George Mavety, our publisher, disliked the word "pornography." If you uttered it in his presence, he corrected you: "Call it X-rated. Or triple X." I share his dislike because the word, like the abbreviation "porn," implies a highly negative judgment — the kind you hear from the so-called “religious” right and from prudes of the equally self-righteous left. More so, perhaps, in the United States than in more enlightened countries. America will never escape the curse of puritanism.
Dictionary definitions of pornography obscure more than they help. A typical one, from my unabridged Random House Dictionary of the English Languge: "Obscene literature, art, or photography, esp. that having little or no artistic merit." Added to this is the derivation, from Greek "pornographos, writing or writer about harlots." A further breakdown of the word's components reveals "porné, harlot" and "graphos, writing."
When was the last time you heard, or used, the word "harlot"? It's as quaintly outmoded as my tongue-in-cheek use of "concubine" a couple of chapters back, referring to George Mavety’s latest girlfriend.
Attempts to define, to prosecute, or to protect writing, art, and photography deemed pornographic are multitudinous. Such attempts are always indefinite because pornography, like beauty, resides in the eye of the beholder. The U.S. Supreme Court, and many lesser judiciaries, tried for years to reach not only a definition but a standard for judging. Finally, it seems, custom and changing times made their wrangling and hair-splitting obsolete.
The word "fuck," once considered unpardonably obscene but now common in mainstream books and magazines and heard in movies, on TV, and likely in convents and progressive kindergartens as well, helped to block James Joyce's Ulysses from entering the United States from the time of its publication in 1922 until 1934, when U.S. District Judge John M. Woolsey ruled that the book was not pornographic and therefore could not be obscene. Kudos to Judge Woolsey, despite his circular argument. How different would his reasoning sound if he had written that the book was not obscene and therefore could not be pornographic?
The f-word, incidentally, occurs a number of times in Ulysses. One graphic instance is in Molly Bloom's soliloquy near the end of the novel: "...if thats [sic] what he wanted that his wife is fucked yes and damn well fucked too up to my neck nearly not by him..." Molly also refers to "spunk" on the bedsheets, but words like that, of less currency in the early twentieth century, probably sneaked past the censors. Although the word "fuck," at the time, seemed capable of damning Ulysses in the Anglo-Saxon world, it was actually a peripheral issue. The entire emphasis of the trial was whether the book would corrupt public morality, whether it had literary value, and whether it would appeal to prurient interests in the average American reader. As if the average American reader at the time would put aside Fannie Hurst, James Hilton, and Agatha Christie for seven hundred knotty Irish pages!
This is not the place for prolonged discussion of censorship, Supreme Court decisions, and the like. I refer readers instead to the Freedom Forum Institute (freedomforuminstitute.org), whose stated mission is "to foster First Amendment freedom for all." One finds there a succinct discussion of such key concepts as community standards; hard core; nudity; works of serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value.
A note in passing on the topic of community standards. Even today, Mandate, Honcho, Playguy, and no doubt all gay publications with or without "serious literary value" would be deemed obscene by religious fundamentalists -- Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Mormon, Scientologist, and related cults. These same religionists, on the other hand, put George W. Bush and later Donald Trump in the White House, and kept them there while applauding their murderous wars and corrupt policies. I would like such voters to define the community standard that upholds Trump's notorious pronouncement, caught on tape in 2005: "I did try and fuck her. She was married...I moved on her like a bitch...When you're a star they let you do it. You can do anything...Grab 'em by the pussy."
If Trump were not a functional illiterate, you might guess that he was paraphrasing the dirty parts of Ulysses, for there is a certain rhythm to his snatch of guttersnipe prattle. The point is that meaning has drained out of words such as "pornography" and "obscenity" as applied to sexual activities and to nudity. The real obscenity has come to reside in the likes of Trump and his mob and their storming of the U.S. Capitol; in hate-filled religions; in racism; in corporate greed; in the agendas and lies of sleazy politicians too numerous to name.
The better word is erotica. The ancient Greeks had specific words for everything sexual; their god of love was Eros. But erotic love, to them, was only one kind. It denoted intimate, passionate, sexual love. Entirely different was agápe, which has come to mean unconditional love of God for humankind, the love of parents for children, or no-strings friendship. Philia referred to affectionate love, e.g., brotherhood, which explains why Philadelphia’s nickname is “the city of brotherly love;” storgé denoted empathy; philautia, self-love; and xenia, hospitality to those from afar.
Most medical and scientific terms for sex and genitalia come from Greek and Latin: penis, testicles, vagina, pudenda, anus, rectum, fellatio, cunnilingus. In English, the common terms are mostly four-letter words from Anglo-Saxon, which inherited them from earlier Germanic languages: dick, cock, balls, cunt, pussy, butt, asshole, cocksucking, cunt licking.
I understand, of course, that "nice" people don't use these words except in special circumstances: medical terms to one's physician, their shorter cognates in sexual situations. I am obviously no prude or I would have clung to the job of general manager at Modernismo, fleeing like Miss Lo in an earlier chapter from undraped male images in the art department. And yet I do flinch when vulgarians use vulgar language only to shock.
