansion in social programs
like welfare, Union members have general-
ly become, in fact, sharply conservative on
issues like race and welfare. Congressmen
are responding to that new conservatism,
And a labor lobbyist who doesn't know a
senator isn't going to have a prayer these
days in getting that member to vote for a
nonlabor issue supported by the leaders of
organized labor. For one thing, new laws
will severely limit the amounts of money
that labor can give directly to candidates.

«

Power is the
name of
the game in
Washington, and
a lobbyist sells
access to that
power.

,

For another, as long as a congressman
votes the labor line on clearly labor-orient-
ed proposals, he will get all the volunteer
help that he needs with or without George
Meany’s or Andy Biemiller’s say-so,

There are other rip-offs: lawyers who
charge up to $1,000 to see that a private
immigration bill is inttoduced—knowing full
well that the bill will never be passed (some
congressmen used to take up to half the
fee for introducing such a measure);
“Washington representatives" who charge
high annual fees to non-Washington
businesses or organizations to keep them
posted on the “inside” developments in
Washington—when, in reality, nearly all
their "inside" information comes directly
from the pages of the Washington Post, the
Kiplinger Letter, or any of a dozen or more
sources of information that are readily
available to the general public but that few
know about; and the “legislative liaison”
who charges hundreds of dollars to “ar-
range” a meeting between a client and a
senator—a meeting that, more often than
not, could have been arranged directly at
no cost.

To some extent, | have been guilty of
getting money from the gullible in these or

similar ways. It is incredible how naive
about the ways of Washington even the
most sophisticated industrialists can be
when they spend their working lives in New
York, Chicago, or Los Angeles, much less
in Dubuque.

But for the greater part of my working life,
| have been what | consider a straightfor-
ward lobbyist both to my clients and to
those in Congress, whom | must reach
often enough in order to maintain those
clients. The way it's done wouldn't always
qualify me as a modern saint. But there is
very little about politics that is saintly. That
fact may trouble some people and some
editorialists. But the alternative to being
able to reach politicians on issues by giv-
ing them money for campaigns, personal
favors, and free manpower to help their
reelections is to remove the officeholder so
far from his constituents that the reality of a
representative democracy would become
a farce

Before a lobbyist can get close enough
to congressmen to influence them,'he must
not only meet those officeholders but also
build up a reservoir of confidence and
trust. The first takes shoe leather and pa-
tience. The second, unfortunately, some-
times is a bit seamier in its development.

One way, | learned early in my career,
was by “playing third base.” As you might
guess, that had little to do with baseball,
though it was—and is—a sort of national
pastime, nonetheless.

The rules were simple. The game usually
started with a phone call, like the one | got
in 1957 from an East Coast senator shortly
after | had begun lobbying for the Retail
Clerks International Association. The
senator was friendly to the labor move-
ment, and he was among the first contacts |
had established while making the rounds
on Capitol Hill to tell members of Congress
about my new job.

“Chuck,” he said. “I'd like you to meet me
for dinner tonight."

“Gee, Senator,” | said, “I'd like to, but.I
think my wife has plans for us.”

“Break them,” he said curtly,

| was a bit miffed at his tone, but | was a
relatively new kid on the block, and | didn't
want to blow my job with needless heroics.

“Sure,” | said after a moment. 3

“Eight o'clock at the Carroll Arms,” he
said. “Someone will meet you first, and then
I'll join you both a few minutes later.”

I'm not a naive person, but what hap-
pened when | arrived at the Carroll Arms
—a now-defunct Washington hotel near the
Senate Office Building (and once a favorite
watering hole for senators and their
aides)—was, to say the least, surprising.

! was sipping a Rob Roy at the bar when
a tall, lithe, beautiful brunette in her late
twenties sidled up to me.

“Chuck Lipsen?” she asked,

“Yes,” | answered, trying desperately to
remember my marriage vows.

“I'm Gail. We were supposed to meet
here and then wait for a friend.”

It took a moment or two of serious con-
templation, but then the mists finally parted

e/ like my men to be fierce lovers, who can really take charge in bed and make me feel like a woman. ©

78 PENTHOUSE

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a man is my type just by his voice, which must be deep, deliberate, and brave. It is
important for him to be older, so that he gives me the feeling that I'm a little girl
when I'm with him. | want him to make me feel sure of him... | want to know that
he'll take care of me. When | love my man, | give him everything I've got—
everything he wants—to please him. | like my men to be fierce lovers, who can
teally take charge in bed and make me feel like a woman who is loved and desired”

e/ wear soft, romantic little things that can be pushed aside... if something gets torn, | love it!®

Sometimes shy and soft-spoken, Jolanta is down- more hot, more excited, and | can really let mysell go
right definite about her sexual desires: “If a man I'm almost never completely naked when my lover
turns me on, | will make love with him any time of the and | go to bed. | wear soft, romantic little things that
day or night. Before | make love, | like to drink a little can easily be pushed aside in the heat of passionate
bit—wine or champagne — because it makes me get lovemaking ... and if something gets torn, | love it!"

82 PENTHOUSE

eA very
beautiful
man!

didn’t know
reached down
my dress.

He put

a finger
insideme...%

84 PENTHOUSE

“I'm usually quite old-fashioned
in my lovemaking ... but some-
times interesting things happen.
Once | was al a very elegant
party, where everyone was in
formal clothes. | was wearing
an evening dress, which

had no back al all. While | was

sitting on the couch, a very
beautiful man | didn't know put his
hand behind me and reached
down my dress. He even put a
finger inside me while we were
sitting and talking, but | was afraid
lo say anything. We eventually
became lovers

Fr

@ We begin to strip each other's clothes off. Finally, we are totally naked, making love by a stream. ®

This twenty-one-year-old certainly has a sophisti
cated charm, but her fantasies are romantic, wisttul,
childlike. "| would like to be out in the country on a
picnic, My boyfriend is chasing me through a field of
flowers. When he finally catches me, he tickles me

re

Y

-
> 7 4
until | beg him to stop. Then, still playful, we begin to
strip each other's clothes off. Finally, we are naked.
making love by a bubbling stream. Then we both have

explosive orgasms. Life should always be like that”
Obviously, Jolanta, we're not poles apart. O+—y

87

MISS JOLANTA VON ZMUDA/PENTHOUSE PET OF THE MONTH

THE VIETNAM VETERANS ADVISER

Some Vietnam veterans have much more difficulty than
others in receiving the benefits and considerations to which
they are entitled, namely, those veterans incarcerated in
tederal and state prisons.

From the many letters Penthouse has received from vet-
erans in prison, it's clear that, as a group, these men have
been denied their rights by being made victims of a policy of
benign neglect. It is not Penthouse’s position to argue the
justice or injustice involved in the acts or crimes that have
placed veterans in prison, but rather to call attention to the
fact that these veterans have not lost their basic rights,
acquired by virtue of their previous military service

The magnitude of this problem is revealed by a few key
facts. According to the National Association of Concerned
Veterans, 35 percent of the inmate population nationwide
comprises veterans, and approximately 65 percent of this
group are veterans who have
Honorable or Under Honor-

physician (who is not a federal employee) is on duty at the
institution, services required to complete the examination
will be authorized in accordance with the current schedule
of fees. In the event this cannot be arranged, or if specialist
examinations are required which cannot be procured from
the medical staff of the institution, other fee-basis physi
cians who are able ta perform the examination at the penal
institution may be authorized to render the services. VA staff
physicians may be assigned by the clinic director to con-
duct examinations of this type when required.”

In regard to a responsibility to provide incarcerated vet-
erans with information about eligibility for benefits and other
services, the VA says: “On April 2, 1975, interim issue 232-
75-1 placed a requirement on all regional offices that they
initiate a program of service to incarcerated veterans in
federal and state prisons. This essentially established the
requirement that all federal
and state prisons be visited

able Conditions discharges
In addition, Congressman
Charles B. Rangel (Dem.-NY)

s

twice a year and that briefings
for prison staff be conducted
annually, Directives currently

has reported that fully 81.3 It's clear that, outlined in M-232-1 provide
percent of incarcerated veter- f that ‘veterans-services offi-
ans polled (at his request) by asa group, veterans In cers will schedule semiannual
the General Accounting Office prison have visits by their personnel

said thal they had not been
advised of their continued
right to veterans benefits; in
fact, 53.3 percent of those
polled believed that they had
lost their benefits due to in-
carceration. Similarly, 65.4
percent said they would like
the Veterans Administration to

been denied their
rights by being made victims
of a policy of benign
neglect.

2

(community service special-
ists, veterans-benefits coun-
selors, or vet reps) to all fed-
eral and state prisons where
the prison authorities feel that
this is to be desirable and
necessary.

“Vet reps have and will con-
tinue to be utilized to ac-

contact them while in prison to
advise them of their G.1. Bill benefit rights, so that they could
carry out correspondence-school training or participate in
the study release-programs available in some areas.

The importance of these kinds of rehabilitation efforts is
further underscored by the fact that in the past two years,
one out of five training programs in our nation's penal institu-
tions has been shut down because of a lack of funds.

As the information from Congressman Rangel—and
Perithouse’s experience in these matters—indicates, the
difference between what the VA claims it does for veterans in
prison and the service it actually provides is considerable
For its part, the VA says:

“Currently, M-1, part 1 change 83, section VII provides for
VA action in providing examinations at penal institutions.
This directive states that the clinic director will on request,
and when necessary, arrange with appropriate officials at a
penal institution for the examination of potentially eligible
claimants or beneficiaries confined in such institutions, If a
90 PENTHOUSE

complish the goal of bringing
VA services to incarcerated veterans. It should be noted that
vet reps are veterans-benefits counselors, although they
have a different title. Services provided by VBC's are no
different than those provided by vet reps.”

Without disputing the stated intent of these VA comments,
Penthouse believes that they promise much more than is
actually delivered. The failure to do more only compounds the
problem of the veterans’ ultimate reentry into American society
and adds to the everincreasing social costs of crime.

Therefore, Penthouse strongly urges President Carter to
order the director of the VA to establish immediately a co-
ordinated program with the director of federal prisons, one
designed to carry out the provisions of the existing law (Title
38, U.S.Code) and to call upon the nation's governors to
participate in a similar effort. To delay, or to do anything less,
will only worsen the plight of veterans presently in prison—
and add to the problems that they will confront upon their

release, O+7q

' =

©1976 R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Co

en you on STOwSs
~up,so should your
— ..clgarette:

t you want from acl garette changes.

Once I smoked just to be like everybody else. Nowol

know what smoking’s all about. I smoke for taste,

‘ And. Winston’s real taste is what I want.
on Winston is for real.

{
Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined | 2 >
That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health. 19. mg. “tar, 1.3-mg. nicoune av. p
= cigarette, FTC Report APR:

> a =
a * | Sere

Photographs by Ear! Miller

THE HITE REPORT

This questionnaire was prepared by Shere
Hite, author of the best-selling Hite Report
on Female Sexuality. Your responses—and
those from other samples—uwill be similarly
published in a forthcoming book, to be ex-
cerpted in Penthouse. The questionnaire
shouldn't be signed. It is not necessary to
answer every question. Send answers to:
Shere Hite, Dept. P, 47 East 19th Street,
New York, New York 10003.

|. ORGASM

1. Is having orgasms important to you?
Would you enjoy sex just as much without
having them?

2. Could you describe what an orgasm
feels like to you—during the buildup? be-
fore orgasm? during the climax? after?

3. Exactly where do you feel the sensation
of orgasm? That is, is it in your penis, or
inside your body, or exactly where?

4. Can you have orgasm without ejacula-
tion? Ejaculation without orgasm? Or does
orgasm mean ejaculation?

5. Do you ever have trouble having an or-
gasm? When? Why?

6. Can you have more than one orgasm
during sex? Do you ejaculate each time?
Do successive orgasms feel stronger or
weaker, or different? How?

7. Do you have more than one type of or-
gasm? Please explain. Have you ever had
something you would describe as an “emo-
tional orgasm"?

8. Is erection necessary for orgasm? For

92 PENTHOUSE

ON MALE

SEXUALITY

arousal? Is full erection always a sign of the
greatest arousal, and lack of erection a
sign of disinterest?

9. Do you feel an end to arousal after ejacu-
lation? an end to excitement? Do you feel
“satisfied"? How do you feel?

10. After orgasm, do you want further phys-
ical closeness with the person you are with,
or do you usually prefer to return to other
(nonsexual) activities?

11. Do you like feeling aroused for ex-
tended periods of time, or do you prefer to
go on to orgasm relatively quickly? What
does arousal feel like?

12. Do you feel that physical affection and
touching are important for their own sakes,
not leading to orgasm or even necessarily
to sex?

I. SEXUAL ACTIVITIES—PART A
13. Do you enjoy masturbation? Physically?
Psychologically? How often do you mas-
turbate? Does it lead to orgasm always,
usually, sometimes, rarely, or never?

14. How do you masturbate? Please give a
detailed description. For example, do you
hold your penis with your hand and move
your hand on your penis, or do you move
your whole body, rubbing against some-
thing? Is stimulation important at the top or
bottom of your penis? Do you touch your-
self in other places besides your penis? Do
you mind the wetness of ejaculation?

15. Do you like intercourse (penis/vagina)?
Physically? Psychologically? Does it lead
to orgasm always, usually, sometimes,
rarely, or never? How often do you have
intercourse?

16. What does a vagina feel like to your
penis? Do different vaginas feel different?
What does the vagina feel like when the
woman is orgasming?

17. Exactly how do you achieve orgasm
during intercourse? Please explain. Also,
do you prefer to be on top, on the bottom,
sideways, or some other position? Why?
Do you like to move, or have the other per-
son move, or both move together—or do
you prefer less movement?

18. How do you feel about making thrusting
movements into the vagina?

19. Is intercourse mostly appealing to you
on a physical (feels good) or an emotional
level (that is, the idea of being joined
closely with another person)? Please ex-
plain. Is the good physical feeling related
more to stimulation of your penis, or to the
close physical contact with the other per-
son?

20. Do you ever orgasm “too soon” after
penetration—in other words, do you find

The author of the most important

book on female sexuality is curious about men.

Now you can let women

know how you like it, why you like it,

you are not able to continue intercourse as
long as you think you should or would like?
How long are you talking about? When
does this happen, and why do you think it
is? Does it bother you?

Do you use any particular method of
keeping from having an orgasm during in-
tercourse before you want to?

21. Have you ever had difficulty having an
erection at a time you desired one? When
does this happen, and why do you think it
is? Does it happen often? What do you do
at such times?

22. Do you enjoy cunnilingus (oral sex) with
a woman? Physically? Psychologically?
Why? What do you like or dislike about it?
Do you like the way women’s genitals
taste? Smell? Look? How do they look to
you?

23. Do you like oral stimulation of your
penis (fellatio)? Can you orgasm this way
always, usually, sometimes. rarely, or
never? How often do you orgasm this way?

24. Do you enjoy, or would you like to try,
fellatio with another man? Physically? Psy-
chologically? Please explain what you like
or dislike about it.

25. Do you like the way male genitals look?
Taste? Smell? Do you think your penis is
beautiful? A good size?

26. Do you like, or would you like, to be
rectally penetrated? By a finger? By a
penis? How does it feel? Do you orgasm
this way? Exactly what does anal inter-
course feel like?

27. Do you like, or would you like, to kiss

and when you like it.

another man? On the lips? Tongue kissing?
How do you like to kiss?

Do you enjoy hugging other men? In
friendship? During sex? How physically af-
fectionate are you?

PART B

28. How have you usually had sex?

Most of the time you have had sex with
women, what did you do? What did she do?
(What activities were involved?)

Most of the times you have had sex with
men, what did you both do?

29. Do you usually make the initial sexual
advance? If so, how do you feel about
being the one to do this? How do you feel if
the other person does not want to have sex
with you?

Do you ever find yourself initiating sex as
much because it is expected as because
you really want to?

30. After sex is begun, do you feel pressure
on you to initiate intercourse? Do you al-
ways want intercourse, or do you some-
times do it because it seems to be ex-
pected?

31. Do you do most of the “work” in love-
making? If so, do you dislike this, or do you
prefer to take the lead?

Are too many demands made on you in
sex?

32. Do you ever feel pressured to have an
orgasm because it is expected—otherwise
you will have “failed”? How often?

33. Do you ever fake orgasms? When? How
do you do it?

34. Does holding off orgasming (while wait-
ing for the other person, for example) in-
hibit your ability to orgasm or make the
orgasm stronger when it comes?

35. Ideally, how long would you like “fore-
play” to last? Do you feel obligated to “per-
form” longer foreplay than you would like?

36. What kind of “foreplay” is important to
you for yourself? Are your breasts sensi-
tive? Do you like to be touched? Kissed?
Petted? Do you enjoy these activities as
much as regular genital sex?

37. What is it about sex that gives you the
greatest pleasure? Displeasure?

38. Would you like to change sex in any
way? Has sex been everything that you
want it to be, or do you want it to be some-
thing more? Would you like to define sex
differently?

= WAGE e-
39. How does age affect sex? Does desire
for sex increase or decrease with age? En-
joyment of sex? Is your sex life different

now than it used to be? How?
CONTINUED ON PAGE 109

93

YAN KHUR

T his expatriate Polish
sculptor finds his inspiration on
—would you believe it? —
the streets of Brooklyn.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY EDDIE ADAMS

If sculptor Yan Khur (pictured below) didn’t
exist, he would have created himself —proba-
bly from the trunk of a strong Polish oak.
Nothing if not a visionary artistic missionary,
Khur is convinced that sculpture has become
exclusive and isolated—an art form whose
relevance has been surpassed by contempo-
rary films and music. The intense, thirty-
three-year-old Khur intends to change all this
with his revolutionary ERO-Art—the “art of
our Era.’ A political
refugee from Poland,
Yan Khur came to the
United States in 1968,
soon after the Polish po-
litical authorities had
judged his work to be
“violent” (he dared to
put chains around his
erotic figures) and
therefore ideologically
“incorrect.’For Khur
rejected political chains.

94 PENTHOUSE

Khur refuses to label his work “erotic.” He
feels that erotic sculpture is merely a craft, with
no underlying compositional or philosophical
problems. The figures featured come from a
larger work, called “World Trade Center”
Among his other works are “Niagara Falls”
and “Times Square.” Obviously, Khur is capti-
vated by all things American. “The Euro-
peans no longer blaze trails in the arts—
America makes all the affirmative statements,”
he says of his new home.

Most of his models
come from the streets of
Brooklyn, where he
roams for hours, observ-
ing, observing, observ-
ing. Khur works in
wood, which he consid-
ers the perfect medium.
On the following pages
he explains the con-
cepts on which ERO-
Art is founded.

An artist must e to sense the thrustof his era and stay atits tip, as Pica did, his force undiminished, no matter what his time c
him. In totalitarian countnes, art bows to ideology: as a propaganda tool. it is dishonest art. In America, art is a relaxant that liberates the creative

impulse and serves to expand Isciousness, Thatis whatcon yporary American life demands, and my sculpture reflects this yearning’

96 PENTHOUSE

| want toc fl my work probes th r > and female

struciures as ess d = Lite— Confrontation, Action, and History. My sculptures exemplity the new coexistence with
the empirical biology of our times. Biology is now tree of fear: true eroticis

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 76

lived near my own home. It was after 5:00
AM when | reached the home of the sixth
congressman. He started to get oul and
then, abruptly, stopped, turned back to-
ward me with a quizzical expression on his
face, and threw up over me, himsell, and
half the front seat. | never got that smell out
of the car,

The man who had telephoned me. a
congressman | had not met before, was a
southerner Despite that and despite his
generally conservative political outlook, he
showed his gratitude for that evening by
frequently voting the labor line. The reason
was nol, he said to me often, that he owed it
to me, although he felt that he owed me
something. It was rather that after having
given me several long hearings on the is-
sues we were pushing, he had come to the
honest View that most of our proposals
were sound and fair for the vast majority of
workers in the country.

There are more profound problems that
lawmakers face, although public drunken-
ness will almost always ruin their political
ambitions, One such problem confronted a
conservative midwestern senator. a Re-
publican, in 1959, | called on him, hoping
that he would oppose the Landrum-Griffin
bill, a proposal feared by organized labor
as the death knell to the labor movement
(although it proved no such thing), Actually,
| had little hope that he would vote
against the bill. Even some Democrats,
normally friends of labor, weren't opposing
Landrum-Griffin. It was designed, really, to
limit the excesses of Jimmy Hoffa and the
Teamsters Union (and, as it turned out,
barely did that), and few congressmen
could afford, at that time, to do anything
that would seem supportive of Hoffa.

But | had a deep-seated belief that lob-
byists, good ones, don't stop lobbying afler
seeing their friends and supporters. Those
were men and women who would vote for
you come hell or high water—as long as
you remembered them at election time. |
believed that you had to see your antici-
pated enemies as well. In a close vote, it
was a switch of one or two votes from those
members normally against you from which
you could snatch victory from defeat. That
philosophy caused more than one arqu-
ment with my employers over the years,
especially when it came to paying expense
accounts that included lunches or dinners
for congressmen or their top aides known
to be on the wrong side of our political
fence. But it paid off more than once.

