The naked truth about Hugh Hefner
When I was about 12, I was rummaging in our attic when I came across a bunch of old Playboy magazines tied up in twine and stuffed at the bottom of a box of flannel shirts. Don’t ask me why I was digging through flannel, although I find it ironic that pictures of women with nothing on were buried under the densest material known to a lumberjack.
I just remember that those magazines were in pristine condition, and that they were all from the mid1960s, so my dad was probably saving them as collector’s items (here we pause for the Palinesque wink.)
Having spent all of my formative years up to that point in Catholic girls schools where the only nudes I saw were the plump angels on the ceiling of our school chapel, I naturally untied the package of what Justice Potter Stewart might grudgingly call “obscenity” and feasted my eyes on Claudia Jennings, Stella Stevens, Brigitte Bardot and Barbie Benton (a 1970s edition must have been thrown in there because I remember Barbie from Hee Haw.)
Barbie ended up being Hugh Hefner’s longtime girlfriend, which is kind of like saying Julia Child’s mixing bowls since they both got a lot of use and were periodically replaced with newer models. And yet, it’s hard to view the founder of Playboy as a “user” in the traditional sense.
The most famous occupant of a smoking jacket died this week at the age of 91, which, give or take a few dozen is probably close to the number of girlfriends he had in his storied life. But for all of that, Hefner is one of the few “playboys” who comes off looking less lurid than loving, less icky old uncle than endearing old nebbish, less male chauvinist pig than opportunistic mentor.
I know that Gloria Steinem wrote a self-serving expose about being a Bunny in a Playboy Club in the swinging ‘60s and it catapulted her to fame and fortune as everything a bunny is not supposed to be (feminist, angry, independent, near-sighted,) but in a strange way, Playboy made Gloria and her fellow travelers possible.
By providing a forum where the female body was put on gloriously airbrushed display 12 times a year, feminists were able to prove what they had long suspected: Men only valued them for their T & A (and we’re not talking Thoughts and Aspirations.) They were able to point to this nebbish aging man with the penchant for buxom young lovelies and vacant expressions and say “Here, this is what we are fighting against, the objectification of our sisters!” Before, the MadonnaWhore complex did exist, but you only saw Madonna in public and Whore was kept in the closet so it was hard to wage a war against men who were buying you pearls, sending you flowers and happily eating your noodle casseroles. But when Whore came out and started posing in the middle of a magazine, covered only by a staple, the feminists were able to say that this “boobs and assets” business was turning them into a product to be marketed.
And a lot of products were dying to be marketed, because becoming a Playboy Centerfold was even better than becoming Miss America. The Beauty Queen got a few bucks, a tiara and a year living out of her suitcase, whereas the Booty Queen got to live at the Playboy Mansion, wear sexy clothing (no tiara, but still) and hang out with movie stars like Warren Beatty, Warren Beatty, Warren Beatty and probably some other guys. You also got to anger the feminists who were apoplectic when it was pointed out to them that being nude for a living was as independent as it gets, and a sign of true feminine emancipation. Objectify this bank account, Gloria.
I felt that a piece of my childhood died when Hugh went to heaven, giving new meaning to the phrase, “In my father’s house there are many mansions.” I know it sounds crazy that the founder of a nudie magazine evokes fond memories of a more innocent time, but he does.
Today, sex is available with a few strokes of the keyboard. The Internet has completely changed the landscape for pornography, and the objectification of women has really reached its full flower in teen girls taking nude selfies to send to their squeaky-voiced, salivating boyfriends.
But Hugh Hefner, for all of his “dirty old man” affectations, showed an almost ivory soap appreciation for his centerfolds, at least in the early years. Yes, they were definitely not Norman Rockwell league, but in their own way they were a snapshot of a simpler America.
Some might reject that premise and say that Hefner created unrealistic expectations of female beauty. That may be so. But I’d rather look at a doe-eyed Barbie Benton leaning against a bale of hay than a sex tape of Kim Kardashian oozing more grease than the Exxon Valdez.
RIP, Hef.