In the 1990s my first literary agent, now deceased, invited me to lunch with a well-known New York editor in the misguided belief that she and I might strike a book deal. This high-profile editor had the eyes of a cobra; indeed, before scandal brought her down she was known for squeezing life from her victims. Introductions made, she and the agent began a back-and-forth about body functions and private parts. Their repartee could have come from young boys on the playground. Hors d'oeuvres arrived just as she detailed troubles with her dry vagina as though reading a weather report on the six o'clock news. I suspect it was a power play on her part. It didn't work. I was not intimidated and certainly not impressed. No deal was made that day, or later. I've dined out on the story for years, to great guffaws. Madame V, I’ll call her as a nod to her distress, has now reached age seventy. I hope she has found relief.
For the final word on this topic, let's call Joan Rivers onstage. “My doctor warned me about the possibility of a dry vagina as you age. Ugh. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about until I settled into a warm bath and all the water vanished!”
In editing the magazines, my intention was bifocal: four-letter words for fiction, standard English for interviews, feature articles, reviews of books, films, CDs, and videos. In photo layouts, let dick, balls, and ass speak for themselves.
Or almost. For design purposes, these layouts need a certain amount of writing on the page in the form of captions or model copy. Typically, the layout has a title. I'm looking right now at a nine-page spread titled "DICKtation" in the November 1985 issue of Mandate. The model, photographed by one of our regulars who used the name Usher, is first seen in business attire: gray herringbone sports jacket, gray trousers, pale gray shirt and matching tie. The model has blue eyes, curly reddish-blond hair and a darker moustache.
Under the title is this model copy intro: “ ‘ Mrs. Smith, come into my office!’ the boss yelled at 8:45 Monday morning. But the secretary was out; she had arranged for a temp to fill in for her today. The temp wasn't what the boss expected -- the temp was me, and I'm 6' 2", 190 lbs., 27 years old, hot, hung, hairy, and type 69 words per minute."
You see where it's headed. This is a better example of model copy than others I might quote. It's a genre that is camp adjacent -- meaning coy and self-conscious; in other words, self-parody. I don't recall who wrote this, though in retrospect I wish I had required of myself and other editors a similar strong story line for all model copy.
Pages two and three: a centerfold, with small inset photo of the model in upper left, still dressed for business but -- he is exposing his tumescence! In the centerfold, he has removed his trousers but kept on his shirt and tie. What sort of office is this, anyway? Quick, let's find out.
"A couple of phone calls interrupted; I sat patiently while the boss took care of his wheeling and dealing. Calls from the Coast; somebody lost a shipment of goods; everything fucked up. The boss needed a cup of coffee, so I made him one. Then I rubbed his shoulders to release his tension. Pretty soon, the boss got my message. I wanted him to give me some dicktation."
This little tale may be optioned for a porn film -- I mean, triple X. Get Kristen Bjorn on the phone!
On the following pages, more insets -- he has changed into tight black jeans and pulled them below the waist. Then a full page of him in a half-turn to exhibit his smooth blond butt. Following pages, another centerfold and a small paragraph at top right: "He gave me dicktation for an hour. He fucked my mouth, beat my face with his dick, rammed his hot fuck stick down my throat, and made me take his load three times. And he called me back into his office several times during the day. By the time five o'clock came, I was exhausted. It had been a very hard day -- for me and the boss. And you know what? He liked me so much, he fired Mrs. Smith the next day, and made me his personal secretary. Now I take dicktation all day long, five days a week, and often on weekends."
The final centerfold, on pages eight and nine, shows our hardworking temp in a chair, naked, and making eye contact with the spectator. Did those who lingered over these pages bother perusing the model copy? Probably not, but without it the layout would have looked stark, as in stark naked; with it, graphically nude. The eye finds it boring, and so does the mind, to see photos slapped down on a page minus some typographical element to balance the composition.
I hear that Mrs. Smith filed a discrimination suit, and won. The young temp later took an entry-level position across town with Madame V of the dry vagina, though she insisted that he improve his speed of sixty-nine words per minute.
And guess what: the model sent me a postcard just last week from Las Vegas: “The cougar and I are here on…she calls it business bec. it’s tax deductible. Thanks so much for the reference, but guess what? I didn’t need it. I haven’t typed a word since she hired me. I only make coffee and give DICKtation.” He scrawled a hasty P.S. “What happens in Vegas also happens in NYC. LMAO.”