In this particular case the senator was a
person kind enough to allow me to present
my case. He listened courteously, but it
was Clear from the outset that | was wasting
my time, at least on this issue. | thought to
myself that perhaps in the future he would
lean my way—but not this time.

Then the telephone rang. The senator
scowled as if to say he had left instructions
not to be disturbed. | thought that he had

100 PENTHOUSE

done what so many senators and represen-
tatives do when they think they are obli-
gated to be closeted with a lobbyist once in
a while: they leave purposeful instructions
to be interrupted by their secretaries with
“an important call" after about five or ten
minutes with the unwelcome guest.

As soon as the senator spoke into the
phone, however, it was clear that this was
no brush-off call, In a moment, he seemed
to go limp. Then he turned ashen. His
forehead broke into a cold sweat, and his
hand trembled. | thought that he might be
having a heart attack. He placed a hand
over the mouthpiece and looked up at me,
his eyes wide with shock.

“My wife is on the phone,” he said. “My
daughter has slit her wrists.”

| looked down at him, and he stared
back. | wasn't certain what, if anything, |
was supposed to do. Ihis situation was not
the kind that your run-of-the-mill lobbyist
encounters in his day-to-day work.

“Help me," he pleaded

——————

«

It's nota
coincidence that top
lobbyists are paid
the same as members of
Congress.

We all see ourselves
as equal,

°

There was no question in my mind that
the man was going to be very sick if | didn't
do something. Also, there was the not-so-
little matter of his daughter. Somebody had
better do something, or God knows what
might happen to her, if it hadn't already.

“Relax, Senator,” | said and took the re-
ceiver trom him. | spoke to his wife, who
was upset but in contro! of herself. Her
daughter was lying on a bed now. She was
losing blood but seemed in no immediate
danger. | told her to stay with her daughter
and leave the rest to me.

| phoned an ambulance company, the
owner of which | knew. | explained the situ-
ation, and he agreed to keep his sirens off
when he was close to the senator's house
so as not to attract needless attention

Then | phoned the hospital to which | had
recommended she be taken. The hospital
administrator also was a friend of mine. He
knew that getting along in Washington (in
terms, at least, of continued general sup-
port of federal aid to hospitals) sometimes
meant going along with the wishes of VIPs.
The wish in this case, | said, was absolute
secrecy. The senator's personal physician
would meet the ambulance at the hospital
No one else was to know the true identity of

the patient. She was to be there under an
assumed name, which we agreed upon

Next | had the senator give me his doc-
tor's name. and | called his office. | told the
nurse at his office that it was an emergency,
and she put me directly through. When |
told the doctor the arrangements, he was
slightly annoyed. He didn't normally prac-
tice al the hospital | had chosen,

"Doctor," | said. “This is not only a matter
of life and death, It's a matter of crucial
sensitivity. | think you'll agree ”

He said that he did and was on his way

Later | learned that the girl had been on
drugs and had also had a recent abortion,
which was illegal in those days. She had
felt estranged from her parents and had
tried to kill herself. Today the girl is happily
married and has two children. Her tather
remains in the U.S. Senate. He voted
against the Landrum-Griffin bill, and he still
is one of the Republicans | Usually can
count on for support.

But after that incident | often asked my
self: “Why me?”

| realized that | could be depended on for
discretion by virtue of my occupation, if not
for my priestly face. But their putting them-
selves in my hands like that, even al a mo-
ment when a daughter's life depended on
it—well, that couldn't be explained merely
by their counting on me to keep my mouth
shut. The reason must have had something
to do more directly with the relationship that
evolves between a good lobbyist and a
good congressman, a relationship in which
each perceives that, but for the grace of
happenstance, we might be filling one
another's shoes. In fact, we oftan have
Many lobbyists are former congressmen.
Others, like Roy Elson of the National As-
sociation of Broadcasters, have sought un-
successfully for elective office before be-
coming lobbyists Congressional aides,
such as | had been, often become either
lobbyists or congressmen. While the dif-
ference between the two is seen by the
Public at large as being vast, we know bet-
ter. We're political brothers under the skin,
all in the same business but going at it from
different directions. It is more than a coin-
cidence that most of us who are in top
lobbying jobs (short of such super-
lobbyists as ex-Congressman Frank |kard
of the American Petroleum Institute, whose
income ts in the six figures annually) are
paid precisely the same as are members ol
Congress. We all see ourselves as equal.

But in moments when | did something to
help a senator or a representative avoid
serious trouble. or help him through a per-
sonal crisis, | liked to believe that there was
more to being a lobbyist than “playing third
base” or bending your elbow at the 116
Club or the Democratic Club or the Capitol
Hill Club or any other hangout of the polliti-
cians in Washington.

| liked to think that there was something
special about what | did. And while there's
no place to go to school to learn lobbying, |
knew | hadn't gotten where | was by acci-
dent. | had worked to be a good lobbyist. |
had worked damned hard, 0+

Lorillard, U.S.A., 1976

rue
slashes tar tar
in half! half!

Down to on wn to only
5 megs. tar per aie 100 als tar per pack.

And a taste worth changing to.

Think about it.

Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined
That Cigarette Smoking ls Dangerous to Your Health Regular: 5 mgs. “tar”, 0.4 mgs. nicotine
av. per cigarette, FTC Report-October 1976.

~ PORT COAT RED

102 PENTHOUSE

FASHION BY ED EMMERLING/PHOTOGRAPHS BY FRANK LAFITTE

7

As a wardrobe stretcher the
casual yet classic
sport jacket is more important than ever.
At long last,
it's au revoir to leisure suits.

Remember, the keynote of spring is simplicity.

For information on where to buy the merchandise featured, see Fashion Finder on page 164,

look jacket
($150), Givenchy
by Chequers,
Ltd.; Phillipe
Venet shirt for

Parkley, tie by
Vicky L

I-check,
silk-look sport
coatensembie
(jacket, $115,
slacks, $50, and
vest $15) by
Carlo Palazzi
Roma-New York,
Shirt by
Hathaway; tie by
Vicky Davis.
Flask and
cigarette holder
at Lifestyle, N.Y.

Sport coats once again scale the fashion peak this spring, now that the ubiquitous leisure suit is finally losing popularity,
Enhanced by clean, crisp tailoring, this new look is double-breasted and has the incisive styling of peaked lapels in order to
emphasize a slimmer, more dramatic silhouette. Ties become more vital than ever—as does the dash of a pocket square.

eee

——_

rt
ae |
¥s

Awogl. double-bree f
dashinglycombines.with t
blend vestand pants (S10

Couture designer Adolfo
likes the natural feeling of
wool for spring, in easy-
to-wear, lightweight’sport
combinations and body-
traced silhouettes:At left
a white-gabaraine blazer
($185) and {right) the.
timeless navy wool blazer
(S776).

Adolfo's signature ts
arent in this Woor-SHK

nelange ofjacketvest ~
and trousers (ensemble;
$285). All fashions are by
Adolfo, Div. cfLeonof t
Paris, 1290 Avenue of the
Americas, New YOrk FOr
retail Stores, see fashion

finder.

PHOTO BY JEFF DUNAS

™

is

FORUM-no subject is taboo

108 PENTHOUSE

The FORUM is wide open as an
international audience ex-
changes views, fantasies, prob-
lems and aspirations. The arts of
love are discussed as frankly as
the English language will allow
in articles by doctors, sex
therapists, analysts, clergymen
and writers.

The FORUM is open to its read-
ers, too. You Can participate in
FORUM's ‘‘Advisor’’ column
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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 92

40. How old were you when you had your
first sexual experiences? What were
they—both with yourself, and with another
person? How old were you when you had
your first orgasm? During what kind of ac-
tivity? What did you think of your orgasm at
the time?

41. If you are still living al home with your
family, do you have a “sex life”? What kind?
Do your parents/family know about it? How
did they react when they found out?

42. Have you ever had sexual feelings tor
members of your family? Brothers or sis-
ters? Parents? Have your children (it appli-
cable) ever shown sexual responses to
your touch, or have you ever had sexual
feelings tor them? How did you react?

43. Are you attracted to older women?
Older men? Why or why not?

relevant, your background, occupation,
education, upbringing, and race?

45. Do you prefer sex with women, men,
both, yoursell, or not at all?

46. What is the purpose of sex in your view?
Is having sex important to you?

47. Do you like extended periods of
monogamy? Why or why not? Do you like
casual sexual relationships?

48. If you are married, how many years
have you been married? Do you like being
married? What is the effect on sex?

49. Have you had “extramarital” sexual
experiences? Were they of the “open mar-
riage” type or unknown to your wife? What
was the effect on you as an individual and
on your marriage?

50. If you are “single,” how long have you
been single? Do you like it? Why? Would
you rather be married? Do you plan to get
married eventually, or will you remain
single?

51. If you are living with someone, how long
have you been living with them? Do you like
living together? Would you rather be mar-
ried? Please explain.

52. Do you ever go for long periods without
sex (over four months, for example, or
longer)? Does this include masturbation, or
do you have no sex at all? What is the
longest you have ever spent without sex?
Did you like it?

53. What do you think of the “sexual revolu-
tion"?

_ PART B :
54. Do you have sexual fantasies? Exactly
whal do you fantasize?

55. Is sadomasochism, or domination-
submission, appealing to you? In what
way? Does it excite you to think about it?

56. Do you ever have a feeling of power-
lessness or submission, a wanting to be
“taken” during sex? When? Do you enjoy it?

57. Do you ever have a feeling of power
during sex? When? How does it feel? (This
question and question 56 do not necessar-
ily refer to question 55; answer them in any
way they have meaning for you.)

58. Have you ever raped a woman? Why?
What was it like? If not, have you ever
wanted to rape a woman? Why?

59. Have you ever had sex with a prosti-
tute? How did you feel about paying for
Sex?

60. Did you ever feel a woman was having
sex with you because of something you
could give her—your prestige, position, or

economic advantages? How did you feel:

about it?

61. Do you feel that sex is in any way politi-
cal?

62. Do you get enough love and affection in
your sexual relationships? Da you give

enough? Is too much demanded?

__- PARP
(If you are exhausted. skip down to #69.)

63. Describe the time you fell the most
deeply in love. How did it feel? What hap-
pened?

64. Did you ever cry yourself to sleep be-
cause of problems with someone you
loved? Contemplate suicide? Why?

65. What was the happiest/most content
you ever were with someone in a sexual
relationship?

66. What is the best thing about your cur-
rent relationship (if you are in one)? The
worst?

67. How do your friendships compare with
your love relationships? Which are more
satisfying? More exciling? More loving?
More long-term?

68. Is love the thing you work at in a rela-
tionship over a long period of time—or is it
the strong feeling you feel for someone
tight from the beginning, for no known
feason?

69, Please add anything you would like to
say that was not mentioned

70. Why did you answer this questionnaire,
and what did you think of it? Ot—-7,

“I'm a leg man, myself!” (Ale

109

110

TAR
JUIMATE
The Alfetta ALA

of automotive excellence
BY JOE KELLEHER

PENTHOUSE

A new model from the legendary Alfa-
Romeo concern in Italy always Causes a
stir among connoisseurs of fine au-
tomobiles. The debut of the Alfetta GT
has proved to be no exception. Driving
the Alfetta GT for the first time is like
sipping a fine champagne: the first taste
leaves you wanting more, and further
sampling only confirms and elaborates
on your first impression. For people who
love to drive, people who go out of their
way to find those back roads that offer a
challenge, the Alfetta GT offers the quin-
tessence of style, speed, and control.

For the Alfetta GT is but the latest
variation on the enduring hallmarks that

have been the stock and trade of Alfa-
Romeo since its beginnings, way back
in 1894, In cars, breeding can be as
important as it is in horse racing. Of
course, any two-buck horseplayer
knows that you have to check both the
bloodlines and the track record to pick a
winner, And you can bet your boots that
if any horse showed up with the Alfetta’s
lines and record, the tellers would be
selling "win" tickets right up to post time

The Alfetta can trace its bloodlines
back to 1894, when the Anonima Lom-
bardo Fabbrica Automobili (ALFA) was
formed. In 1909 an engineer, Nicola
Romeo, took over the company, and the

name Alta-Romeo appeared for the first
time on an automobile. Thal was the
moment that Alfa-Romeo started mak-
ing tidal waves in the auto world. and
they're still rolling today.

Between World War | and World War
ll, racing was the road to success for a
manufacturer. And Alfas dominated rac-
ing like no other car before or since
Entering both grand-prix and road
races, Alfa-Romeo won more interna-
tional races than any other car in history.
Among the many things Alfa had going
for it at the start was some of the finest
engineering talent in the world. Like all
exceptional engineers, the group at Alfa

were never satisfied. They kept improv-
ing thei cars year after year, They kept
winning prizes year after year. The cul-
mination of this strategy was reached in
the Tipo 158/159, which racing fans
dubbed the Alfetta

The racing Alfetta was sometning

apart from other autos in its c Inthe

years just betore World War ||, Formula-! <

grand-prix cars were allowed to use un-
supercharged engines up 10 4,500 cc or
supercharged engines of 3,000 cc. By

comparison, the Alfetta, with only 1,500 r

cc, was a mere baby. But what a baby!
From 1937 to 1951, when Alfa quit the

racing scene, the Alfetta took on the 4

best cars in Europe and kept on romping
home in first place, Clearly, this baby was a
kid with a lot of muscle.

The muscle, naturally, was under the
hood, Starting in 1937, Alfa's chief de-
signer, Colombo, laid down a new racing
engine that he felt could meet the chal-
lenge of Mercedes and Auto Union, then
the reigning champions. Starting with no
preconceptions whatsoever, Columbo de-
veloped the Alfa engine from the ground up
and called it the Tipo 158. Basically, this
engine was a straight eight, with double
overhead-cam shafts, 1,479 cc that
pumped out 180 hp at 6,500 rpm. This new
power plant was far superior to any other
engine then being manufactured. Still,
Columbo kept on refining his design. By
1939, when World War I! hit, the engine
could crank out 225 hp.

When racing resumed after World War II,
the 158 had become the Tipo 159, with a
two-stage blower system and an output of
330 hp at 8,500 rpm. By 1951 nothing could
touch the Alfetta. The car entered eleven
races and won every one of them. includ-
ing all the major grand-prix events. At the
peak of its development, the Alfetta's 159
engine was producing 425 hp from only 90
cu. in.—or damn near 5 hp per cu. in.

As the engine's output increased, Alfa
also improved the suspension, to take full
advantage of the power available. With 425
hp on tap, handling could get very touchy
unless the suspension worked flawlessly.
After trying several combinations, the Al-
fetta engineers ended up with independent
front suspension and a triangulated De
Dion rear axle, With the De Dion system, the
tear wheels are connected by a lightweight
tube that keeps the wheels vertical during
spring travel. This arrangement gives the
driver all the advantages of an indepen-
dent rear suspension with none of the flaky
handling problems.

Having won everything in sight, Alfa de-
cided in 1951 to bow out of racing and to
concentrate on applying what had been
learned to high-performance sports and
passenger cars. In the twenty-five years
that followed, Alfa earned an enviable
reputation with a series of cars that have
become well known for getting places very
quickly, very comfortably, and very safely.

In the Alfetta GT, the traditional Alfa-
Romeo triad of speed, luxury, and safety
moves several quantum jumps ahead. The
first thing Alfa did was to give a lot of
thought to driver comfort. The bucket seats
have exceptionally long travel, with the
back adjustable through a wide arc; anda
small handle under your left hand lets you
jack the seat up or down to suit your
wishes. Once the seat is just where you
want it, reach under the dash and pull back
on the steering-wheel rake-adjustment
lever. The wheel swings up or down to fit
your reach perfectly. Pull the inertia-reel
safety belt across your chest, snap it in
place, and you're all set.

Out on the road, the GT drives and han-
dles as well as it looks. In town or in slow
traffic, the car moves easily in second or
112 PENTHOUSE

third gear, with no fuss or bother. On free-
ways or turnpikes, you can pop it into fourth
or fifth gear and purr along. (The fifth gear,
by the way, is a real gas saver, with 70 mph
reached at only 3,500 rpm.) At any speed
the ride is smooth, and directional stability
is excellent, Rack-and-pinion steering pro-
vides quick, smooth response. Best of all,
the car always goes where you point it
Once you get off the freeways and onto
those two-laners that wander across the
landscape, you'll find out that the GT on the
Alfetta is more than a set of initials. As you
push the car harder and harder, your confi-
dence begins to soar. There is that solid
feeling that lets you know that the car's
desianer was a guy who loved to drive,

The excellent road-holding ability of the
Alfetta GT starts with the fifty-fifty weight
distribution. This balance is achieved by
incorporating the five-speed gearbox, dif-
ferential, flywheel, clutch, and inboard
brakes in a single unit, at the rear.

deal weight distribution is only half of the

a

In the Alfetta GT,
the traditional Alfa-Romeo
triad of speed,
luxury, and safety moves
several quantum jumps
ahead.

°

package; the suspension makes up the
rest. Up front you have fully independent
suspension, with torsion-bar springing
plus a sway bar. At the rear the wheels are
controlled by the triangulated De Dion axle,
Watts linkage, sway bar, and coil springs.
The combination provides excellent con-
trol and eliminates those unexpected vari-
ables that can produce unplanned gyra-
tions when the road gets rough or the driver
too enthusiastic. The final touch is provided
by a set of 185/70 HR 14 belted radials on
five-and-one-half-inch rims. When pushed
around a turn too fast, the Alfetta drifts ina
predictable fashion, providing ample time
to correct, The drift can be checked quickly
by backing off the gas or getting on the
brake. With a little practice you can learn to
drift through turns with your toe on the
brake, and the heel of the same foot on the
gas. Unlike most front-engine cars, the Al-
fetta has near neutral steering and requires
little effort to hold it in turns. Drivers who are
used to manhandling heavy, understeering
American cars tend to overcontrol the GT
at first, but after a few miles they start taking
those turns like a pro.

One thing Alfetta drivers can be sure of is
that the power is there when they need it.

With the excellent five-speed box and
smooth clutch, going through the gears is a
pleasure. Red-lined at 6,000 rpm, the en-
gine is perfectly willing and able to rev
much higher at a touch of the toe
Maximum torque comes on at 4,500 rpm,
but the engine delivers 90 percent of full
torque from 2,600 to 5,800 rpm. Relying on
their competition experience, Alfa’s en-
gineers have developed a detuned version
of their racing engine for the Alfetta. The
1,962 cc (117.8 Cu. in.) four-banger puts out
an honest 110 hp at 5.500 hp.

Displaying amazingly little fuss, the Al-
fetta gets you up to 110 mph very quickly
and feels quite stable at that speed. With
four people aboard, the GT can cruise all
day long in the 75-to-85-mph range, even
on secondary roads. Naturally, the decep-
tive ease with which the car accelerates
and cruises can cause some expensive
encounters with Smokey the Bear: so keep
your eyes open. This is but one situation
where those power-actuated, four-wheel
disc brakes are appreciated, For even al
higher speeds, a light push on the brake
pedal pulls your speed down quickly with-
out any skidding or loss of directional con-
trol. Mounting the rear brakes inboard—
that is, the transaxle housing—helps re-
duce the unsprung weight on the rear
wheels and keeps the tires on the road,
where they belong.

Only about fourteen feet long, the GT
packs a lot of usable space into a smooth
aerodynamic shell. The sharply raked
windshield, squared-off, Kamm-effect tail,
and generally clean lines produce a low
drag coefficient ot only 0.39, which makes
it a clean machine by anyone's standards.
Aside from the fuel savings, the low drag
design creates very little wind noise and
contributes significantly to both driver com-
fort and high-speed stability. This func-
tional design, coupled with elegant Italian
interpretations, also gives the Alfetta its
slim, sculptural beauty,

Internally, the GT is a neat, trim package
with all the bits and pieces well thought out
and firmly attached. Full carpeting, vinyl or
velour upholstery, a crackle-finish dash-
board (with a minimal amount of chrome),
and a simple instrument cluster comple-
ment the sleek exterior. A full range of col-
ors is offered for the body (my favorite
being Alfa Red), The quality of the paint
and trim is excellent; in fact, the paint job is
far superior to that on anything being
turned out of Detroit today.

Options for the GT include mag wheels,
air conditioning, and radio, with everything
else needed for first-class motoring in-
cluded in the base price. Depending on the
options—and your ability to haggle—you
should be able to drive a GT away from
your loca! dealer for between $8,000 and
$8,500. That used to be a lot of money, but
with even the mid-sized Detroit bombs
going for around $7,000, it's a whale of a
bargain. For Alfa-Romeo’s Alfetta GT is not
just another set of wheels. One test-ride
over a couple of curving back roads and
you'll be hooked. Ot,

“

o

WILD CHILD

PHOTOGRAPHS BY TIM PERIOR

High-spirited and freewheeling, Ni Carole is happiest in her
beloved California mountains, where she will roam for hours. “I've
been a professional dancer, and | do modeling and TY work, but
mostly | love skiing, the mountains, the ocean. The city makes you
feel like so many cattle—! get a tremendous rush when I'm in the
wilderness.” This five-foot-two-inch, 3 Scorpio likes feeling
natural. “I could run around topless all day long.! get a sensation of
child-like innocence, like when you're young and run around naked.”

e/mamoaner in bed, and /like aman who is a talker who says sexy things while we're fucking. *

“I'm nota very
modest person.
That's because |

don't see
anything wrong

or dirty about
sex.| think it'sa
gift men and
women were
given. | believe
that a woman
should look like
a woman, to
make men act
more like men.
llove happy
men; | look at
their eyes and
their smiles. |
also like blue
eyes, big
shoulders, tiny
bottoms.”

Clothes by Shari Eubank, Los Angeles; Quilt by Marianne Mertens, San Clemente, Calif.

118 PENTHOUSE

Twenty-four-
year-old Nicole
displays a
healthy sexual
appetite: “I

would love to be
with more than
one manata
time, maybe

en two or three
men.! would
want the
lovemaking to
be very warm
and passionate. |
like a lot

of foreplay and
oral sex. Then!
like hardcore
fucking
especially being
entered from
behind.”

“| believe a
woman should
make her man
happy in bed. |
wear something
lacy, either black
or white
Sometimes |
wearnylons and
high heels. I'ma
moaner in bed,
and | like aman
who is a talker,
who says really
sexy things
while we're
fucking. | like to
laugh with my
men inbed

and out. Life is
too serious

to be taken
seriously

“like to make
love in
unexpected,
spontaneous
situations. Like
inthe bedroom
or bathroom of
parents’ houses
llove doing it
outside in the
good old car. I've
made love in the
bathroom ata
restaurant and in
the back ofa
plane— places
where it's
forbidden.”
Such forbidden
fruits, Nicole,
could make
Adams of

us all Ot-~a

CHILDREN

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 68

Vicky suddenly began to laugh—a high,
giggling sound that struck Burt as being
dangerously close to hysteria

“What's so funny?”

“The signs,” she said, gasping and hic-
cuping. “Haven't you been reading them?
When they called this the Bible Belt, they
sure weren't kidding. Oh Lordy, there's
another bunch.” Another burst of hysterical
laughter escaped her, and she clapped
both hands over her mouth.

Each of the signs had only one word.
They were leaning on whitewashed sticks
that seemed by their looks to have been
emplanted long ago in the sandy shoulder;
the whitewash was flaked and faded. They
were coming up at eighty-foot intervals,
and Burt read:

A\.7« GLOUD . =, BY x, / DAY =.28)-
PILLAR... OF... FIRE... BY... NIGHT

“They only forgot one thing,” Vicky said,
still giggling helplessly.

“What?” Burt asked, frowning.

“Burma Shave.” She held a knuckled fist
against her open mouth to keep in the
laughter, but her semihysterical giggles
flowed around it like effervescent ginger
ale bubbles

“Vicky, are you all right?"

“| will be, Just as soon as we're a
thousand miles away from here, in sunny,
sinful California with the Rockies between
us and Nebraska."

Another group of signs came up, and
they read them silently.

TAKE ... THIS... AND... EAT ...
SAITH... THE... LORD... GOD

Now why, Burt thought, should | im-
mediately associate that indefinite pronoun
with corn? Isn't that what they say when
they give you communion? It had been so
long since he had been to church that he
really couldn't remember. He wouldn't have
been surprised if they used cornbread for
holy wafer around these parts. He opened
his mouth to tell Vicky that and then thought
better of it.

They breasted a gentle rise, and there
was Gatlin below them, all three blocks ofit,
looking like a set from a movie ahout the
depression.

“There'll be a constable," Burt said and
wondered why the sight of that hick, one-
timetable town dozing in the sun should
have brought a lump of dread into his
throat.

They passed a speed sign proclaiming
that no more than thirty was now in order
and another sign, rust-flecked, which said:
“YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATLIN,
NICEST LITTLE TOWN IN NEBRASKA OR
ANYWHERE ELSE! POP. 5431."

Dusty elms stood on both sides of the
road, most of them diseased. They passed
the Gatlin Lumber Yard and a 76 gas sta-
tion, where the price signs swung slowly in
a hot noon breeze—"REG. 35.9 HI TEST
38 9"—and another said, “Hl TRUCKERS
DIESEL FUEL AROUND BACK.”

124 PENTHOUSE

They crossed Elm Street, then Birch
Street, and came up on the town square.
The houses lining the streets were plain
wood with screened porches, Angular and
functional. The lawns were yellow and dis-
pirited, Up ahead a mongrel dog walked
slowly aut into the middle of Maple Street,
stood looking at them for a moment, then
lay down in the road with its nose on its
paws.

“Stop,” Vicky said. “Stop right here.”

Burt pulled obediently to the curb.

“Turn around. Let's take the body to
Grand Island. That's not too far, is it? Let's
do that."

“Vicky, what's wrong?”

“What do you mean, what's wrong?” She
asked, her voice rising thinly. “This town is
empty, Burt. There's nobody here but us.
Can't you feel that?"

He had felt something and still felt it,
But——

“It just seems that way,” he said. “But it
sure is a one-hydrant town, Probably all up

e

In each of the wide,
black pupils
someone was drowning in
a lake of fire.

But the oddest thing
was that this
Christ had green hair...

>

in the square, having a bake sale or a bingo
game."

“There's no one here." She said the
words with a queer, strained emphasis.
“Didn't you see that 76 station back there?"

“Sure, by the lumberyard, so what?" His
mind was elsewhere, listening to the dull
buzz of a cicada burrowing into one of the
nearby elms. He could smell corn, dusty
rases, and fertilizer—of course. For the first
time they were off the turnpike and in a
town. A town in a state he had never been in
before (although he had flown over it from
time to time in United Airlines 747s). and
somehow it felt all wrong but all right.
Somewhere up ahead there would be a
drugstore with a soda fountain, a movie
house named the Bijou, a school named
after JFK.

“Burt, the prices said thirty-five-nine for
regular and thirty-eight-nine for high oc-
tane. Now how long has it been since any-
one in this country paid those prices?”

“At least four years," he admitted. “But
Vicky—"

“We're right in town, Burt, and there's not
a car! Not one car!"

“Grand Island is seventy miles away. It
would look funny if we took him there.”

“| don't care.”

“Look, let's just drive up to the court-
house and——"

“No!”

There, damnit, there. Why our marriage is
falling apart, ina nutshell. No! won't. No sir.
And furthermore, I'll hold my breath till turn
blue if you don't let me have my way.

“Vicky.” he said.

“| want to get out of here, Burt.”

“Vicky, listen to me."

“Turn around, Let's go.”

"Vicky, will you stop a minute?”

“I'll stop when we're driving the other
way. Now let's go.”

“We have a dead child in the trunk of our
car!” He roared at her and took a distinct
pleasure at the way she flinched, the way
her face crumbled. In a slightly lower voice,
he went on: “His throat was cut, and he was
shoved out into the road, and | ran him over,
Now I'm going to drive up to the courthouse
or whatever they have here, and I'm going
to report it. If you want to start walking back
toward the pike, go toit. I'll pick you up. But
don't you tell me to turn around and drive
seventy miles to Grand Island like we had
nothing in the trunk but a bag of garbage
He happens to be some mother's son, and
I'm going to report it before whoever killed
him gets over the hills and far away."

“You bastard,” she said, crying. “What
am | doing with you?"

“| don’t know," he said. “| don't know
anymore. But the situation can be reme-
died, Vicky.”

He pulled away from the curb. The dog
lifted its head at the brief squeal of the tires
and then lowered it ta its paws again

They drove the remaining block to the
square. At the corner of Main and Pleasant,
Main Street split in two. There actually was
a town square, a grassy park with a band-
stand in the middle. On the other end,
where Main Street became one again,
there were two official-looking buildings.
Burt could make out the lettering on one:
“GATLIN MUNICIPAL CENTER.”

“That's it," he said. Vicky said nothing.

Halfway up the square Burt pulled over
again. They were beside a lunchroom, the
Gatlin Bar and Grill.

“Where are you going?” Vicky asked with
alarm as he opened his door.

“To find out where everyone is. Sign in
the window there says, ‘OPEN,”*

“You're not going to leave me here
alone."

“So come. Who's stopping you?"

She unlocked her door and stepped out
as he crossed in front of the car, He saw
how pale her face was and felt an instant of
pity. Hopeless pity.

“Do you hear it?" She asked as he joined
her.

“Hear what?”

“The nothing. No cars. No people. No
tractors. Nothing.”

And then, fromm a block over, they heard
the high and joyous laughter of children.

“| hear kids," he said. “Don't you?"

She looked at him, troubled.

He opened the lunchroom door and

stepped into dry, antiseptic heat. The floor
was dusty. The sheen on the chrome was
dull. The wooden blades of the ceiling fans
stood still. Empty tables. Empty counter
stools. But the mirror behind the counter
had been shattered, and there was some-
thing else in amoment he had it. All the
beer taps had been broken off. They lay
along the counter like bizarre party favors

Vicky's voice was gay and near to break-
ing. "Sure. Ask anybody. Pardon me, sir,
but could you tell me——"

“Oh, shut up." But his voice was dull and
without force. They were standing in a bar
of dusty sunlight that fell through the lunch-
room's big plate-glass window, and again
he had that feeling of being watched, and
he thought of the boy they had in their trunk
and of the high laughter of children. A
phrase came to him for no reason, a legal-
sounding phrase, and it began to repeat
mystically in his mind: Sight unseen. Sight
unseen. Sight unseen

His eyes traveled over the age-yellowed
cards thumbtacked up behind the counter
“CHEESEBURG 35¢ WORLD'S BEST JOE
10¢ STRAWBERRY RHUBARB PIE 25¢
TODAY'S SPECIAL HAM & RED-EYE
GRAVY W/MASHED POT 80¢.”

How long since he had seen lunchroom
prices like that?

Vicky had the answer. “Look at this," she
said shrilly. She was pointing at the calen-
dar on the wall. “They've been at that bean
supper for twelve years, | guess." And she
uttered a grinding laugh

He walked over. The picture showed two
boys swimming in a pond while a cute little
dog carried off their clothes. Below the pic-
ture was the legend: “COMPLIMENTS OF
GATLIN LUMBER & HARDWARE You
Breakum, We Fixum.” The month on view
was August 1964

“| don't understand,
sure

“You're sure!” She cried hysterically.
“Sure, you're sure! That's part of your trou-
ble, Burt: you've spent your whole life
being sure!”

He turned back to the door, and she
came after him

‘Where are you going?

“To the Municipal Center."

“Burt, why do you have to be so stub-
born? You know something's wrong here
Can't you just admit it?

“I'm not being stubborn. | just want to get
shut of what's in that trunk

They stepped out onto the sidewalk, and
Burt was struck afresh with the town’s si-
lence and with the smell of fertilizer. Some-
how you never thought of that smell when
you buttered an ear and salted it and bit in
Compliments of sun, rain, all sorts of man-
made phosphates and a good healthy
dose of cow shit. But somehow this smell
was different from the one he had grown up
with in rural upstate New York. You could
say whatever you wanted to about organic
fertilizer, but there was something almost
fragrant about it when the spreader was
laying it down in the fields. Not one of your
great perfumes, God no, but when the

he faltered, “but I'm

late-afternoon spring breeze would pick up
and waft it over the freshly turned fields, it
was a smell with good associations. It
meant winter was over for good, It meant
that school doors were going to bang
closed in six weeks or so and spill everyone
out into summer. It was a smell tied irrevo-
cably in his mind with other aromas that
were perfume: timothy grass, clover, fresh
earth, hollyhocks, dogwood

But they must do something different out
here, he thought. The smell was close but
not the same. There was a sickish-sweet
undertone. Almost a death smell. As a med-
ical orderly in Vietnam, he had become well
versed in that smell

Vicky was sitting quietly in the car, hold-
ing the corn crucifix in her lap and staring at
it in a rapt way Burt didn't like

“Put that thing down,” he said

“No,” she said without looking up. “You
play your games and I'll play mine.”

He put the car in gear and drove up to the
corner. A dead stoplight hung overhead,
swinging ina faint breeze. To the left was a
neat, white church. The grass was cul
Neatly kept flowers grew alongside the
flagged path up to the door. Burt pulled
over

What are you doing!

“I'm going to go in and take a look,” Burt
said, “It's the only place in town thal looks
as if there isn't ten years’ dust on it. And
look at the sermon board."

She looked. Neatly pegged white letters

under glass read; “THE POWER AND
GRACE OF HE WHO WALKS BEHIND THE
ROWS." The date was July 24, 1976—the
Sunday before

“He Who Walks behind the Rows,” Burt
said, turning off the ignition. “One of the
nine thousand names of God only used in
Nebraska, | guess. Coming?"

She didn't smile. “I'm not going in with
you.”

“Fine. Whatever you want”

‘| haven't been in a church since | left
home, and | don't want to be in this church
and | don't want to be in this town. Burt, I'm
scared out of my mind; can't we just go?

“I'll only be a minute

I've got my keys, Burt. If you're not back
in five minutes, I'll just drive away and leave
you here

“Now just wait a minute, lady.”

“That's what I'm going to do. Unless you
want to assault me like a common mugger
and take my keys. | suppose you could do
that

But you don’t think | will

“No

Her purse was on
them. He snatched it up. She screamed
and grabbed for the shoulder strap. He
pulledit out ofher reach. Not bothering to dig
he simply turned the bag upside down and
let everything fall out. Her key ring glit-
tered amid tissues, cosmetics, change, old
shopping lists. She lunged for it, but he beat
heragain and put the keys in his own pocket

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=

“You didn't have to do that,” she said,
crying. “Give them to me.”

“No,” he said and gave her a hard, mean-
ingless grin. “No way.”

“Please, Burt! I'm scared!" She held her
hand out, pleading now.

“You'd wait two minutes and decide that
was long enough.”

“| wouldn't——"

“And then you'd drive off, laughing and
saying to yourself, ‘That'll teach Burt to
cross me when | want something.’ Hasn't
that pretty much been your motto during
our married life? That'll teach Burt to cross
me?”

He got out of the car.

“Please, Burt?" She screamed, sliding
across the seat. “Listen. . . | know. . . we'll
drive out of town and call from a phone
booth, okay? I've got all kinds of change. |
just... we can don't leave me alone.
Burt; don't leave me out here alone!"

He slammed the door on her cry and
then leaned aginst the side of the T-Bird for
amoment, thumbs against his closed eyes.
She was pounding on the driver's-side
window and calling his name. She was
going to make a wonderful impression
when he finally found someone in authority
to take charge of the kid's body. Oh yes.

He turned and walked up the flagstone
path to the church doors. Two or three min-
utes, just a look around, and he would be
back out. Probably the door wasn't even
unlocked,

But it pushed in easily on silent, well-
olled hinges (reverently oiled, he thought,
and that seemed funny for no really good
reason), and he stepped into a vestibule so
cool it was almost chilly. It took his eyes a
moment to adjust to the dimness.

The first thing he noticed was a pile of
wooden letters in the far corner, dusty and
jumbled indifferently together. He went to
them, curious, They looked as old and for-
gotten as the calendar in the bar and grill,
unlike the rest of the vestibule. which was
dust free and tidy. The letters were about
two feet high, obviously part of a set. He
spread them out on the carpet—there were
eighteen of them—and shifted them
around like anagrams. HURT BITE CRAG
CHAP CS. Nope, CRAP TARGET CHIBS
HUC. That wasn’t much good either. Ex-
cept for the CH in CHIBS. He quickly as-
sembled the word CHURCH and was left
looking at RAP TAGET CIBS. Foolish. He
was squatting here, playing idiot games
with a bunch of letters while Vicky was
going nuts out in the car. He started to get
up and then saw it. He formed BAPTIST,
leaving RAG EC, and by changing two let-
ters he had GRACE, GRACE BAPTIST
CHURCH. The letters must have been out
front. They had taken them down and had
thrown them indifferently in the corner, and
the church had been painted since then so
that you couldn't even see where the letters
had been.

Why?

It wasn't the Grace Baptist Church any-
more; that was why. So what kind of church
was it? For some reason that question
126 PENTHOUSE

caused a trickle of fear, and he stood up
quickly, dusting his fingers. So they had
taken down a bunch of letters; so what?
Maybe they had changed the place into
Flip Wilson's Church of What's Happening
Now.

But what had happened then?

He shook it off impatiently and went
through the inner doors. Now he was stand-
ing at the back of the church itself; and as
he looked toward the nave, he felt fear
close around his heart with its banana fin-
gers squeezing tightly. His breath drew in,
loud in the pregnant silence of this place.

The space behind the pulpit was domi-
nated by a gigantic portrait of Christ, and
Burt thought: if nothing else in this town
gave Vicky the screaming mimis, this
would.

The Christ was grinning, vulpine. His
eyes were wide and staring, reminding Burt
uneasily of Lon Chaney in The Phantom of
the Opera. In each of the wide, black pupils
someone (a sinner, presumably) was

2

The children were coming.
Some of them were
laughing gaily. They held knives,
hatchets, pipes, rocks,
hammers. One girl, with beautiful
long blonde hair,
held a jack handle.

=

drowning in a lake of fire. But the oddest
thing was that this Christ had green hair, .
hair which on closer examination revealed
itself to be a twining mass of early summer
corn. The picture was crudely done but
effective. It looked like a comic-strip mural
done by a gifted child—an Old Testament
Christ or a pagan Christ that might slaugh-
ter his sheep for sacrifice instead of lead-
ing them.

At the foot of the left-hand rank ot pews
was a pipe organ, and Burt could not at first
tell what was wrong with it. He walked down
the left-hand aisle and saw with slowly
dawning horror that all the keys had been
ripped up, the stops had been pulled out
‘and the pipes themselves filled with dry
corn husks. Over the organ was a carefully
lettered plaque which read: “MAKE NO
MUSIC EXCEPT WITH HUMAN TONGUE
SAITH THE LORD GOD."

Vicky was right. Something was terribly
wrong here. He debated going back to
Vicky without exploring any further, just get-
ting into the car and leaving town as quickly
as possible—never mind the Municipal
Building. But it grated on him, Tell the truth,
he thought. You want to give her Ban 5000 a
workout before going back and admitting

she was right to start with.

He would go back out in a minute or so.

He walked toward the pulpit, thinking:
people must go through Gatlin all the time.
There must be people in the neighboring
towns who have friends and relatives here.
The Nebraska SP must cruise through from
time to time. And what about the power
company? The stoplight had been dead.
Surely they'd know if the power had been
off for twelve long years. Conclusion: what
seemed to have happened in Gatlin was
impossible.

Still he had the creeps.

He climbed the four carpeted steps to
the pulpit and looked out over the deserted
pews, glimmering in the half shadows. He
seemed to feel the weight of those eldritch
and decidedly unchristian eyes boring into
his back

There was a large Bible on the lectern.
opened to the thirty-eighth chapter of Job.
Burt glanced down at it and read; “Then the
Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind,
and said, Who is this that darkeneth coun-
sel by words without knowledge? .- -
Where wast thou when | laid the founda-
tions of the earth? Declare, if thou hast un-
derstanding.” The Lord. He Who Walks be-
hind the Rows. Declare if thou hast under-
standing. And please pass the corn.

He fluttered the pages of the Bible, and
they made a dry whispering sound in the
quiet—the sound that ghosts might make if
there really were such things. And in a
place like this you could almost believe it.
Sections of the Bible had been chopped
out. Mostly from the New Testament, he
saw. Someone had decided to take on the
job of amending Good King James with a
pair of scissors,

But the Old Testament was intact.

He was about to leave the pulpit when he
saw another book on a lower shelf and took
it out, thinking it might be a church record of
weddings and confirmations and burials.

He grimaced at the words stamped on
the cover, done inexpertly in gold leaf:
“THUS LET THE INIQUITOUS BE CUT
DOWN SO THAT THE GROUND MAY BE
FERTILE AGAIN SAITH THE LORD GOD
OF HOSTS.”

There seemed to be only one train of
thought around here, and Burt didn't care
much for the track it seemed to ride on

He opened the book to the first wide,
lined sheet. A child had done the lettering,
he saw immediately. In places an ink eraser
had been carefully used, and while there
were no misspellings, the letters were large
and childishly made, drawn rather than
written. The first column read:

Amos Deigan (Richard)

b. Sept. 4, 1945 Sept. 4, 1964
Isaac Renfrew (William),
b. Sept. 19, 1945 Sept. 19, 1964

Zepeniah Kirk (George),

b. Oct. 14, 1945 Oct. 14, 1964
Mary Wills (Roberta),

b. Nov. 12, 1945 Nov. 12, 1964
Yemen Hollis (Edward),

b. Jan. 5, 1946 Jan. 5, 1965

CONTINUED ON PAGE 141

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127

128 PENTHOUSE

PENTHOUSE INTERVIEW

e grew up in a tenement on the East Side of

Manhattan, dropped out of high school at six-

teen, sniffed heroin and skin-popped, and was

busted by the police several times for being
where he shouldn't have been. Eventually, he became a
fireman—not because that was an interesting or exciting
job or a chance to nelp people, but because it offered the
security he'd never had

Then one day Dennis Smith, a sad-eyed Irishman who
savors his words—indeed, seems almost to taste each
one as it takes shape—wrote a book about what it was
like to be a fireman in the busiest firehouse in the world.
Report from Engine Co. 82 was an instant best-seller. The
movies went for it, too, and it has by now brought Smith
more than $600,000. A second book about firemen, a
novel called The Final Fire, is approaching a million in
total paperback sales and has pushed his earnings to
nearly a million dollars.

Almost overnight, Smith's life changed. The State De-
partment sent him to Russia, Czechoslovakia, and Po-
land to lecture on contemporary American writing. He got
rid of his Ford and his cramped home in a suburb north of
New York City, bought matching burgundy Mercedes
Benz sedans for himself and his wife, Pat, and moved toa
$130,000 mansion that he designed for himself on eight
acres of woodland. He eats in the finest restaurants and

# Wears expensive suits

8 Smith has not, however, given up his job as a
= fireman—even though his $17,000 salary is less than the
s taxes he pays on his publishing income. He's still writing
® about firemen (a third book, Firehouse, with photographs
= by Jill Freedman, is being published by Doubleday), and
= last fall, with his partner, Bartle Bull, he started publishing
2 4 national magazine, also called Firehouse. Smith has
& great hopes for the magazine—one having a readership

®

The real test of a man is
how he operates
in stress. And | don't think you
can find any greater
stress than exists in the action
of a fire department.

”

DENNIS SMITH

appeal not only for thousands of firemen but also for their
families and for the many civilian “fire buffs"—and those
hopes are beginning to be realized: the initial subscrip-
tion order was more than 60,000.

Smith's writing is raw and direct, and he describes
himself as “an American primitive.” “I really had no train-
ing,” he told interviewer Joseph B. Treaster, “but |
knew—|! had this perception of myself as a writer, | just
knew that | wanted to be a writer.”

First—at about the time he left school—there were
short stories and poems written in longhand, “satires and
allegories, little things that | thought were clever.” Then,
after four years at an airforce radar station in Nevada
(where he also moonlighted as a ranch hand and got a
high-school-equivalency diploma), Smith started on a
novel. To make ends meet, he worked as a steam fitter,
clerk, and cab driver before finally becoming a fireman.
All that time, he was writing. The first novel never got
published.

But an article he'd written for the New York Times on
Irish poetry led to a “Talk of the Town” piece about him in
the New Yorker. \It caught the eye of an editor, who
thought that perhaps a writing fireman could get beyond
the clichés and give readers a realistic look at how the
man in the firehouse lives and works. To have an “office”
where he could write, Smith took over the bedroom of one
of his three sons, and in seven months Report from En-
gine Co. 82 was completed. Each day Smith would go to
the firehouse, roll through the streets of the South Bronx
on the engine truck, and fight his way into blazing build-
ings; and each night he would go home and put his
experiences down on paper. It was strong and
straightforward stuff, a sensitive yet unromantic treal-
ment that read like fiction—and sold even better than the
average novel.

129

_ 7? veer *

Shortly after Smith was born, in Brooklyn on Sept. 9, 1940, his
father, a railway express truckman, had anervous breakdown, and
Dennis and his brother, William (who is two years older and who
today teaches emotionally disturbed children in a New York public
school), moved with their mother out of Brooklyn to an East Side
tenement. She made ends meet through welfare checks and
occasional cleaning jobs. When Smith was eleven or twelve and
his mother felt that she could leave him alone. she took a job with
the telephone company. After leaving the air force, Smith began
studies at New York University and earned a bachelor of arts
degree in English and a master’s in communications,

Smith's books have been well received by the critics, but he
says that he is constantly being asked if he is going to write
“something that's not about firemen, which is their way of saying,
‘Are you ever going to write a real book?’ What they're saying,”
Smith continued, “is, ‘Can you write a more universal thing?’ And |
tell you, if enough people keep asking me that. it might just moti-
vate me to not write anything else except stuff about firemen and
the world of fire fighters—just as a kind of a resentment or a spiteful
illustration, just to say to all these people that you can write serious
literature about this particular world, about this group of people. |
mean, you try to get Some human truth, whatever that human truth

is, however abstract it might be. And you can do it within the
context of a group of men like firemen and their families. In my last
novel | had one character going to the roof of the St. Regis, for
chrissake—to a debutante’s ball!”

Smith is often compared with Joseph Wambaugh, the former
Los Angeles Police Department detective, who has written about
policemen with warmth and introspection. And he likes to think of
himself and Wambaugh as “the only examples of true proletarian
literature” in modern American letters.

Just how long Smith can go on eating fire and smoke Is a
question that he has been asking himself lately. It is the work at the
firehouse that fuels his writing and gives him an unmatched credi-
bility. But the strain on his body, meanwhile. is ttemendous. He is
scarred from burns, and his eyes seem always to be bloodshot. In
the mornings he wakes up to find pus caked in his eyes, trom
chronic conjunctivitis. And there is less and less free time. It seems
inevitable that one day he will have to leave the fire department.
and that realization bothers him.

“I'm going to be terrifically sad the day that | leave,” he says. "|
don't know what the hell I'll write about it. | don't know what I'll say
to explain it, because | don't think that anything can explain it.
Probably the only thing to say is, ‘Listen, I’m tired."

Penthouse: What made you decide to be-
come a fireman?

Smith: Well, | grew up in the forties, and all
the adults in my neighborhood had lived
through the depression. But the cops and
the firemen on the street had very secure
jobs—they weren't laid off. So | grew up
with the understanding that if you were a
fireman, or if you were a cop, you really had
it made. But it was just a job, like the jobs |
had when | left high school. If someone had
given me thirty-five dollars a week to go to
school, | would have stayed in school.
Penthouse: Did you enjoy school?

Smith: No, | hated it. | did a lot of reading,
but never the things | was supposed to
read. And | never got good grades. So my
mother said she thought | should go into
the air force. | knew that my life had to have
some focus. | just couldn't go from job to
job, My mother wouldn't let me not work, |
had to, no matter what. If | was out of work |
was up and dressed at seven o'clock every
morning so | could go out and look for a job.
| couldn't leave the house with a polo shirt
on; | had to wear a shirt and tie, So | went
into the service. That was a very good ex-
perience for me because it got me out of
New York at the right time. Drugs were very
heavy in my neighborhood.

Penthouse: Did you use any?

Smith: Yeah. | never smoked much grass.
interestingly, but we did sniff heroin and
skin-pop and that kind of thing.
Penthouse: Were you an addict?

Smith: No. no. | was what we would call at
that time a weekend popper.

Penthouse: Did you have friends who were
addicts?

Smith: Yes. | had friends who died of over-
doses. One friend was a hopeless addict
who eventually got into a violent argument
with his sister, and the sister killed him,
essentially over the issue of drugs, But at
the time | had a routine, you know? Getting
on the bus going up to 110th Street, meet-
ing some black dude and climbing the
tenement flights to his apartment, and then
giving his mother a quarter for a bottle of

130. PENTHOUSE

et eae ae! a eee ee

wine and scoring in the guy's apartment.
And then sticking the—well, | never did
this, but | mean I've seen it done—my
friends sticking the glassine envelope up
their ass, in case they were stopped.

And then getting on the Second Avenue
bus and going downtown, to a boiler room
on Sutton Place, to shoot up horse in the
cellar of the most powerful people in the
country. It's an interesting juxtaposition to
me now because I'm writing about it. But
then it was just because somebody's father
was the maintenance worker there and had
keys for the boiler room.

Penthouse: So when you left the service,
you became a fireman?

Smith: Yes. | was twenty-one years old; |
needed a job. So | took the fireman's test
and the cop's test. | got called for the cops
and turned it down.

Penthouse: Why was being a fireman more
attractive?

Smith: Because | figured | had enough
troubles in this world without having a gun
in my pocket all the time. | had no idea what
the hell being a fireman meant. Except that
you went to some fire station and you had a
cup of coffee and you bullshitted with the
guys; and you went out and rode on the
back of this red thing that made a lot of
noise, and good-looking girls turned their
heads and you'd give them a little wave, a
wink. But, of course, being a fireman is a
very dangerous job. | mean, the cops
spend less than 1 percent of their whole
Career in actual confrontation. But a fire-
man spends at least—well, if you work the
way | work—20 percent.

(Egitor’s note; According to the Interna-
tional Association of Fire Fighters, firefight-
ing is America’s most dangerous occupation }

However, the emotional stress that cops
have to endure is tough, very tough. A cop
is really dealing with the shit of the world,
and he's always in a negative situation. But
a fireman is always coming to help people;
it's a positive situation.

Penthouse: An awful lot of people in this
country probably have the same view of

firemen as you had before you started.
What is it actually like to go into a fire?

Smith: Well, you know, you go into a build-
ing that everybody else has run out of. And
it's a building full of dark, swirling smoke;
you can't see, and you choke from it. It's
heavy work—you sweat—and it’s danger-
ous. You don't know what the hell it is; you
don't know what's burning. But you do the
job because you know it's gotta be done,
and you're operating as a team. You have a
fire, and you want to get in there and get it
done—what we Call in the fire department
“making a good stop.” You want to get in
and get the fire fast before it goes into a
second alarm or a third alarm or whatever.

You do have a sense of security because

of the guy next to you. | mean, you know if
something goes wrong, you're all going to
die; but you're not going to die alone, be-
cause they're not going to let you die alone,
you see? Not that we talk or think about
death—we just don't. It's the last thing |
ever think about when | go to work. It's on
the surface of my mind, because I've
probed all of this stuff through the years.
I've thought a lot about it, trying to get the
meaning of it. But subconsciously—for all
fire fighters, | think—under the surface
there's that understanding that if you're
going to die, you're going to die together,
that they're not going to let you die alone
Penthouse: Do you get right into the
flames?
Smith: Right through them. If this room that
we're sitting in were on fire. we would get to
the entrance before we opened the nozzle,
in most cases. Unless it was so intensely
hot out in the hall that we had to coordi-
nate—it the windows were not already bro-
ken.

It's teamwork. Let me see if | can explain
this in a way that would be understandable
in print. If you were coming down a long
hallway. a narrow hallway, and there was a
room at the end of it that was on fire and the
windows were not broken, you would use
what we call a fog nozzle—a big spray

pattern that will push the heat and the
CONTINUED ON PAGE 154

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Old Forester isn’t blended. It gets its color
and flavor solely from the maturation process
itself. It’s made naturally, like Great Wine.

For example, Great Wine is matured under
exacting conditions—to control temperature
and humidity. So is Old Forester.

Most great French Wines are matured
naturally—in oak barrels. Old Forester is
matured the same way.

Great Wines are “candled” for color and
clarity. “Nosed” for aroma and bouquet. They’re
bottled directly from the barrel. Never blended.
And of course, they cost more.

This slow natural process is how
some wines become Great Wines. And how
Old Forester becomes Great Whisky.

131

Much :
More?

Just how much more is More, the 120mm
cigarette? Let’s take a look.

More is longer. And burns slower.
That means there's more time to enjoy those
extra puffs of its smooth, mild taste. —

More is styled leaner. And it’s burnished brown.
That means it looks as good as it tastes.

More. It’s like any really good cigarette.
And much more.

FILTER CIC

Bive—H 2 MEYMOLOS TOBACCO CO

FILTER: 22 mg. “tar", 1.6 mg. nicotine, | Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined

MENTHOL: 22 mg."tar", 1.7 mg. nicotine, | That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health.
av. per cigarette, FTC Report AUG. '76,

132 PENTHOUSE

< egoeaine
YOUPLE'

BALL IN THE FAMILY

The war in Vietnam was the Cong’s pajamas compared
to this G.I.'s domestic battles. They called his new love incestuous;
and certainly, falling in love with your kid brother's wife
is not exactly the family way.

e'|'ve always wanted us to make
love while you were wearing basketball
trunks,” she said.

“| suppose it's a little fetish of
mine.” You know, | still think about those
orange nylon

basketball trunks. ®

AV Ss STORY: mariene and | haven't

married yet. Right now there's nothing that I'd like to be more
than Marlene’s husband. Also, | don't exactly go for the idea
that our first child will be born out of wedlock. Wedlock? What
an old-fashioned word that is, but maybe I'm just hung up ona
lot of old-fashioned respectability. Maybe | can never be
“respectable” again. If not, fuck it. You see, the problem is with
my brother Jim, who just happens to be Marlene’s husband.
Sweet, isn’t it? For the longest time, he just wouldn't give her a
divorce. A lot of people say that | had no business getting
involved with my sister-in-law. Well, screw them. | didn't plan
the situation—not in the least.

Jim kept saying that he still loved Marlene, that he hoped
they could get back together. Hell, he just wanted to fuck me
over for falling in love with Marlene. Just last week Jim started
the aivorce proceedings. | guess that Marlene’s pregnancy
made the picture a little clearer for him. What could he do with
her pregnant and me the father?

Christ, where do | begin? When | first met Marlene, after the
war? Or earlier? Before Vietnam, when | was going with Sue
Ellen? Vietnam? That was like flushing five fucking years of my
life down the old toilet. If it weren't for Marlene, | wouldn't have
recovered from that experience. Certainly, Sue Ellen didn't
help matters after | came back to Frisco. All during the war she
had been the only goddamned thing that kept me going.
keeping me alive all the while | was in this godforsaken North
Vietnam P.O.W. camp. When | got back to the States, she just
about destroyed me, though.

Right before | was drafted and left for the war, Sue Ellen
begged me to marry her. Christ, | wanted to like hell, but | just
thought marriage unwise. What if | had been killed or seriously
maimed over there? What then? | just didn't like the circum-
stances; they weren't right for getting married.

| can still remember that last evening we had together in
Frisco, before | took off for Nam. I'd spent a fortune on tickets
and dinner reservations; | wanted it to be such a damned
memorable evening. How fucking dumb of me! | didn't know

Penthouse presents another in its series of interviews uncovering the most
intimate facts of both the male and female side of a sexual relationship—
analyzed by Dr. Robert Chartham, the eminent sexologist. Couples who wish
to be interviewed should write in confidence to; The Editor, “Couples,”
Penthouse Magazine, 909 Third Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022

135

Photographs by Suze Randall

COUPLES

that my leaving would make it memorable enough. I'd bought
theater tickets to see—I forget the name of the play. We didn't
even stay for the second act.

When we got back to her place, Sue Ellen walked right into
the center of her living room and stripped. All the lights were
on; so | began turning them off.

“Don't turn them off,” she said. “I want to see you make love
to me.” She pointed to the big wall mirror. Funny, we'd never
screwed in front of it before. What the hell, though—l’m a
voyeur. She was soon naked, but | hadn't removed a stitch yet.
It was strange, because she'd always preferred that | undress
her. That had been kind of a ritual: first her top, then her
nylons, and finally her panties. Quite often I'd screw her with
most of her clothes on, just her panties off. Sue Ellen used to
say that it made her feel—how did she put it?—"so wanted."
Like | couldn't wait to take her.

She lay down before me, nude, in front of this big living-
room wall mirror. | stripped, and just when | was going to take
her, she stopped me. | was quite unprepared for what came
next. It was like a sequence in a film.

“Go to the kitchen, Dave," she
said. “And get the present | have for
you on the kitchen table.”

There, on the table, was a small
box wrapped like a birthday gift. | e
opened it and laughed. Inside was a
pair of orange nylon basketball
trunks. | didn't get it. I'd flunked out of
college and was on my way to Viet-
nam; so | wasn't playing basketball
anymore. Sue Ellen took the trunks
and stuck her fingers through a hole
she'd cut in the crotch.

“You see,” she explained, “I've al-

In the beginning, | tried
fighting any
romantic feelings | had
for Marlene. | really
didn't want to screw up my

work at all—it was Marlene who lined up a bookkeeping job
for me. We had lunch together all the time. Sometimes Jim
would meet us for a snack if he could get away from his
studies, But usually | had lunch alone with Marlene. Some-
times, when he had to study late, Marlene and | would go to
the Guthrie Theater. None of Jim's friends ever thought any-
thing of it. They encouraged it, actually. They could see that |
was my old self again. And | was. | was falling in love with
Marlene.

At first, | tried fighting any romantic feelings | may have had
for Marlene. Then | began to notice some odd things in her
behavior. Like we'd go to the theater, and her arm or her leg
would caress me—not just for a second but for a few pro-
longed moments. And then when we'd be with Jim, her eyes
wouldn't make eye contact with his. She'd be looking at me,
not at him.

Still, | didn't want to fuck up Jim’s marriage. After all, he was
my younger brother. One evening | told Marlene how | felt
about her. | said that nothing good could come of my love for
her. Yet, | really couldn't live in Min-
neapolis with her, my sister-in-law, so
near. My plans were to move in with
some friends who had a house back
in Frisco.

Marlene didn't say anything for the
longest time; she just listened. Then
she started to talk about Jim. She
loved him, but she wasn't in love with
him. She hadn't doubted her love for
Jim until she met me. | remember her
saying that there were different de-
grees of love and that her love for Jim
was no longer intense enough to sus-
tain their marriage.

ways wanted you to screw me while kid brother’s “| can't live with him any longer,”
you were wearing basketball trunks. | ; she said in a soft voice. “Not after
suppose it's a little fetish of mine.” marrage. meeting you.” And she was crying.
She had always been too embar- | don't think either of us really ex-
rassed to ask me, you see. She con- pected to make love that night. But
tinued: “Now you'll be going away by] we needed each other so much. We

and ...” She broke down crying. |
was leaving the next day, and who
could say whether | would ever even
see her again?

Intrigued by the idea, | put on the
basketball trunks, and my erect dick poked right up through
the incision. | mounted her legs and took her immediately. |
don't think that either of us was interested in any kind of
foreplay that evening. For the next five years, not a day went
by when | didn’t think about those orange nylon basketball
trunks. They symbolized what I'd come home to.

When | got back to the States, | didn’t know Sue Ellen had
already married some other guy. She met me at the airport. |
was excited! Well, | just can’t explain how much it all meant to
me. She looked great and happy but—how should | put
it?—she seemed sedate. | knew something was up, but |
didn't want to think about it. | just wanted to be with her and
have everything okay. Of course, things turned out differently.

And so | went home to Minnesota. But | didn't want to be
with my family. | didn’t want to be with anyone. It was my
brother's wife, Marlene, who really helped to bring me
around. At first, | suppose, | thought of her as a substitute for
Sue Ellen. Jim and the rest of my family encouraged us to be
together; they could see that she was bringing me out of my
deep depression. mer | couldn't get any work—I mean, no

136 PENTHOUSE

needed to be comforted. We were
alone together in my house. Who
would know? Our lips met, and yet
they barely touched. It felt so soft, as
if butterflies had come together, |
could just barely feel her breath on mine. It was such a quiet
moment that | didn't want to ruin it with a big, passionate
French kiss. | felt passionate, yes. But somehow this tender-
ness was so much more intimate, so much more intense. My
heart was pounding so hard that | thought it was going to
break through my chest. It seemed to be beating throughout
my entire body. | could feel it in my fingertips, in my toes. | was
sure that Marlene could hear it. And then | put my hand on her
breast to feel her heart. Remember—we'd really never even
touched one another before except for a few passing mo-
ments in the theater. But now my hand was on her breasts.
Marlene's nipples were erect and big, and her breasts were
very firm and much larger than I'd expected. She carefully
unbuttoned her blouse and guided my hand across the soft.
white skin, rubbing my fingertips ever so gently across her
hardened nipples. With that she caressed my hair, finally
taking my head into her arms, and | sucked on her nipples
hard and long until | heard her break into a small cry. My lips
and tongue slid up her neck until we kissed like . . . well, like
I'd never kissed any other woman before.

Perhaps | was selfish. Maybe not. But | couldn't wait. |
pushed Marlene back onto the rug and lowered my body onto
hers. She could feel my dick against her soft crotch. | could
tell by the way her head swung from side to side that she
wanted me, too, and so! got on my knees and slid her jeans
off. Her body was so voluptuous. Her hips were wide and
sensuous, not narrow like Sue Ellen's. Marlene was no mere
slip of a girl but a full-grown woman, with soft, rounded fea-
tures. When | lowered my hips against hers | felt enveloped by
her femininity. She was just that soft. Yet | felt stronger than
ever, My body seemed harder and more sinewy against her
soft flesh. Certainly, I'd never been more gentle in my
lovemaking, never more tender in the giving and taking of sex.

As | fingered her crotch | practically came, just feeling
those large, soft lips of her box. In no time her pubic hair was
glistening with tiny droplets of love juice. When | finally en-
tered her, she gave out another small cry. She was surprisingly
tight, but then she began to open up her lips for me. | didn't
thrust at all but waited for her hips to move. When she began
to respond, | could tell that every-
thing was going to be fine. She even
began to finger her'own clit, and so |
started riding her higher and higher,
letting my dick practically emerge

completely from her box so that it e

would rub directly onto her clitty. It
was a good, long clitty, too—more
than an inch when it was swollen with
excitement. Of course, | kept riding
her high and hard until we both burst
in climax together. She was so ex-
cited that her pussy was making
gushing noises as | thrust deeper
and deeper. By then her box was
incredibly soft and gushy. | think her
Pussy was completely worn out. My
cock certainly was. It had become as
small as a snail.

We lay there on the floor for what
seemed like ages. When | got up for
a glass of water, | thought | saw
someone outside looking in. When |
peered through the window, |
couldn't believe what | saw. | practi-
cally fell over from fright. It was Jim!
He was just about to ring my doorbell. Had he seen us? Christ,
| hoped not. | didn't think so. Then his head turned, and he
noticed me. He saw that | was nude and broke out laughing.
At that he just walked right into my house, probably expecting
to see a chick I'd picked up.

| didn’t know what to expect. Marlene ran into the bathroom,
but Jim saw her, He looked scared—not angry, just scared.
His voice was shaking, and he asked Marlene to come home
with him. She refused. He asked her again, and she just shook
her head. Finally, he stumbled out of the house. I've never
spoken to him again. That was more than two years ago, and
things have not smoothed over even now.

Marlene and | now live in Frisco. Neither of us could con-
tinue living in Minneapolis. Jim has only now consented to this
divorce. Unfortunately, Marlene and | can't be married before
the baby’s born. | guess that's okay. We both want this baby,
almost as much as we want our marriage certificate. Right
now, though, I’m just so happy to be living with Marlene. And
it's getting better all the time. I'm looking forward to a good life
with the woman | love best in the world.

you could

If Jim hadn't been so
passively willing,

it rape. Female rape!
| didn’t much care what he
wanted. It was what
| needed.

MARLENE’S STORY:

If you'd talked to me a week ago, I’m sure that this interview
would have been a lot different. Our future—Dave's and
mine—seems so much more hopeful now that my husband
has started the divorce proceedings. | have been begging
my husband, Jim, for this divorce for more than two years. Two
years! Dave keeps saying that Jim held out just to hurt us. You
see, Dave and Jim are brothers.

From what Dave tells me, he and Jim were never close; in
fact, they'd always been on the outs. Somehow, | could never
damn Jim the way Dave has. | feel more than a little sorry for
Jim, actually. | guess this whole situation has been pretty
humiliating for him.

| had never met Dave before Jim and | were married. Dave
had been in the war—over in Vietnam—and was missing in
action. Jim's family didn't even know if he was alive. This
gloom was constantly hanging over the family. Even when Jim
and | were married, his parents only briefly attended the party
afterward at my father's house. Jim was resentful of that. It
seemed to Jim that his brother was
always interfering with his happi-
ness. You know, getting all the atten-
tion. Dave is just a year older, but his
Parents had always lavished their
praise on him and gave practically
nothing to Jim. Jim had to work his
way through school, whereas Dave
won a good basketball scholarship
to Stanford. Even when Dave flunked
out of college, his parents could only
talk of his athletic triumphs. Well,
that's what Jim said, anyway. | don't
know, really. A kind of sibling rivalry,
I'd say. All of this was long before |
ever met Dave.

Shortly after Dave was shipped off
to Vietnam, | met Jim at the University
of Minnesota in Minneapolis. We
were both working on our B.A. de-
by) grees in business at the time. We

belonged to a film society on cam-
pus. | enjoyed foreign films—artsy
stuff—and so did Jim. | think that our
first job for the film society was to put
up posters all over the campus. It
was a little demeaning, but we were teenagers, and we did
love seeing all those foreign films for free.

| think that if it had not been for Ingmar Bergman, we would
not really have had much of a relationship. For hours we used
to discuss the symbolism in such films as Bergman's The
Seventh Seal and Persona. |t was a relationship of conve-
nience, really. Jim was a convenient date for a movie. Perhaps
that attitude sounds a little callous. It's hard to say. At the time,
though, | truly thought that Jim felt the same way about me.
Which was fine!

Then, of course, | realized that the situation was really much
more serious than I'd supposed. Jim was to screen a Swedish
film called Dear John. It had caused a big stir in New York City
a few years before. He was screening it for the society, check-
ing whether it was a good print—good enough to screen for
the paying public. He asked me to see it with him, in a lecture
hall that was to be empty. | didn't think anything of it. Well, the
film turned out to be a soft-core-porno art flick about a
Swedish couple who spent a weekend in bed together. Artis-
tically, it wasn’t much, but somehow | got turned on by it. | had

137

have called

)

COUPLES

never seen an erotic movie before, and | had always laughed
at people who attended this kind of film. But there | was,
practically coming in my seat—in a deserted university lec-
ture hall—as | watched two beautiful Swedes make love on
the screen. Jim was sitting right next to me, his legs spread
out before him. It was obvious that he had an erection, and he
did nothing to conceal it. | had never really considered Jim as
a-sex partner before, but with all that simulated sex and his
crotch bulging and my cunt beginning to get all wet, well. . . It
didn't make much difference who was in the next seat. |
needed sex! | wanted somebody to touch me, to caress my
excited nipples. | kept imagining that at any second Jim
would start kissing my neck, running his tongue all the way up
into my ear. | felt so tense that | could hardly control myself
from reaching over for Jim's hard cock. | just kept hoping that
he'd make the first move. God, we were practically touching
as it was. | could feel the tension, the excitement, between us!
Out of the corner of my eye, | kept checking the bulge in his
pants. Not only did it seem to be getting bigger; | could
actually see it kind of jerking around
underneath his jeans. Or was | imag-
ing it all out of my need for him?

And then the film was over! The
couple had their last orgasm to-
gether. They were satisfied, but | was
horny as hell! | was so hot that | could
hardly get up out of my seat. | had to
relieve myself, and | was pissed at
Jim for not doing something about it.
When he went over to wind up the
film, | knew that something had to be
done. The sexual tension was that
heavy. And so! said, “Why don't you
leave the projector up? It gives us an
excuse to be here, and | really want
us to stay.”

If Jim had said something dumb
like, “| don't know what you mean,”
I'd have died. Luckily, he just smiled
and whispered, “Sure, in fact, maybe
it'd be better if we saw the movie
again.” His eyes were eating me up.
I'd never seen them so hungry!

He wound up the projector and
gave me a real sly grin. When that
Swedish couple began screwing their brains out again, |
could not help responding to Jim. Standing next to me, he
pressed himself up against me hard, hard enough so that |
could feel his erection. He looked down at our crotches and
grinned. Grinding our sex organs together, | could just feel the
wetness from my cunt begin to soak through my jeans. With
just two fingertips he went for my left nipple. God, my left
nipple! It always does the trick. He squeezed it tightly. | felt hot
ripples spread out over my breasts and chest. My head fell
back automatically, and | let out alow moan. He kept pinching
me harder and harder until | took his two fingers in my mouth
and sucked them off like a hard cock. I’d hoped he'd use my
Saliva-slippery fingers on my pussy. No luck! He breathed
heavily, and | reached for his swollen cock to bring him off. It
didn't feel that big through his clothing; but when | unzipped
him, | was in for a surprise. And | didn’t have to hunt for his
cock. It just popped out, hard and swollen. | wasn't satisfied,
though, just to jerk Jim off or even to take him in my mouth. So!
just lowered my jeans (neither of us was wearing underwear)
and took him immediately into my wet cunt. Usually, it takes

138

me a while before | can do that. Most of the time | have to get
those lubricating juices flowing, but not this time. | took his big
cock with one thrust. In fact, | led it into my cunt with my own
hand. | didn't want to wait for him to act. My quivering lips fit so
snugly around the head. When he thrust in, he even caught
some air up there so that my pussy began to make suction
noises while we screwed. Our lovemaking was so noisy that
you'd have thought he was using a plunger on me. It all
sounded so good!

If Jim hadn't been so passively willing, you could have
called it rape. Female rape! | did not much care if he was that
interested in going all the way; it was what | wanted, and |
wanted it right away. We were in this empty lecture hall! So
what? Jim started it slowly. | wanted it hard and fast. So |
grabbed onto his bare little ass and started pressing him hard
against me, initiating the kind of thrusts | wanted him to use on
my gurgling vagina. Grabbing onto his ass, | flung my head
back and took his hard cock up my cunt, pounding it up into
me. | wanted it that badly, and it was great. But | needed even
more. Somehow his thrusts weren't
quite hitting my swollen clit, and |
needed that in order to achieve an
orgasm. Looking up at the motion-
picture screen, | saw the Swedish
guy go for the girl’s crotch with his
hand, At that | took my hands off
Jim’s ass and directed him to my clit.
which was almost crying for release.

“Rub it hard, Jim," | sighed. “Rub
my clit between your fingers. Please?
Just like you did my tender little nip-
ples. I'll tell you if you hurt me.”

Hurt me? That's the last thing | was
worried about. As he rubbed my clit
with his two fingers, he stuck his
other fingers up my vagina right
alongside his cock. In fact, it felt as if
he were jerking himself off inside my
snug little pussy! Could it be possi-
ble? | felt as if | were going to split
open! | couldn't believe that | was
taking all of him up there. But | was,
and | liked what | felt. The fantasy of
feeling his cock throb inside brought
me off good and strong. And | kept
coming and coming. There was nothing sore about my crotch,
either. | didn’t know if Jim came, but finally his cock began to
go soft within me. | could feel it soften and shrink, and yet |
didn't want him to pull out. We'd been screwing in a standing
position, and so | carefully lay back on the floor. | didn’t want
his soft cock to fall out of me. As he lay on me, | slowly moved
my hips around so that | could feel his flaccid cock in my wet,
gushy cunt. It was such a good feeling. | didn't want it to end.
When he finally withdrew, my cunt just let out a soft, popping
noise—as if he’d pulled out a cork from a bottle. To say it was
good sex would be an understatement!

Why couldn't our lovemaking always have been like that?
On subsequent occasions we'd make love, but not all that
often. | think that if | had wanted it more, Jim would have
complied. | just didn’t. But | began to appreciate Jim more and
more as a friend—you know, someone | could confide in,
share experiences with. | began telling myself that sex isn't all
that important. Common interests and tastes are more signifi-
cant. | even convinced myself—somewhere along the line—
that | actually loved Jim. He loved me, certainly. Somehow |

thought that it was insulting to him if | didn’t love him in return.

| didn't realize my lack of love for Jim until Dave came home
from the war. At first | was impressed by his athlete’s body. He
certainly didn’t look anything like Jim—who had a lighter
complexion, heavier build. Even though he was very skinny
because of his wartime imprisonment, he was still in great
shape. | kept telling myself that he was Jim's brother. Sure, it
was all right to be physically attracted, but | felt | had to let it
stop at that. Then | began to see that the attraction was more
than just physical. | found myself intensely interested in every-
thing Dave said. Everything! With Jim it was great if we dis-
cussed something like films, something we both had in com-
mon. But if he started in on opera—God, | hate opera!—t
found him hopelessly boring, almost annoying. Dave had
completely different interests from mine: things like sports
and cars, He couldn't care less about films. And yet, all of a
sudden his interests-became very important to me—and in-
teresting, too. They became important to me because of him.

Finally, after knowing each other for a whole year, we
admitted—yes, admitted—that we
were in love. With each other. | felt
guilty, at first. We both did. But |
wasn't prepared for the way the fam-
ily reacted; they were furious! It was
as if we'd committed incest! Worse,
murder! Only my father remained
fairly sane. (My mother is deceased.)
But Dave's parents, my God! Chaos.
| was there when Dave told them.
Believe me, he should have wired
them the news. His father said that it
would have been better if Dave had
been killed in the war. His mother just
turned white, looked at me, and said,
“It’s lucky that your mother is dead.”
She's never spoken to either of us
again. It's as if we were not alive.

Most of our friends in Minneapolis
said that they were surprised but that
it didn't make any difference to them.
Ha! Oneby one they deserted us. No
more parties, no more double dates.
Well, Dave and | had no choice. We
had to move away, back to San Fran-
cisco, where Dave had gone to
school and worked, We've lived here now for two years. Most
people out here don't know our backgrounds. Oh, a few
intimate friends do. But they know us as Marlene and Dave,
not as Jim's wife and brother. They accept us with a live-and-
let-live attitude so typical of this city.

A month ago | found out that | was pregnant. Dave is the
father, of course. Jim and | had tried, but nothing seemed to
work, With Dave, | guess | just wanted it to happen. | wasn't
very faithful with the Pilland so. . . You know, | even remember
when it happened. It was such a memorable evening. Dave
had finally found work. Actually, it was with the same firm he'd
been with before Vietnam. They took him back. He was lucky,
too. San Francisco has such a high employment rate. |
looked, but | couldn't find anything. Now I'm just waiting for
our baby to be born.

| remember that evening so well. We were thrilled. Like little
kids. We went out to celebrate—| hadn't taken the Pill for a
couple of days—got drunk as two skunks. When we got
home, Dave didn't even wait for me to take my clothes off.
Well, from that evening onward, our lives together have been

completely uphill. The baby will be a blessing, really. Some-
how, | feel that this baby is a sign that everything will be all
right. It's been so difficult, what with Dave's family and all.
Now I'm just waiting for the baby to be born. Shortly after that
happens, the divorce should be final. Dave and | will then be
married at long last! | just can’t wait. | can't wait.

DR. ROBERT CHARTHAM COMMENTS:
It must be a traumatic experience to fall in love with a relative
of your spouse, and even more traumatic if the relative hap-
pens to be a brother or sister. On the other hand, when
deprivation of emotional and sexual satisfaction grows to
such intensity, who is to say that either person is wrong in
giving way to those needs?

It is difficult to describe how emotionally mixed up a man
can become after leaving a prison camp. Dave certainly had
every justification for being as upset as he was when he
arrived home to find that Sue Ellen, whom he had genuinely
loved, and who had a special, sexual significance for him,
had married someone else. | have
talked with Korean and Vietnam War
veterans who have been taken pris-
oner, and | have a very deep under-
standing of the psychological dam-
age that the experience could inflict.
But to come home as Dave did, only
to be betrayed by Sue Ellen, who he
had hoped would be the mainstay of
his life as a civilian, must have been a
devastating experience. He needed
someone to help him get over what
had happened in Vietnam. It was un-
fortunate that the one person who
could help him should have been his
brother's wife, and what's more, the
wife of his younger brother.

Falling in love is something that
one cannot always help. No matter
how one may mentally reject the
idea, one can never cast it aside with
ease, if at all. Some may say that
Dave, realizing that he was in love
with his brother's wife, should have
put miles between Marlene and him-
self. But running away wouldn't have
killed his love for her. Nor would it have killed her love for him.

They were, therefore, faced with a dilemma. From what they
have said, it is clear that the strength of their love was such
that had they behaved in accordance with the dictates of a
moralistic society, both of them would have molded marriages
dominated by unhappiness. In my opinion there is justification
for what they have done.

The reaction of Dave and Jim’s parents is understandable,
especially when one takes into consideration the moral and
religious background in which these older people were
brought up. It is difficult for them to adjust to new standards.

Jim's first reactions are also understandable, though | do
tend to agree with Dave that his two-year-long refusal to
divorce Marlene was done out of spite. If he had hoped
he could make her reconsider, he was playing the fool.
This would never have worked out. Marlene would always
have hankered after Dave, while Jim would never have been
able to forget that his brother’s penis had intimately known
his wife's vagina. This would always have prevented a full
reconciliation. Ot—-q

139

lll ———

er -) SS -

oe) ee eee ee. ene

140 PENTHOUSE

Se

-N LOU Ss Pt

JULY 76 AU

DECEMBER 76

PENTHOUSE

FEBRUARY 77

JANUARY 77

July 1976 issue is $1.25; December
1976 and January 1977 issues are
$2.00 each; all other issues are $1.50
each. Please include $.50 for postage
and handling for each issue ordered.

Send check or money order to:
PENTHOUSE, Back Issue Dept.
21st Floor, 909 Third Avenue,
New York, N.Y. 10022

CHILDREN

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 126

Frowning, Burt continued to turn through
the pages. Three-quarters of the way
through, the double columns ended abrupt-
ly.

Rachel Stigman (Donna),

b. June 21, 1957 June 21, 1976
Moses Richardson (Henry),

b. July 29, 1957
Malachai Boardman (Craig),

b. August 15, 1957

The last entry in the book was for Ruth
Clawson (Sandra), b. April 30, 1961. Burt
looked at the shelf where he had found this
book and came up with two more. The first
had the same “INIQUITOUS BE CUT
DOWN" logo, and it continued the same
record, the single column tracing birth-
dates and names. In early September of
1964 he found Job Gilman (Clayton), b
September 6, and the next entry was Eve
Tobin, b. June 16, 1965. No second name in
parentheses

The third book was blank

Standing behind the pulpit, Burt thought
about it

Something had happened in 1964
Something to do with religion and corn
and children

Dear God, we beg thy blessing on the
crop. For Jesus's sake, amen

And the knife raised high to sacrifice the
lamb—but had it been a lamb? Perhaps a
religious mania had swept them. Alone, all
alone, cut off from the outside world by
hundreds of square miles of the rustling
secret corn. Alone under seventy million
acres of blue sky, Alone under the watchful
eye of God, now a strange green God, a
God of corn, grown old and strange and
hungry. He Who Walks behind the Rows.

Burt felt a chill creep into his flesh

Vicky, let me tell you a story. It's about
Amos Deigan, who was born Richard Dei-
gan on September 4, 1945. He took the
name Amos in 1964, fine Old Testament
name, Amos, one of the minor prophets.
Well, Vicky, what happened—don't
laugh—is that Dick Deigan and his friends
(Billy Renfrew, George Kirk, Roberta Wills,
and Eddie Hollis, among others) they got
religion, and they killed off their parents. All
of them. Isn't that a scream? Shot them in
their beds, knifed them in their bathtubs,
poisoned their suppers, hung them or dis-
emboweled them, for all | know.

Why? The corn. Maybe it was dying
Maybe they got the idea somehow that it
was dying because there was too much
sinning. Not enough sacrifice. They would
have done it in the corn, in the rows

And somehow, Vicky, I’m quite sure of
this, somehow they decided that nineteen
was as old as any of them could live.
Richard “Amos” Deigan, the hero of our
little story, had his nineteenth birthday on
September 4, 1964—the date in the book. |
think maybe they killed him. Sacrificed him

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ls there intelligent life on the planet that
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FELLINI/CASANOVA

“All you need Is a pretext for triggering
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two Italians met, legend-to-legend.

THE EASTER PARADE

Sarah and Emily knew what life was
supposed to be like, but when the
Easter Parade passed by, it was too
late for both of them. Viva excerpts
Richard Yates's touching novel.

Doing it in the office, foiling the
tightwad date, banishing stretch
marks, and new at-home beauty ideas,

142 PENTHOUSE

in the corn. Isn't that a silly story?

But let's look at Rachel Stigman, who
was Donna Stigman until 1964. She turned
nineteen on June 21, just about a month
ago. Moses Richardson was born on July
29; just three days from today he'll be nine-
teen. Any idea what's going to happen to
ole Mose on the twenty-ninth?

| can guess.

Burt licked his lips, which felt dry.

One other thing, Vicky. Look at this. We
have Job Gilman (Clayton) born on Sep-
tember 6, 1964, No other births until June
16, 1965. A gap of ten months. Know what |
think? They killed all the parents, even the
pregnant ones; that's what | think. And one
of them got pregnant in October of 1964
and gave birth to Eve. Some sixteen- or
seventeen-year-old girl. Eve. The first
woman

He thumbed back through the book
feverishly and found the Eve Tobin entry,
Below it: Adam Greenlaw, b. July 11, 1965.

They'd be just eleven now, he thought,
and his flesh began to crawl. And maybe
they're out there. Someplace.

But how could such a thing be kept se-
cret? How could it go on?

How unless the God in question ap-
proved?

“Oh Jesus,” Burt said into the silence,
and that was when the T-Bird’s horn began
to blare into the afternoon, one long, con-
tinuous blast.

Burt jumped from the pulpit and ran
down the center aisle. He threw open the
outer vestibule door, letting in hot sunshine,
dazzling. Vicky was bolt upright behind the
steering wheel, both hands plastered on
the horn ring, her head swiveling wildly,
From all around, the children were coming
Some of them were laughing gaily They
held knives, hatchets, pipes, rocks, ham-
mers. One girl, maybe eight, with beautiful
long blonde hair, held a jack handle. Rural
weapons. Not a gun among them. Burt felt
a wild urge to scream out: Which of you is
Adam and Eve? Who are the mothers? Who
are the daughters? Fathers? Sons?

Declare, if thou hast understanding.

They came from the side streets, from
the town green, through the gate in the
chain-link fence around the school play-
ground a block farther west. Some of them
glanced indifferently at Burt. standing fro-
zen on the church steps, and some
nudged each other and pointed and
smiled ... the sweet smiles of children.

The girls were dressed in long, brown
wool and faded sunbonnets. The boys, like
Quaker parsons, were all in black and wore
round-crowned, flat-brimmed hats. They
streamed across the town square toward
the car, across lawns, a few coming across
the front yard of what had been the Grace
Baptist Church until 1964. One or two of
them almost close enough to touch.

“The shotgun!” Burt yelled. “Vicky, get
the shotgun!"

But she was frozen in her panic; he could
see that from the steps. He doubted if she
could even hear him through the closed
windows.

*” S26 ae ee ee eee

They converged on the Thunderbird. The
axes and hatchets and chunks of pipe
began to rise and fall. My God, am / seeing
this? he thought frozenly. An arrow of
chrome fell off the side of the car. The hood
ornament went flying. Knives scrawled spi-
rals through the sidewalls of the tires, and
the car settled. The horn blared on and on,
The windshield and side windows went
opaque and cracked under the onslaught
... and then the safety glass sprayed in-
ward, and he could see again. Vicky was
crouched back, only one hand on the horn
ring now, the other thrown up to protect her
face. Eager young hands reached in,
fumbling for the lock-unlock button. She
beat them away wildly, The horn became
intermittent and then stopped altogether.

The beaten and dented driver's-side
door was hauled open. They were trying to
drag her out, but her hands were wrapped
around the steering wheel. Then one of
them leaned in, knife in hand. and—

His paralysis broke, and he plunged
down the steps, almost falling, and ran
down the flagstone walk, toward them, One
of them, a boy of about sixteen with long
red hair spilling out from beneath his hat,
turned toward him, almost casually, and
something flicked through the air. Burt's left
arm jerked backward, and for amoment he
had the absurd thought that he had been
punched at long distance. Then the pain
came, so sharp and sudden that the world
went gray.

He examined his arm with a stupid sort of
wonder. A buck and a half Pensy jackknife
was growing out of it like a strange tumor.
The sleeve of his J.C. Penney sport shirt
was turning red. He looked at it for what
seemed like forever, trying to understand
how he could have grown a jackknife ...
was it possible?

When he looked up, the boy with the red
hair was almost on top of him. He was grin-
ning, confident

“Hey, you bastard,” Burt said. His voice
was creaking, shocked

“Remand your soul to God, for you will
stand before His throne momentarily,” the
boy with the red hair said and clawed for
Burt's eyes.

Burt stepped back, pulled the Pensy out
of his arm, and stuck it into the red-haired
boy's throat. The gush of blood was im-
mediate, gigantic, Burt was splashed with
it. The red-haired boy began to gobble and
walk in a large circle. He clawed at the
knife. trying to pull it free, and was unable.
Burt watched him, jaw hanging agape.
None of this was happening. It was a
dream. The red-haired boy gobbled and
walked. Now his sound was the only one in
the hot early afternoon. The others
watched, stunned.

This part of it wasn't in the script, Burt
thought numbly, Vicky and |, we were in the
script. And the boy in the corn, who had
been trying to run away. But not one of their
own. He stared at them savagely, wanting
to scream, “How do you like it?”

The red-haired boy gave one last weak
gobble and sank to his knees. He stared up

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144 PENTHOUSE

at Burt for a moment, and then his hands
dropped away from the haft of the knife,
and he fell forward

A soft sighing sound from the children
gathered around the Thunderbird. They
stared at Burt. Burt stared back at them,
fascinated ... and that was when he
noticed that Vicky was gone

“Where is she?" he asked. “Where did
you take her?’

One of the boys raised a blood-streaked
hunting knife toward his throat and made a
sawing motion there, He grinned

From somewhere in back, an older boy's
voice, soft: “Get him

The boys began to walk toward him. Burt
backed up. They began to walk faster. Burt
backed up faster. The shotgun, the god-
damned shotgun! Out of reach. The sun
cut their shadows darkly on the green
church lawn ... and then he was on the
sidewalk. He turned and ran

Kill him!” Someone roared, and they
came after him

He ran, but not quite blindly. He skirted
the Municipal Building —no help there, they
would corner him like a rat—and ran on up
Main Street, which opened out and be-
came the highway again two blocks farther
up. He and Vicky would have been on that
road now and away, if he had only listened

His loafers slapped against the side-
walk. Ahead of him he could see a few
more business buildings, including The
Gatlin Ice Cream Shoppe and—sure
enough—the Bijou Theater. The dust-
clotted marquee letters read: “NOW

HOWING LMITED EN AGEMEN
EL| A TH TAYLOR CLEOPA RA.” Be-
yond the next cross street was a gas station
that marked the edge of town, And beyond
that the corn, closing back into the sides of
the road. A green tide of corn

Burt ran. He was already out of breath,
and the knife wound in his upper arm was
beginning to hurt. And he was leaving a
trail of blood. As he ran. he yanked his
handkerchief from his back pocket and
stuck it inside his shirt

He ran. His loafers pounded the cracked
cement of the sidewalk; his breath rasped
in his throat with more and more heat. His
arm began to throb in earnest. Some mor-
dant part of his brain tried to ask if he
thought he could run all the way to the next
town, if he could run twenty miles of two-
lane blacktop

He ran. Behind him he could hear them,
fifteen years younger and faster than he
was. gaining. Their feet slapped on the
pavement. They whooped and shouted
back and forth to each other. They're hav-
ing more fun than a five-alarm fire, Burt
thought. They'll talk about it for years

Burt ran

He ran past the gas station marking the
edge of town. His breath gasped and
roared in his chest. The sidewalk ran out
under his feet. And now there was only one
thing to do, only one chance to beat them
and escape with his life. The houses were
gone; the town was gone. The corn had
surged in a soft, green wave back to the

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edges of the road. The green, swordlike
leaves rustled softly. It would be deep in
there, deep and cool, shady in the rows of
man-high corn

He ran past a sign that said: “YOU ARE
NOW LEAVING GATLIN, NICEST LITTLE
TOWN IN NEBRASKA OR ANYWHERE
ELSE! DROP IN ANY TIME!"

ll be sure to do that, Burt thought dimly.

He ran past the sign like a sprinter clos-
ing on the tape and then swerved left,
crossing the road, and kicked his loafers
away. Then he was in the corn. and it
closed behind him and over him like the
waves of a green sea, taking him in. Hiding
him, He felt a sudden and wholly unex-
pected relief sweep him, and at the same
moment he got his second wind. His lungs,
which had been shallowing up, seemed to
unlock and give him more breath

He ran straight down the first row he had
entered, head ducked, his broad shoul-
ders swiping the leaves and making them
tremble. Twenty yards in he turned right,
parallel to the road again, and ran on, keep-
ing low so they wouldn't see his dark head
of hair bobbing amid the yellow corn tas-
sels. He doubled back toward the road for
a few moments, crossed more rows, and
then put his back to the road and hopped
randomly from row to row, always delving
deeper and deeper into the corn.

At last he collapsed onto his knees and
put his forehead against the ground. He
could hear only his own taxed breathing,

and the thought that played over and over
in his mind was: thank God, | gave up
smoking; thank God, | gave up smoking,
thank God——

Then he could hear them, yelling back
and forth to each other. in some cases
bumping into each other (hey, this is my
row!"), and the sound heartened him. They
were well away to his left, and they
sounded very poorly organized.

He took his handkerchief out of his shirt,
folded it, and stuck it back in after looking
at the woiigd. The bleeding seemed to
have stopped in spite of the workout he had
given it.

He rested a moment longer and was
suddenly aware that he felt good, physi-
cally better than he hadin years. . . except-
ing the throb of his arm. He felt well-
exercised, suddenly grappling with a
clear-cut (no matter how insane) problem
after two years of trying to cope with the
incubus gremlins that were sucking his
marriage dry.

Itwasn’'t right that he should feel this way,
he told himself. He was in deadly peril of his
life, and his wife had been carried off. She
might be dead now. He tried to summon up
Vicky's face and dispel some of the odd
good feeling by doing so, but her face
wouldn't come. What came was the face of
the red-haired boy with the knife in his
throat.

He became aware of the corn fragrance
in his nose now, all around him. The wind

through the tops of the plants made a
sound like voices. Soothing. Whatever had
been done in the name of this corn, it was
now his protector.

Bul they were getting closer.

Running hunched over, he hurried up the
row he was in, crossed over, doubled back.
and crossed over more rows. He tried to
keep the voices always on his left, but as
the afternoon progressed, that became
harder and harder to do. The voices had
grown faint, and often the rustling sound of
the corn obscured them altogether. He
would run, listen, run again. The earth was
hard packed, and his stockinged feet left
little or no trace

When he stopped much later, the sun
was hanging over the fields to his right, red
and inflamed: and when he looked at his
watch, he saw that it was a quarter past
seven. The sun had stained the corn tops a
reddish gold, but here the shadows were
dark and deep. He cocked his head, listen-
ing. With the coming of sunset the wind had
died entirely, and the corn stood still, exhal-
ing its aroma of growth into the warm air. If
they were still in the corn, they were either
far away or just hunkered down and listen-
ing. But Burt didn't think a bunch of kids,
even Crazy ones, could be quiet that long.
He suspected they'd done the most kidlike
thing, regardless of the consequences:
they had given up and gone home.

He turned toward the setting sun, which
had sunk between the raftered clouds on

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146 PENTHOUSE

| to see the smiling boys in their Quaker

| clutched in their hands. Nothing of the sort
| There was still that rustling noise. Off to the

| having to bull his way through the corn

| to be cloying. The rows held onto the sun's

| where the corn opened out onto what

| sudden and unexpectedly sad nostalgia.

tling

the horizon, and began to walk. If he cut on
a diagonal through the rows, always keep-
ing the setting sun ahead of him, he would
be bound to strike Route 17 sooner or later.
The ache in his arm had settled into a dull |
throb that was nearly pleasant, and the
good feeling was still with him. He decided
that as long as he was there, he would let
the good feeling exist in him without guilt
The guilt would return when he had to face
the authorities and account for what had
happened in Gatlin. But that could wait
He pressed through the corn, thinking he
had never felt so keenly aware. Fifteen
minutes later the sun was only a hemi-
sphere poking over the horizon, and he
stopped again, his new awareness clicking
into a pattern he didn't like. It was vaguely
. well, vaguely frightening
He cocked his head. The corn was rus-

Burt had been aware of that for some
time, but he had just put it together with
something else. The wind was still. How
could that be?

He looked around warily, half expecting

coats creeping out of the corn, their knives

left
He began to walk in that direction, not

anymore, The row was taking him in the
direction he wanted to go, naturally. The |
row emptied out into some sort of clearing
The rustling was there

He stopped, suddenly afraid.

The scent of the corn was strong enough

heat, and he became aware he was plas-
tered with sweat and chaff and thin spider
strands of corn silk. The bugs ought to be
crawling all over him; they weren't

He stood still, staring toward that place

looked like a large circle of bare earth
There were no minges or mosquitoes
here, no black flies or chiggers—what he
and Vicky had called “drive-in bugs” when
they had been courting—he thought with

And he hadn't seen a single crow. How was
that for weird, a corn patch with no crows?

In the last of the daylight he swept his
eyes closely over the row of corn to his left
and saw that every leaf and stalk was per-
fect, which was just not possible. No yellow }
blight. No tattered leaves, no caterpillar
eggs, no burrows, no——

His eyes widened

My God. there aren't any weeds! |

Not a single one. Every foot anda half the |
corn plants rose from the earth. There was |
no witcharass. jimson, pikeweed, whore's
hair, or polk salad. Nothing.

Burt stared up, eyes wide. The lightin the |
West was fading. The raftered clouds had |
drawn back together. Below them the gold-
en light had faded to pink and ocher. It
would be dark soon enough.

It was time to go down to the clearing in
the corn and see what was there; hadn't

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that been the plan all along? All the time he
had thought he was cutting back to the
highway, wasn't he being led to this place?

Dread in his belly, he went on down to the
row and stood at the edge of the clearing
There was enough light left for him to see
what was here. He couldn't scream. There
didn't seem to be enough air in his lungs
He tottered on legs like slats of splintery
wood. His eyes bulged from his face
“Vicky,” he whispered. “Oh,
God 7

She had been mounted on a crossbar
like a hideous trophy, her arms held at the

wrists and her legs at the ankles by twists of |

common barbed wire, seventy cents a yard
at any hardware store in Nebraska. Her
eyes had been ripped out. The sockets
were filled with the moon flax of corn silk
Her jaws were wrenched open in a silent
scream, her mouth filled with corn husks

On her left was a skeleton in a moldering
surplice. The nude jawbone grinned. The
eyesockets seemed to stare at Burt jocu-
larly, as if the one-time minister of the Grace

Baptist Church were saying: it's not so bad, |

being sacrificed by pagan devil-children in
the corn is not so bad; having your eyes
ripped out of your skull according to the
Laws of Moses is not so bad——

To the left of the skeleton in the surplice
was a second skeleton, this one dressed in
a rotting, blue uniform. A hat hung over the
skull, shading the eyes, and on the peak of
the cap was a greenish-tinged badge read-
ing: “POLICE CHIEF.

That was when Burt heard it coming: not
the children but something much larger,
moving through the corn toward the clear-
ing. Not the children, no. The children
wouldn't venture into the corn at night. This
was the holy place, the place of He Who
Walks behind the Rows

Jerkily, Burt turned to flee, The row by
which he had entered the clearing was
gone. Closed up. All the rows had closed
up. It was coming closer now, and he could
hear it, pushing through the corn. He could

hear it breathing. An ecstasy of supersti- |
tious terror seized him. It was coming. The

corn on the far side of the clearing had
suddenly darkened, as if a gigantic
shadow had blotted it out

Coming

He Who Walks behind the Rows

It began to come into the clearing. Burt
saw something huge, bulking up to the sky

. something green with terrible red eyes |

the size of footballs

Something that smelled like dried corn
husks, years in some dark barn

He began to scream. But he did not
scream long

Some time later a bloated, orange har-
vest moon came up

The children of the corn stood in the clear-
ing at midday, looking at the two crucified
skeletons and the two bodies ... the
bodies were not skeletons yet, but they
would be. In time. And here, in the heart-
land of Nebraska, in the corn, there was
nothing but time

Vicky, my |

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148 PENTHOUSE

“Behold, a dream came to me in the
night, and the Lord did shew all this to me.”

They all turned to look at Isaac with
dread and wonder, even Malachai. lsaac
was only nine, but he had been the seer
since the corn had taken David a year ago.
David had been nineteen and had walked
into the corn on his birthday, as dusk had
come drifting down the summer rows

Now, small face grave under his round-
crowned hat, Isaac continued

"And in my dream the Lord was a
shadow that walked behind the rows, and
he spoke to me in the words he used to our
older brothers years ago. He is much dis-
pleased with this sacrifice ”

They made a sighing, sobbing noise and
looked at the surrounding walls of green

“And the Lord did say: ‘Have | not given
you a place of killing, that you might make
sacrifice there? And have | not shewn you
favor? But this man has made a blasphemy
within me, and | have completed this sac-
rifice myself. Like the Blue Man and the
false minister who escaped many years

ago.’"

“The Blue Man the false minister,
they whispered and looked at each other
uneasily.

"So now is the Age of Favor lowered from
nineteen plantings and harvestings to eigh-
teen,” Isaac went on relentlessly. “Yet be
fruitful and multiply as the corn multiplies,
that my favor may be shewn you, and be
upon you."

Isaac ceased

The eyes turned to Malachai and
Joseph, the only two among this party who
were eighteen. There were others back in
town, perhaps twenty in all

They waited to hear what Malachai
would say, Malachai who had led the hunt
for Japeth, who evermore would be known
as Ahaz, cursed of God. Malachai had cut
the throat of Ahaz and had thrown his body
out of the corn so the foul body would not
pollute it or blight it

“| obey the word of God,” he whispered

The corn seemed to sigh its approval.

In the weeks to come, the girls would
make many corncob crucifixes to ward off
further evil

And that night those above the Age of
Favor walked silently into the corn and went
to the clearing, to gain the continued favor
of He Who Walks behind the Rows

“Goodbye, Malachai," Ruth called. She
waved disconsolately. Her belly was big
with Malachai's child, and tears coursed
silently down her cheeks. Malachai did not
turn. The corn swallowed him

Ruth turned away, still crying. She had
conceived a secret hatred for the corn and
sometimes dreamed of walking into it with a
torch in each hand when dry September
came and the stalks were dead and explo-
sively combustible. But she also feared it.
Out there, in the night, something walked,
and it saw everything . . . even the secrets
kept in human hearts

Dusk deepened into night. Around Gatlin
the corn rustled and whispered secretly. It
was well pleased. Ot-,

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 52

create a commission to study ways to help
Catholic schools. It was a campaign
pledge. Several aides had been stalling on
it.... ‘Chuck, | want a commission ap-
pointed now,’ he told me. . . , ‘| ordered it a
year ago and no one pays any attention
You do it. Break all the china in this
building but have an order for me to sign on
my desk Monday morning.’

“| called the Department of Justice first;
all executive orders are drafted and
cleared there. But the assistant whose of-
fice handles such things curtly told me that
the department was closed for the
weekend; he could not put anyone to work
until Monday. No wonder, | thought, the
president explodes in frustration. He prob-
ably thinks he's running the government.”

Nixon was the first president in the mod-
ern era to accept the fact that he presided
over a collection of semiautonomous sub-
governments about which he didn’t have
very much to say. Perhaps one of the rea-
sons why presidents have preferred to
busy themselves with war and diplomacy is
that the authority of their office is greater in
these spheres than in the domestic ones.
It's easier to order the fleet moved than to

order the FHA to modify its daily routine.

Nixon reasoned that since the president
was blamed for everything the government
did, he ought to have the right to run it; but
he never was abie to do so. When he came
into office in 1969, Nixon appointed power-
ful political personalities like John Volpe
and George Romney, ex-governors of
Massachusetts and Michigan, to be de-
partmental secretaries. He learned that
such appointees are soon kidnapped and
taken off by the upper levels of the bureau-
cracy and the business and labor con-
stituencies which the major departments of
government serve. As John Ehrlichman put
it, "We only see them at the annual White
House Christmas party; they go off and
marry the natives.”

Then Nixon tried to bring the federal
government closer to the people it's sup-
posed to serve. A major decentralization
program with the unhappy name of the
New American Revolution was attempted,
but the result was to make the federal pro-
grams more rigid and less responsive. De-
centralizing the decision-making power
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less imaginative, and more hidebound
than the ones in Washington

Congress was pustied into the passage
of revenue sharing, but Nixon's most signif-
icant reorganization proposals were turned
down. Even the notorious Board of Tea Tast-
ers, created by Act of Congress back.in
1897 for reasons long since forgotten,
could not be abolished. It exists today,
serving journalists and politicians alike as a
perpetual and frequently used example of
the impossibility of achieving even the
most minor structural changes. Nixon

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152 PENTHOUSE

e The effort to bring Nixon down began after his
reelection. Watergate was simply the excuse.

struggled on in exasperated warfare wilh
the more than 2 million pay-rollers who
were supposed to do what he told them but
didn't

Another approach was then tried. An at-
tempt would be made to pull the operating
power right into the White House and the
executive office of the president. Nixon's
staff swelled in size and responsibilities;
but the more it took on, the more it bogged

| down and the more actual policymaking

power stayed with the bureaucracy. Nixon
demanded that civil-service heads be
chopped “as a warning to a few other

| people around in this government that we

are going to quit being a bunch of God-
damn soft-headed managers.” The at-
ternpt didn't work. He wailed, with consid-
erable justice, that “we have no discipline
in this bureaucracy. We never fire anybody.
We always promote the sons-of-bitches
that kick us in the ass.”

The last attempt Nixon made to adminis-
ter the federal government was to go
around Congress and to try to consolidate
the cabinet departments by executive

| order into four general groupings under the

headship of four supercabinet secretaries
It wasn't a new idea. The same basic pro-
posal for government reorganization had
been made to Franklin Roosevelt in 1939;
another version of the idea was suggested
to Truman a decade later. But these gen-
tlemen preferred to wage war against the
Nazis and the Communists rather than to
take on this kind of fight back home. What

| FDR, the Babe Ruth of American politics,

shrank from attempting, the unlovable
Nixon would try.

To make the scheme work, however, ap-
pointed officials in every department and
bureau had to be Nixon White House
loyalists, men not to be seduced by the
higher civil service or the businessmen or
the unions, trade associations, and profes-
sional organizations that, along with the
civil service, form the autonomous sub-
governments and give them their clout

To carry out the plan, Nixon had to exe-
cute a putsch against himself, a sort of
administration-sponsored coup d'etat. It
was begun on the morning of Wednesday,
November 8, 1972, the day after Nixon's
electoral Trafalgar, when the senior staff,
hangovers and all, were marched into an
8:00 AM meeting. Their newly reelected
leader and president gave them a few
strokes—to use that odious term from
transactional analysis popular among
Watergaters—and told the people who
were most responsible for helping him win
his huge victory:

“| was reading Disraeli the other night,
and Disraeli spoke of how his administra-
tion of the British government lost its spark
after being reelected. The campaign took

too much out of them, he said. They be-
came a ‘burned-out volcano,’ fresh out of
ideas and energy. Well,... | am not a
burned-out volcano and the second admin-
istration will not be one either. We are going
to inject new vigor and new energy into the
government " With that Nixon turned
the meeting over to his lord high
executioner, H.R. ("Bob") Haldeman, who
informed them that, “as the president indi-
cated, some things are going to change
around here The president and | are
meeting with the cabinet shortly. We are
going to direct them to obtain written letters
of resignation from all appointed sub-
cabinet officers in the government and
submit them along with their own resigna-
tions. And the president has directed that
everyone in this room also hand in a letter
of resignation We just want to show we
mean business.”

The heads of the 2,000 most important
Officials of the United States government
were on the block so that, as John
Ehrlichman put it, “When we say jump, they
will only ask, ‘How high?'" The effect was
calamitous, catatonic, a dreadful
boomerang. Nobody but those attached to
Nixon personally could be sure of keeping
his job or his influence. “Has the president
gone crazy?" asked Henry Petersen, the
lifetime Justice Department official super
vising the Watergate investigation, one of
the many one would suppose Nixon would
want to bind to him by kindness. "He can't
just throw everybody out in the street like
this! Waste everybody's damn career. He'll
screw up the whole government. | tell you,
he'll regret this.”

So the serious effort to bring Nixon down
began after his reelection. Walergale was
simply the excuse that Nixon’s enemies
used to destroy him. It couldn't have been
done without the hostility of the bureaucra-
cy, which opened the file cabinets and
turned on the leaks. Only the bureaucracy
had access to the endless amounts of dis-
crediting information that now appeared
everywhere. The tipoff as to what was
going on was the revelation of Nixon's tax
returns. Until they were printed first in the
Providence Journal-Bulletin, what tran-
spired between a president and the IRS
was a more closely held secret than the
designs for the MIRV missiles

But Nixon's declaration of war against
the government apparatus had sealed his
fate. Angry and frightened bureaucrats at
the IRS, the FBI, everywhere, were after
him. He had no powerful friends left. A
small group of Republicans would ride with
him until the hour of the discovery of the
smoking gun, but Congress as an institu-
tion had long since been alienated by Nix-
on's impoundment of appropriated funds
and by other snubs and insults that were

calculated to rub the congressional nose
into the crap of its own impotence. But
while Congress is weak—its most lusty
powers long ago oxidized into its scab-
bard—given the motive, even the dustiest
of anachronisms like impeachment can
be yanked out of their rusting places

Nixon's downfall was a political, not a
conspiratorial, act. The representatives
and leaders of all the various powers and
groupings that Nixon had alienated never
had to meet in a room to plan the bum’s
rush for the San Clemente Comet. After his
second inaugural the leading members of
the factions that were opposed to him
could see that their counterparts felt the
same way merely by picking up a paper.
The media, which had worked so hard to
ensure George McGovern's defeat, now
flipflopped and became the couriers for
this tacit conspiracy.

The reasons aren't hard to discern. The
reporters, who do tend to be as liberal as
their detractors make them out to be, hated
Nixon from the word go; they and their edi-
tors resented Nixon for refusing to use them
as intermediaries with the public. Nixon
and Haldeman understood that a modern
president with access to the television
camera doesn't need reporters or news
conferences. He can talk directly to the
people. So, while the media workers had
their noses out of joint because Nixon had
made them superfluous, the owners and
top executives were soon filled with the
same unease and alarm as were many
other businessmen of their rank

We know how swiftly these elements,
once they were all in place, took the Whit-
tier Trickster down. Six months after his
second inaugural, he had become a presi-
dent in name only. A year later he'd even
lost the name. The domestic reforms or
changes that he'd attempted had van-
ished. Everything he did is viewed today as
sowing the seeds of American dictator
ship. Abroad, the movement toward China
has been forestalled, and détente has be-
come another dirty French word. Nixon has
been turned into a man without morals or
meaning

By the time the press had finished dis-
figuring Boss Tweed. they may even have
gotten his middle name wrong. It turns out
that boss William Marcy Tweed might really
have been William Magear Tweed, which
only goes to show how thoroughly the win-
ners rewrite history to suit their purposes

They've already done it on Benedict Ar-
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nose. And a lot of money and myths have
been generated in the process. But unless
you like to believe in fairy tales (" and
the comely knight, Sir Linotype Woodstein,
discovers the vile vizier’s ill-gotten booty
under the magic fountain called Water-
gate. ..."), it shouldn't take a hundred
years to understand that the crimes of the
Nixon administration merely provided the
means with which his political enemies
were able to destroy him. Fairy tales can be
a lot of fun, but are they really an adequate
substitute for history? O+-_

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153

COMIC BOOKS 5

TV Guides, TV, Movie. Monster & Science Fiction
Magazines, Playboys. Doc Savage, The Shadow,
Gum Cards, Star Trek, Hardcover & Pocket Books,
Original Art, Radio & Cereal Premiums, Sunday

Comuc Sections. Toys, Games, Puips. Big Little
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154 PENTHOUSE

SMITH

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 130

smoke forward, letting you have room to
enter, If another fireman doesn't, at the very
same time, break those windows at the end
of the hall, you see, that heat is just going to
be pushed forward, until it builds up to
such an intensity that it's going to blow right
up around you and the fog nozzle and ev-
erything else. So you've got to have people
ventilating in a coordinated effort. But in
most cases you get right up to the fire and
turn the nozzle on

Penthouse: Why don't you have water
going as you proceed to the fire?

Smith: Because it's a waste of time in a lot
of cases, and because it causes water
damage that’s unnecessary.

Penthouse: So you push yourself right up
ahead, as close to the flames as you can
stand, and then turn the water on?
Smith: That's right

Penthouse; How do you know when you re
as far in as you can safely get?

Smith: Because it gets hot—you couldn't
stand it very long. The temperature of that
raging fire is anywhere from 1,000 to 1,500
degrees.

Penthouse: Does it cool down a bit when
you lower the hose water pressure?
Smith: It depends on what kind of room
you're in. If you're in an old building that has
plaster walls, then it becomes like an oven
you put the fire out, but the walls still have
the heat.

Penthouse: What is the most dangerous |

kind of fire’?

Smith: Well, one kind is what we call a
flashback fire, where the heat has grown
intense but there's not enough oxygen to
feed the fire. If oxygen is suddenly fed into
it, there's a point of ignition. It just goes
whoosh! It jumps right out at you, and it'll
burn you there. I've seen that happen an
awful lol, bul I've never been burned like
that. The times I've been burned have al-
ways been in going through, after the fire is
out, when | have the cinders coming down
on my neck.

Penthouse: Have you had any serious in-
juries?

Smith: Oh, yes. Burns. | have a lot of scars
from this job. . . Jesus, now that | think of it
And | have a back, filled with cortisone,
which ts still painful.

Penthouse: How did you hurt your back?
Smith: Pulling a hose one night. | don't
know what the hell | did—! severed some-
thing, The nerve ending came right out,
and | had to lie on my stomach for ninety
days. | had to eat my meals on my stomach
and hang over the bed to read the news
paper. So now, i! | type for any more than a
couple of hours, I’ve got to get up. I’ve got

to walk around, to lie down for twenty min- |

utes or do something, just to get out of that
position. | don't know what the hell the cor-
tisone does, but the pain never does com-
pletely go away, they tell me

Penthouse: What is it like to be right up
there on the nozzle?

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Smith: Well, it depends on the fire. If it's in
an abandoned building, and it's just a
question of “getting” the fire, and you go
through it, you know that there aren't an
awful lot of people in this world that could
do it

Penthouse: Why?

Smith: Because it takes a great deal of skill
and conditioning before you can do that—
take the nozzle—and do it well. When
you're a new fireman, you go in having a
guy who's experienced behind you. He'll
say, “Okay, come on, take this for a little
while.” So you'll take it in. maybe through a
room. Then you'll say, “Jesus!” and you'll
have to back out—because you're new
and you don't know what the hell is really
going on.

But when you're experienced and you go
through it, it's a good feeling. There's a
sense of instant satisfaction about what
you're doing
Penthouse: When you're moving with the
hose, how many men do you have with
you?

Smith: Normally, there are three guys—f it's
a big hose. There's aman at the nozzle and
a man immediately behind him and an of-
ficer on the side, directing. There's also a
guy who stands a little behind them, feed-
ing the hose in

Penthouse: Do you customarily take turns
on the nozzle?

Smith: It depends on how bad the fire is, on
how long you can last. I'll tell you, that
twelve inches Is a hell of a difference. It's
like the difference between being on the
Riviera and being in Barrow, Alaska.

But the most important thing you're re-
sponsible for is rescue—to get in, make a
search, see if anybody's there. You've got
to get into every room. If | was coming into
this room—just picture this room on fire—
would come in through that door, and |
wouldn't be able to see a thing. The lights
are all knocked out, and it's smoky as a
bastard

So, you've just got to get on your hands
and knees, or on your stomach, and just
push yourself into this room—never having
been in it before. And you just go along the
walls, and you come to the couch, and you
get your hands under the couch to make
sure there's nobody there. You come
around and you feel a table, and you feel a
chair, and you go around and you feel that
doorway. You can't, of course, see any of
these objects

Then you know that there's another side
to this room, and you might want to vent the
window if you figure the outside hose is
going to be up. You also know there has to
be adoorway on this other side of the room
You go around to that doorway—you figure
that's pretty safe—and you go in, Next you
go into the bathroom, and you do the same
thing there. And then you'd be on top of the
fire, soto speak | you'd know where the fire
is. But you check everything. You go
through extra bedrooms, and you check all
the beds. You throw the mattress off the
bed so that anybody going in there knows

it's already been checked.
CONTINUED ON PAGE 164

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4

Se ee ee ee

155

Amer WITH HER
LETHAL LIST OF H/GH—
ALACED TAX—DODCERS.
WANDA CONTINUES HER
RAMPAGE THROUGH
THE WORLDIS MAJOR
CAPITALS 2222044

TAKE /T DOWN
ANDSTARTAGAIN
—PEASANTL

(STHATON OU
WA/TING FOR A 41ST OF CULTURAL
BUS/ WHATDO FVENTS 2
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DOING ?

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1 NEXT WEEK,
FATHERS

TO EAT
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/TALIANS
ARE DRETTY THIN. ON THE GROUND!

ARE YOU GOING TO
LENDANY MORE
MONEY TO THE
LMF SO'S THEY
CANLEND/T JO
TWSLOT, BOOFILP

WAITLL RON
CALELLA SEES
THESE SHOTS SL
YOUR TECHNIQUES
LOU8Y, MACS

156 PENTHOUSE

MENTS = A NOT-UNEXPECTED
: ‘ EVENTUAL/TYS
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ECCOMI, SIGNORINAL COMA:

OF THE CHIEF OF POLICES

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BRING ME ANOTHER?
NEAPOL/TAA
SALENDOURS

FORGIVE THE INTRUSION,
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ASSURSEC SPIES
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WHATS THe
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157

STH SULAING,
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158 PENTHOUSE

202 YOU KNOW
MY TERMS FOR
KEEPING YOU?
SORDID SECRET
—2761///

A CHAMPAGNE
BATH IN THE
TREVI FOUNTAIN
—UWATS SO
TOUGH ABOUT THAT?

/’MUUST NOT
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159

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ITS A REMAKE

160 PENTHOUSE

ANOTHER DAY OW
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“"

YOU WOULDN'T GETINTO ONE
OP MY FILMS NAN OUTLET
LIKE THATS

YOU'RE ASKING ME TO
PERVERT MY ART BY LUMNG
RS 4 SACCHANALIA IN THE
TREV! FOUNTAIN 2

TINTO LD COCK—
CD GNVE MY RIGHT
ARM FOR A MAN

SANDWICH

| Poicé 4.9:

THERES NO
PENSION SCHEME
iN THIS CAMEL

CHAMPAGNE
BATHS TOURISTS

CORPONED

OFEL/ COTTA
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162 PENTHOUSE

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HAVE WE SOLVED OU? AS FROM TODAY
ECONOMIC PROBLEMS 2 WELL BEVOINING
SUROPES Ys

163

PENTHOUSE

Sashion Pinder

The following manufacturers and stores
supply the fashions shown on pages
102-107.

GIVENCHY
1290 Avenue of the Americas
New York, N.Y, (212) LT1-3535

Hughes and Hatcher: Pittsburgh, Pa.,
and Detroit, Mich.
Cedrics: Minneapolis, Minn.

CARLO PALAZZI ROMA-NEW YORK
1290 Avenue of the Americas
New York, N.Y. (212) 245-0300

Roos-Atkins: San Francisco, Calif
Sakowitz: Houston, Tex.
Wallach's: New York

LEBOW BROTHERS, INC.
1290 Avenue of the Americas
New York, N.Y. (212) 765-2400

ADOLFO/LEON OF PARIS
1290 Avenue of the Americas
New York, N.Y. (212) 255-5430

Snyder and Sons; Los Angeles, Calif.
Sy Devore: Hollywood, Calif

Morris Carr: Los Angeles, Calif.
Gene Hiller: Sausalito, Calif.

Grodin’s: California

Backers: New Haven, Conn,
Burdine's: Miami, Fla

Buckingham: Miami, Fla.

Lanson's: Miarni, Fla.

Morry's: Chicago, lll

Turner Bros.: Chicago, Ill,

Weinherg's: Skokie. Ill

Robert Grasselle: Elmwood Park, Ill.
Allen's Store for Men: Des Plaines, lil.
Jac-Lin: Chicago, II!

Rubenstein Bros.; New Orleans, La
Maximilian: Bethesda, Md

Max Margolis: Pikesville, Md

Kosins: Detroit. Mich

Lewis Keller, Birmingham, Mich.
Osmuns: Southfield, Warren, and Pontiac, Mich
Anton's: Detroit, Mich.

Machugh's: Ridgewood, N.J
Rockoff's: Elizabeth, N.J
Schlesinger's: West New York, N.J
Bracidock's: Eatontown, N.J

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164 PENTHOUSE

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 155

Penthouse: Do firemen often venture into
rooms that are just black, thick with smoke,
without oxygen masks?

Smith: If it's an occupied building, you're
not going to take the time to put a mask on;
no fireman is going to take that extra sixty
seconds to get a mask out of the compart-
ment, put it on, and make sure it's working
right. Because your job is rescue and you
want to get in as fast as possible, every-
thing really hinges on seconds; this is not a
job where another five minutes can still get
the job done. If you don't do it in thirty
seconds, sixty seconds, one hundred and
twenty seconds, you're going to lose
somebody. A hundred and twenty seconds
is a lot of time in the spreading of a fire,
particularly in a multiple dwelling.

‘Penthouse: Have there been times in your

job when you thought you might be about
to die?

Smith: A few. | was at a fire not too long ago
that took a row of one-story buildings: a
dry-cleaning store, an ice cream parlor, a
bar and lounge—all of these things. Well,
after a while, we found that we had gotten
just a little too far back in the store, and the
fire was burning under us. So there we had
the danger of that floor falling through and
our ending up in the fire. We felt pretty
confident that there was some strength in
that floor, but then the fire started crawling
over the ceiling. Finally. it was between us
and the door.

Penthouse: In other words, you and the
others were trapped?

Smith: That's right. The worst thing in any
fire—to get the fire between you and an
exit

Penthouse: What happened?

Smith: Well, we put the fire out, We just
backed out of that store as fast as we
could, All the time we kept the line above
us, on the ceiling, and then just let it burn
through.

Penthouse: Do you actually think in a situa-
tion like that, ‘| wonder if I'm going to get
out of this?"

Smith: You say, “Hey, we'd better get out of
this.” We were in a dangerous position
there. but we weren't in nearly as danger-
ous a position as some other guys who
were in that store at the beginning of the
fire. Because—and here's a good illustra-
tion of where seconds in this business
count—if we had been there thirty seconds
later, just thirty seconds, we would have
lost those three guys.

Penthouse: There was a story in the New
York Times some time ago about a
sixteen-year-old girl who died in your arms.
What are your memories of that?

Smith: There was a fire in a two-story frame
building in which a girl had evidently been
in the shower when the kitchen caught on
fire. The shower was right next to the
kitchen. She was naked, and when she
finally became aware that the place was on
fire, instead of running immediately to the

front door and safety—and she could have
done that—she ran into the room next to the
kitchen, which was so extraordinarily hot
that the television's plastic casing melted.
She wasn't severely burned, but she evi-
dently ingested these superheated gases,
and they ripped her lungs out.

So when we found her, we immediately
started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. We
must have worked twenty-five minutes on
her before a doctor got there. And it was no
use. She was such a young kid, and she
was very pretty.

You know, if there had been a sinoke
detector in that house, there would have
been no problem at all. A simple smoke
detector costs thirty-five dollars. If there
had been one there, at the very first trace of
smoke the alarm would have gone off; and
even in the bathtub—with the shower on or
whatever—she would have heard it and
had time to get out.

There’s been a lot of very tough times like
that. A friend of mine died a couple of
months ago, a kid who worked with us. He
went into a cellar to look for a captain who
had been lost at this fire, and in the cellar
there were insecticides—aeroso! insecti-
cides—which had exploded. The first step
into the room knocked him completely out.

But he hung on for three weeks. He was
in one of those “do-you-pull-the-plug?”
conditions. | went out to the hospital. | just
remembered all those fires we had been at
together. He was a very funny guy, always
joking. His brother is also a fireman, and his
best friend is a guy who worked with us in
the same firehouse.

He was a young guy, thirty-four years old.
He had three kids.

Penthouse: |t seems that there have been
few advances in fire-fighting techniques
over the years. It’s almost as if the methods
had remained, through the centuries, a kind
of primitive assault of man against fire. Do
you think that's the way it has to be?
Smith: Fuel, oxygen, and heat are the three
things necessary for fire. If you remove one
of them, you don't have the fire anymore.
Water, essentially, removes the heat. The
only other innovation that’s possible if you
can't remove the fuel—we live in an envi-
ronment that burns—is to remove the oxy-
gen. And it would be fascinating to have a
building in which there was some kind of
vacuum system that could remove the
oxygen very quickly from a part of a build-
ing. Then you'd kill the fire. But that's not
going to happen. Consequently, the best
way to fight a fire is the way we've always
been doing it, and that is to get close to a
fire and put water on it.

Penthouse: Some people say that men who
become firemen actually like fires. Is there
any truth to that?

Smith: |'ve never read of a fireman who sets
fires to see a fire, However, there was one
case here on Long Island recently where a
testimonial dinner was being given for a fire
chief, and three volunteer firemen slipped
out the side door and went and set a build-
ing on fire—so that the chief could have this
last fire before he retired. It was an aban-

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doned building. But they were caught.
Penthouse: Do firemen actually go to

a spectators—when they're off- | | COMING IN THE
Smith: Oh, yes. Your average fireman will | | ‘ APRIL

Qo to a major fire if it's in the neighborhood, | j PENTHOUSE

to see the guys he knows, to see what kind i ON YOUR N EWSSTAND

of fire it is. He has a professional interest in
the way the fire's being fought. MARCH 8
Penthouse: There's a kind of woman who | |

seems particularly attracted to police- | THE GROWING MENACE OF “PRIVATE” COPS
men—some policemen call them police :

groupies. They like to come around the
Precinct station houses, and there are even
stories of sex in their squad cars on quiet,
dark streets. Are there also women who are
fascinated with firemen?

Smith: Yeah, but it's not a sexual thing. In
any case, I've never seen it, and I've
traveled around this country a great deal.
But there are women who really want to be
firefignters and are challenged by this

whole thing and mad that they're excluded FRED SHERO AND HIS BAD-ASSED

by a tradition and civil service laws. I've eas sont
gotten a lot of mail from those kind of wom- ‘ BROAD STREET BULLIES ;
en. But otherwise—although firemen are as ;

horny as any other group of men—you ; - y
never see manifestations of it on the job. i k tre 7,
Penthouse: When did you actually get eran ae j
started writing?

Smith: When | quit school. | started writing
Stories, and | read a lot. But | really had no
training, although | had this perception of
myself as a writer because | always had a
better vocabulary than anyone around me, eC ;
including most adults. | liked words, not . 2 + : ‘ ered: tt A
because they were valuable for communi- SHAKE HANDS WITH REVEREND DOOM
cation, but because if you knew a big word r 2 ae A :
it meant you were a better person. It gave : : 4
you some status. It was a question of class.
Again, it's typical. I'm not preoccupied with
the Irish, but it is typical that if you learn to
talk a little better, you become, g.e.d., a
better person. It's all bullshit.

Some nun in the first or second grade ;
should have told us it doesn’t matter if you r a ee |
don't talk right, it doesn't matter if you don't HITLER PAINTED ROSES
have an Ivy League accent, and it doesn't : :
matter if you don't pronounce your ing’s. It's
what you do that counts. But they never told
us that. They told us: if you want to be a
good executive in an insurance company,
you've got to learn to talk right.
Penthouse: Your perception of yourself as
a writer is an Irish cliché, isn't it?

Smith: Yeah. But most Irish writers were not

at all romantic. They were arrogant or | jf TIVING TI. aly, 0 nN
drunk. And most of the great Irish writers | [I T AS ne Ce Mak
left the country. You know—Joyce and Or, en Inches Doth Not a perstu ake
O'Casey. But | just wanted to be a writer, | ff 3 ‘

and | didn't know why. And although | write
better than | talk, | can be involved in a
conversation with anybody—I mean, fire-
men or heads of corporations—and | al-
ways bring some insight into that conversa- ; ) “

tion. But | can write about it much easier. | |f J 1D ny Dp rt “ITY :
Penthouse: How has success affected | |NNE ¢ DISASTER CITY :
your life-style? What has changed? ; ; : ze cts the 7
Smith: There's a funny story about that.
When | was working on my first book, | was
using my son Sean's room as an office; and
he moved in with Brendan. his older
brother. Well, when it was finally finished, |

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168 PENTHOUSE

said to my son: “Brendan, this is a crucial
moment in my life. | have finished writing
this book, and things will begin to become
alittle easier for all of us." The only thing he
had to say was: “Can you get Sean out of
my room now?”

Seriously, though, | don't think I've really
changed much. My brother told me that
one of the nice things about all this is that
essentially I'm the same guy | was seven
years ago. That's important. One thing
about brothers is that they don't have to
bullshit each other. And | never forget that
everything I've done | did myself, I've
worked for it. No one ever did anything for
me. But there have been a lot of changes
For one thing, I've made a lot of money—
perhaps more than I'll ever need. But | do
have a lot of plans—l'll spend it, give a lot of
it away, help my friends.

Penthouse: How does it feel to have all that
money and still work as a fireman?

Smith: Well, let me tell you about it. One day
| had lunch in the Brook Club. Now the
Brook Club is perhaps the most exclusive
club in town. And then | went to my office
for a while, and then | had drinks at “21” in
the afternoon, and then | went to work at the
firehouse at five o'clock. And at six fifteen |
was up to my thighs in garbage in the
Pelham dumps, in a fire. And | realized that
the whole experience was so humaniz-
ing—! mean. | have literally the best of both
worlds. Not that | think that being up to
one's thighs in garbage is the best of any

} world, but just thal there's the sense of un-

derstanding the irony in one’s life and work
But it’s more than that. | like going to the
firehouse. | like the men | work with. And
there's also a stability to my life—the idea of
having to be someplace. | like the structure
and the discipline of that. But obviously I’m
going to have to leave at some point. For
one thing, my magazine, Firehouse, is tak-
ing up more time than | thought it would. We
already have over 80,000 subscribers—
fire fighters, their wives, fire buffs, people in
the fire-equipment industry. And then
there's my novel. It's about an Irish Catholic
kid coming of age. I've been working on it
for five years. and | probably have another
five years of work to do on it. But | really
don't want to finish it, because I'm having
so much fun writing it.
Penthouse: |s it autobiographical?
Smith: Yes. And, you know, | don't care
whether it's commercial or not. In fact, |
don't care when | finish it. | only want to
write about what interests me
Penthouse: How do other firemen feel
about your literary success?
Smith: Well, in all this time | have not had
one negative reaction from any fireman
But you do get funny remarks. Like, if the
fire department comes up with an order
some fireman doesn't like, he might say to
me, “Why don't you give $50,000 to Mayor
Beame’s campaign and become commis-
sioner and stop this shit?” But when the
floor's got to be swept, | sweep it. When the
windows have to be washed, | wash them
Penthouse: Have fireman's attitudes
changed over the years?

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Smith: Oh, yeah. There's a terrific loss of
morale within almost all fire departments.
The unions are getting tougher; and the
cities are getting broker, so that they're re-
ducing manpower—which is really a big
mistake. Before they reduce fire depart-
ments, they should really close the public-
university system.

Penthouse: |s there anything else about fire
fighting these days that must change?
Smith: Oh, yes, a lot. What | find difficult
about the fire departments is the way that
the city administrations deal with them
First of all, | think most politicians are liars
and thieves, because | don't think they re-
ally care about the people they represent. |
have more confidence in a benevolent aris-
tocracy, believe me, than | do in the demo-
cratic system as it has developed in this
country.

We're coming close to a point of real
decline in our society, and we haven't
lasted nearly as long as Greece did
There's nothing to ensure the viability of this
system of life. We've got to develop some
priorities, some way of looking at people in
a true light, in an equitable way. Firemen
are different from others—because of what
they do, because of what they give up
Because if there's ametaphor for American
society today, it’s that it’s burning down

Firemen are working harder than they've
ever worked before and getting less in re-
turn than they've ever gotten before. But
nobody gives a shit about that—nobody at
the city end of things anyway. The mayor
comes out at the medal-day ceremony, and
he pins a medal on some widow's breast,
and it’s all over. I'm not a romantic guy, not
about fire fighting, anyway. | always make
sure, whenever anybody asks me anything
about fire, that the first thing | say is, It's
really a dirty job. You have to push yourself
harder than you can ever be pushed in any
other situation

But it’s got to be done. You've got to do it;
that’s what you're paid for. Also, you're with
a good group of people. There's a chal-
lenge to what you're doing, and with every

challenge an instant result. And there's
meaning in that kind of life
Firemen—volunteer firemen, paid

firemen—they're all involved in some way
in decent things. Decency is the word that
sums it all up. There are very few profes-
sions, very few occupations, that you can
say that about. And firemen are tough
They have a street wisdom that's very at-
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can't bullshit firemen. You can't be “charm-
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You can be charmed and you can be
bullshitted in the Brook Club and at “21.”
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or you're not real. You can talk, and you can
write, and you can date pretty girls, and
you can do all kinds of things. But the real
test of a man is how he operates in stress
And | don't think you can find any greater
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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 31

tarius is too much of a rover to satisfy your
need for attention and devotion. Sagit-
tarius’s sharp tongue will deride your
romantic sensibility. Try a long weekend.
PISCES AND CAPRICORN You'll feel se-
cure with practical, determined Capricorn.
And you bring a much-needed breath of
romance and idealism to Capricorn’s staid
approach to life. Sex is fine, and minor dif-
ferences of temperament won't matter.
PISCES AND AQUARIUS Sexually, this
should be fun for a while, since you're both
venturesome in entirely different ways. But
eventually, outgoing, social-minded, inde-
pendent Aquarius will start looking around.
And you can't stand that

PISCES AND PISCES If all problems could
be resolved in the bedroom, you'd be
happy. But you both need what the other
hasn't got, and the emotionalism will get
exhausting. A sexy affair may get kinkier
until there's finally no place to go.

PASSIONATE PORTENTS

ARIES (March 21—April 19) Your sexual
energies are at a peak, and a romance
progresses from an unsure beginning to a
payoff. Try to reach an understanding with
this intimate partner before you are taken
advantage of, for your confidence may be
misplaced. Shortly after your birthday
cycle begins on March 21, an idea you've
worked on for some time begins to prove its
worth. You are on the brink of a major break-
through in your fortunes. However, you
must be cautious with money. You are
tempted to take a double-or-nothing gam-
ble, but luck is not in your corner right now if
you take long chances. Sexually Potent
Days: March 4, 10-11, 20, 26.

TAURUS (April 20-May 20) You feel the
need to escape from pressing respon-
sibilities. A sexual situation, not of your own
making, is becoming unbearable; the per-
son you're involved with also appears rest-
less and looking for a change. You are of-
fered a proposition that is very hard to turn
down. However, the deal is not entirely on
the up and up, and you would be wise to
put off a decision until after March 22, when
you will learn more; meanwhile, play your
cards very close to your chest. During the
final week of March, an old debt you've
forgotten is repaid. Sexually Potent Days:
March 5, 13-14, 23, 31

GEMINI (May 21-June 20) Someone who is
not sexually available intrigues you very
much. Handle this situation with finesse; if
you try to beat down resistance with a
machete, you'll fail to gain your objective.
Matters are complicated by the fact that an
ally in an important project is also in-
fatuated with you. You have to decide what
you want most, then concentrate on getting
it. (Any decision now will have major con-
sequences later.) During the last ten days
of March everything becomes clear, and

you are the bright and fascinating star of
your social set. Sexually Potent Days:
March 2, 6, 15, 25-26.

CANCER (June 21-July 22) Everything's
coming up roses for you. After March 11,
you begin an exciting amour with someone
met while traveling. Surprisingly, this liaison
also has an important bearing on the suc-
cess of current financial dealings. Either a
business project moves nearer to success,
or you gain financial support for a project of
an artistic nature. Try to complete the job at
hand and don't yield to a temptation to
celebrate prematurely—this is no time to let
yourself be diverted from a goal you've
aimed at for so long. Exercise self-dis-
cipline. Sexually Potent Days: March 1, 9,
17-18, 27-28

LEO (July 23-August 22) A love affair that
means much to you shows signs of
change. Saturn is in your sign, and you
must be wary of making judgments that
involve people. Between March 5 and 9
your sex life seems to be in trouble, but if
you persevere it will all work out to your
satisfaction; and this resolution will have a
most beneficial effect in other areas of your
life. You will be in a partying mood around
March 20-25, but don't overindulge in al-
cohol or drugs. Such excess could lead to
a highly compromising situation. Sexually
Potent Days: March 3, 10-11, 20, 29-30.
VIRGO (August 23-September 22) A
woman on whom you've set your sights
appears within reach. The problem is how
to reconcile conflicting viewpoints. Since
an impulsive action now can have damag-
ing results, stay alert to consider all pos-
sibilities. Your popularity is working for you,
but someone professing ta be your friend is
maneuvering against you, The delicate
situation requires that you move boldly, yet
with diplomacy. When Mars moves into
your opposite sign on March 19, guard
against widening a breach with an “ex.”
You may well need this person's support
later. Sexually Potent Days: March 5, 8,
22-23, 31.

LIBRA (September 23-October 22)
Planetary vibes this month indicate new
and pow...ul sensual stimulation. A new
lover is a wonderful companion, with a
sense of humor you really appreciate. The
full moon on March 5 introduces a note of
jealousy into the picture, but you can han-
die it. In business, you will engage in a
struggle for advancement. Don't hold a
grudge about a past incident; rather,
cooperate with your old antagonist, and
you will emerge on top in a confrontation
(around March 20). But minimize risk by
insisting that any agreements be put in writ-
ing. Sexually Potent Days: March 4, 7, 15,
24-25,

SCORPIO (October 23-Vovember 21) This
month the pressures caused by a physical
problem should be easing. A romantic in-
volvement deepens; unexpected assis-
tance from an unlooked-for source may
play arole in this. You can give fuller play to
your fantasies, In business, an unusual op-
portunity will materialize, seemingly out of
nowhere. (Uranus, planet of the unex-

pected, is in your sign.) A good friend will
have some useful advice about how to fur
ther a financial plan. Your ability to make
other people's money work for you is at its
height now. Sexually Potent Days: March 1,
9, 14, 22-23, 30.

SAGITTARIUS (November 22-December
21) The first two weeks of March will involve
you in romantic difficulties. A lover's selfish
actions are becoming too hard for you to
take. Move warily, however, for she can do
you great harm. In a career confrontation,
about March 13, bear in mind that the other
party is not always wrong! Dissemble a bit,
and you'll get more by way of what you
want. Something about a person's check-
ered past will be of assistance to you.
After March 19, money problems disap-
pear and your spirits improve. Try not to
make any promises that you don't intend to
keep. Sexually Potent Days: March 2, 11,
19-20, 29.

CAPRICORN (December 22-January 19)
On the sexual side, it's time for a change of
scenery. You've been hanging on in a trou-
blesome situation despite a recent change
of outlook. Now you're ready for new and
more interesting amorous relationships.
Between March 5 and 12, a woman tries to
do you a favor that you're reluctant to ac-
cept because of other implications. Don't
be worried—be open-minded. Mercury's
influence is sharpening your wits, espe-
cially where communications are con-
cerned. You can get the publicity that will
help you to conclude a successful negotia-
tion. Sexually Potent Days: March 5, 13-14,
22, 31

AQUARIUS (January 20-February 18) You
are in an optimistic mood as worries that
have plagued you begin to recede. During
the first half of March, you can begin work
on a project that has great growth potential.
Consult with others and don't be too
independent—an Aquarian trait. You need
some financial backing, and right now it
would be wise to take expert advice. Dur-
ing the second half of the month, a love
affair puts you in an erotic ferment. Don't
make rash commitments, and keep this
liaison under wraps for a while. At the end
of March you may get some news that will
take you away from home. Sexually Potent
Days: March 7, 16, 24-25, 28

PISCES (February 19-March 20) Sensual
influences are wonderful during this birth-
day cycle. Something becomes clear in
regard to an intimate relationship in which
you've been pulled and hauled in different
directions. A surprising revelation around
March 2-7 is the turning point. After March
19 Mars is in your sign, and you become
forceful and persuasive; you can make
choices without letting emotions (a Piscean
weakness) intervene. Finish work on a cur-
rent project and overlook no details. At the
end of March, travel is advisable—pro-
vided it is strictly for pleasure and in the
company of an interesting companion. So if
you decide to take that well-deserved trip-
for-a-twosome, take care not to take cares
with you. Sexually Potent Days: March 2, 5,

17-18, 21, 27,.0t+-

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VVIERA

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 35

Also, how can | win a few matches so/.can
start fucking her again?—The Whipping
Boy

Take some karate or judo or body-building
classes. In the meantime, it hurts so good!

HOT CROSSED BUNS

This letter concerns the ass; a commenton
whipping it and shoving long, hard things
up into it

As a young woman, I'm surprised at your
lack of understanding regarding pain and
pleasure, Xaviera. You see, I've recently
accepted the fact that one thing aman can
do to get me hot is to heat up my ass with a
good, hard spanking.

| had fantasized for years about being
spanked, Then | met my present boyfriend,
Tom. He confessed to sadistic fantasies; so
we finally tried it. The wallop of his huge
hand on my bare ass stung terrifically, but
the pain itself was erotically stimulating. By
the time he was finished, we both were
tremendously aroused, and my normally
tidy pussy was practically running down
my legs. Since then we have incorporated
spanking into our daily lovemaking. In fact,
| have been wearing my bikini bottoms in-
stead of sunning nude on my private deck
so that my round little ass will show up white
against the tan. Tom talks about how pink
the white cheeks get; and sometimes,
while my ass is still bright red, he has me
suck his cock in front of a full-length mirror
so that he can look at my glowing butt when
he comes in my mouth. | still fantasize
Someday | want him to use a belt on me
The thought of leather blazing across my
rear makes my pussy ache longingly.

| guess my point is that in past columns
(October 1976), you've written that a per
son's attraction to spankings stems from
“childhood guilt or rejection." Xaviera, |
disagree. To me it just feels good!

Now for my question: In the course of
these spankings, | also learned the joy of a
hard cock up my ass, but it’s becoming too
paintul. In the beginning, Tom would just
shove his prick in up to the hilt, reaming my
asshole for nearly half an hour, and I'd love
it. For the last six weeks or so, though, after
the first couple of inches, it hurts me too
much to let him continue. Could | be injured
inside? He doesn't finger-fuck my ass
much before putting his cock in. Would that
help? Of course, we always use K-Y jel-
ly.—Pittsburgh

The desire to have one’s ass spanked is not
at all abnormal. | occasionally ask my lov-
ers to hit me or spank me during foreplay or
while they mount me from the back in
doggy fashion. This is especially true if
there are mirrors in the room. It is very excit-
ing when the man spanks the woman as he
enters her from behind.

Concerning anal intercourse, | can give
you a simple answer: if it hurts, don't do it

for a while. You might check with a doctor if
this discomfort,continues. | think, however,
that your boyfriend should “warm you up" a
little before he slams his cock up your ass.
A little anilingus and finger-fucking should
do the trick.

By the way, when you say “ream my ass,”
| understand you to mean “fuck my ass.”
For your information, a ream job is when
one partner eats the other partner from
front to back; in other words, eating the
anus, as opposed to fucking it. It is also
called a “trip around the world.” Many of my
old clients used to want this performed be-
cause housewives—their wives—objected
to such “unsanitary” practices. (If they're
so worried about germs, they should stop
kissing.)

BEATING HIMSELF TO DEATH

Is it possible for a guy to jerk himself off to
death, or at least to cause himself some
serious injury? Please believe me—this is a
serious question.

I'm twenty-eight, live alone in a very big
Manhattan apartment, and have all the
money | need. | don't have a job, and, in
fact, I'm not trained for anything

Let me describe for-you, Xaviera, one of
my typical days.

| wake up fairly early, always with a
vard-on. | jack myself off, hate myself for it,
fall back to sleep for an hour or two, and
immediately grab myself again when |
awaken. | jerk off six and seven times a day.

You'll say what they all say: “Find yourself
a woman,” But I'm terribly shy and not at-
tractive to women. However, | have often
paid for sex with some high-class whores
A week ago ! had an all-night session with
one. She was barely out the door before |
was jacking off again. You see, having a
woman only stimulates me to greater mas-
turbatory activity.

To try cutting down on my habit, | once
got a job. It was in a big, Cut-rate depart-
ment store—I'm not really qualified for any-
thing decent. Well, the first day | managed
to have one jerk-off session in the wash-
room. After that, however, | was constanily
running to the john to get my rocks off.
Finally, | was called to the personnel office
about my absences. | lied that | had a
chronic stomach disorder. My interviewer
laughed in my face and said that the rea-
son | was being canned was that | was
constantly abusing myself. | later learned
that the overhead vents in the washroom
also served as peepholes for security, | got
out of that office in a hurry.

Then there was this high-school buddy
from out of town who came to stay with me
for a few days. As kids we had jerked off
together all the time. Well, the first morning
my friend was with me. he got up early and
walked into my bedroom. | had my cock in
my hand and was just starting to come ina
Kleenex. He said, “Christ, are you still beat-
ing the meat?” He is married and claims
that he hasn't jerked off since the wedding
Seeing he had caught me, | decided to
confide in him.

He was the one who said a guy can actu-

You will find it all in our

We ustrated Evelyn Rainbird

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TO EVELYN RAINBIRD LTD.
BOX 548 FDR STATION
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Please send me - Evelyn Rain-
bird Catalogue(s). I've enclosed my
Ccheck [] money order for$.

(I am over 18 years of age.)

Name

ally kill himself by jacking off too much. He
claimed to have read about a couple of
cases where this happened.

| want to stop or at least cut down, but
I've pretty well resigned myself to the fact
that I'm a compulsive masturbator. At the
same time, | don't want to do myself a fatal
injury. My buddy suggests that | may be
suffering from satyriasis, and he says
there's no cure for that. | don't know what
you can tell me that will help, but I'm
hoping.—K.W.

You need intensive counseling, and | can
only suggest you see a psychiatrist. Your
excessive masturbating is just the result of
what seems to be a very depressed, satur-
nine personality. | don't recollect ever hear-
ing of death by masturbation—although
some conservative parents do refer to it as
a “deadly sin.”

BETTER SOBER THAN RED

I've lived with my girl friend for the past four
years. Unfortunately, during the past two
years I've been unemployed. I'm very
upset about this. Sometimes my company
calls me back to work, but no sooner am |
on the job than they lay me off again. This
depresses me so much that | quite often
spend my laid-off days in some bar getting
drunk.

One day | came home, blind drunk, from
this bar and threw up all over the kitchen
floor. My girl was so pissed off that when |
was in bed sleeping, she began to spank
my bare buttocks. She brought her entire
hand down across my bare behind with full
force. She did this quite rapidly, and it was
painful as hell. After about three or four
minutes, my entire body went limp. |
thought she would quit, as | couldn't hold
back my tears and cries any longer. |
reached for a pillow, but she wouldn't let me
have it. (My girl friend is a big woman, and
in my decapacitated state | wasn't much of
a man to reckon with.) Finally, | just let go
completely and cried openly in her pres-
ence. After she was through, she said that
as long as she was working and paying
these bills for us to live, she didn't feel like
cleaning up my vomit. If | came home drunk
again, she said, I'd get the same treatment
from her.

Xaviera, | know if it weren't for her, |
wouldn't have a place to live in or food to
eat. Jobs are so scarce in this area, and |
just don't know what to do. | still don't think
she had to ridicule me this way. When | was
working, { paid most of the bills, while she
saved her money. Do you think my girl
friend's attitude is fair?—Jim

Choose between the booze and the broad
Are things not bad enough that you must
add a drinking problem to your unemploy-
ment problem? If you were my man, | would
have done more than spank you, | might
have thrown your ass out of the house
You're lucky she only hit you with her hand
and not with a thick leather belt or whip. |
suggest you visit Alcoholics Anonymous.
Get sober, C+,

Psd Te) (BEAUTY!
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