In contrast to that shower of four-letter words in the "DICKtation" layout, I quote from two articles in the same issue. The first is by Leigh W. Rutledge, a regular contributor. The title is "Luchino Visconti's Death in Venice: A Neglected Gay Masterpiece Reconsidered." It begins, "The story Thomas Mann tells in Death in Venice is classically simple: Gustav von Aschenbach, an aging, esteemed, bourgeois writer, travels to Venice ‘yearning for the new and the remote...for unburdening, for forgetfulness.’ " Further in the article, Rutledge traces the genesis of the film: "Various filmmakers had been intrigued by the simplicity, elegance, and depth of the novella. Among the directors who wanted to bring Death in Venice to the screen were John Huston, Joseph Losey, and José Ferrer. It was Italian director Luchino Visconti who succeeded where others had failed."
Elsewhere in that issue, associate editor Freeman Gunter reviews the first of Maria Callas's recordings to be issued on compact disc: "Callas always said she hated Puccini's Tosca. The opera, although dramatic, offered no opportunity for her to display the bel canto mastery that made her unique and irreplaceable. But like it or not, Tosca played an important part in Callas's career." Freeman's music column appeared in every issue, and I find his reviews as informative today as when he turned them in.
Citizens of a puritanical country like the United States do not want to be seen as sexual beings. They rant about freedom, but sexual freedom -- for themselves or others -- arouses crosshatch emotions. These range from condescension to outrage. During my years at Modernismo, I often perceived a measure of discomfort mixed with burning curiosity from acquaintances who learned of my job. Hence the question, "Did you sleep with the models?" This was easily dealt with; I sometimes answered, "Which ones do you have in mind?" My response either stopped the conversation or produced the predictable answer, "Al Parker." Or, "Casey Donovan." Or the Hunk of the Month.
The question, of course, was elliptical. The real question behind it was, "Can I sleep with the models?" That is the appeal of pornography, triple-X, erotica, call it what you will: How can I have sex with him/her/them?
I disliked the patronising tone of voice when certain friends talked about my work. One in particular, who read the New York Times like Holy Writ and never complained of its many biases and inaccuracies, seemed unable to read an article such as Leigh Rutledge's excellent one on Death in Venice without mental reservation, as if gay journalism should be half-concealed behind a potted palm. On the other hand, he devoured Vanity Fair under Tina Brown, with its brassy trombone prose, and also her later raucous, philistine overhaul of the New Yorker.
That friend was gay; so was the one who told me that his disdainful lover opined, when I became editor, "I don't understand how Sam could take such a job." Silly opinions didn't matter to me; the point is that even many "liberated" gays crave only a measure of liberation. Political, yes; social acceptance, to be sure; adopt a kid, you bet; but let's keep sex out of it -- that's something you do with the lights off.
These are examples of puritanism at work, along with sexphobia. My late friend Pablo Navarro was a minister in the predominantly gay Metropolitan Community Church. When his parishoners learned that he wasn't entirely celibate, an uproar ensued. He realized that many in his congregation were fundamentalist wolves cross dressing as gay sheep. He was happier when he left that church behind.
In the early years after Stonewall, writers for some gay publications seemed vaguely apologetic. The Advocate, by contrast, and its publisher, David B. Goodstein, promoted and celebrated "the newfound self-worth felt by so many gay men in the post-Stonewall era." I determined from the start to make Mandate, Honcho, and Playguy not only sexy, entertaining, and informative, but also bold, even aggressive. Looking back, I see gay self-esteem reflected in our magazines.
Some battles are won by diplomacy, others by frontal attack. For example, the National Gay Task Force, as its name then was, scored many victories through quiet maneuvers, as did other gay-rights organizations. The American public, however, will never pardon a hard dick. Nor will they forgive you for having one. That timorous public includes more gays than you might guess; after all, millions of them vote Republican in every election. For many in that demographic, recreational drugs get a more approving nod than recreational sex. My stance as editor was defiant. Hard-fought battles, before and after Stonewall, took place not only for equality but for everything an erection stands for.
That mention of drugs in gay life raises the question of drug use during office hours at gay publications. Earlier I referred to an unnamed magazine -- one of our competitors -- where a large bowl of white powder greeted visitors at the door. Readers are perhaps curious to know the pharmacological parameters at Modernismo. As far as I knew, the boundaries were tightly drawn. Certain colleagues occasionally returned from the men's room either animated, or else mellowed out. I recall a hushed remark or two about "a big hit" when these same ones drifted in after a long lunch. I don’t believe they were discussing Bette Midler.
George would not have permitted so much as a milligram of coke on the premises. He himself didn't drink, not even wine with a meal. I suspected that his rollercoaster moods owed something to diet pills, readily available from his doctor. As for me, I'm probably the only person born in the second half of the twentieth century who never smoked pot (unlike recent American presidents). That said, I certainly advocate the legalization of cannabis and perhaps other recreational drugs. I abstain because I dislike gaga, spacy feelings. A contact high from hashish at a small East Side gathering in 1979 was enough to last me forever.
My hits are Bette Midler and others like her.
Thanks for this piece, Sam. Ironically, it led me to think about 1964's ill-fated musical, Anyone Can Whistle. Can't help but wonder if the show might have gotten more press if Sondheim had added an "s" to the title of one song -- so that it became "There Won't Be Strumpets."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPfCMdncGfc