Um... if your hands are supporting my torso and legs what's poking me in the groin?
In 1962's Vicious Vixen the main character Dyke Donohoe is a lifeguard torn between his hot girlfriend, his hot girlfriend's hot girlfriend, and his hot girlfriend's hot girlfriend's impossibly hot boss. No need for suspense—he gets to have all of them. He falls head over heels for the boss, who's married but hates her hubby and eventually suggests killing him for freedom and inheritance. Bad idea. Since the story is told in first person, we can't tell if Dyke is supposed to be a total meathead or if it's the bad prose that makes him seem stupid. Typical passage:
Her breasts were firm. They were pointed. They were full. They fitted just right. They gave a sense of exciting, delicious fulfillment. You felt you simply had to swallow them. Each of them. Both of them together. But that's kind of hard to do. So I flew from one to the other, maddened by the knowledge that I couldn't have both of them at the same time.
Yeah. That's pretty bad. And the book is extraordinarily padded—without the constant repetition it would probably run fifty pages. But weirdly, the writing gets better as the story wears on. By the end it's actually readable, and it has an effective twist ending we'll admit blindsided us. Woolfe, or the inhabitant of his pseudonym, wrote several other books. Maybe he really hit his stride on Beach Heat, Hot Angel, Sex Angel, or Sex Addict. But probably not.
What the hell are you doing? Casual Friday starts next week.
It's another humorous Bill Edwards cover for Saber Books, this time fronting Jack Moore's 1965 sleazer Party Girl. Wanna know what it's about? No need to be coy. We read them so you don't have to. Twenty year-old Sally Logan applies for an executive secretary position and is immediately made into a sex object, starting from the interview when the company president quizzes her about her bedroom habits, and the personnel manager makes her strip so he can check out her body. It's ridiculous, of course, especially in 2017's cultural landscape, but this being sleaze Sally is willing to do anything—just anything—to please her boss. And after all, the reason she decided to seek work in the first place was to meet a man. Mission accomplished. And accomplished again. And again. A good book? Of course not, but at least everyone gets a happy ending. And as a side note, we'd be remiss if we didn't thank Bill Edwards for being so good to us over years—his are by far the easiest covers to caption. Check here, here, here, and here to see what we mean.
Oh, that's hot, baby. Take your bra off real slow. Just like that. Now tell me you're gonna shank me in the shower.
Last week we shared a collection of Bill Edwards paperback covers, but this piece of his needed to stand alone, if for no other reason than its absurdity. A prison built within feet of an apartment building? A scantily clad woman encouraging a convict to seek an early release? Possibly right in her window if his aim is good enough? This one is sublime. 1965 copyright.
Bill Edwards paperback art gains new recognition.
Bill Edwards' profile as a paperback illustrator has risen considerably in recent years. Like others who painted for sleaze imprints, it is not so much his technical ability that has garnered the attention, but rather the subject matter and a strong style. Edwards is a guy whose work you can identify in a millisecond. His women almost always have sharp cheekbones, ski jump noses, and a prominent beauty mark. The cover above for Rick Rand's New Girl in Town shows you all three elements up close. Edwards was also prolific like few other painters, which makes finding his work easy. Below are many more illustrations, some for novels with subject matter well beyond the pale, and we have other Edwards pieces populating Pulp Intl., for example here, here, and here.
I'll have both your badges for this outrage. In the meantime, either of you got a condom?
Pretty tame by today's standards, 1959's Sex Life of a Cop is the book that turned into a legal nightmare for publisher Sanford Aday when he shipped copies out of California, was indicted in Arizona, Michigan, and Hawaii in 1961 of interstate trafficking of obscene material, and finally convicted in Michigan in 1963. The story deals with two small town cops named Dempsey and Thorne who give a fat helping of nightstick to any woman whose path they cross, everyone from the hot new dispatcher to a female reporter who goes for a ride along. Ahem. The action starts right on page one outside the police station and doesn't let up. Aday, who was also the author of this as Oscar Peck, earned himself a $25,000 fine and twenty-five years in prison, a sentence that was eventually overturned.
Sex Life of a Cop later caused legal reverberations all the way to the Supreme Court, where it was ruled not obscene in 1967. This was a stroke of good luck for publisher Reuben Sturman (the genius behind It's Happening), because he too was arrested and charged with obscenity when Cleveland police liberated more than 500 copies of the book from his warehouse. The Supreme Court ruling cleared him of wrongdoing. All this for a book that differs little from other sleaze of the era save that it stars two cops. But therein lies the lesson. When you cast aspersions upon law enforcement they'll move heaven and earth to punish you, first amendment be damned. We have covers for the original 1959 edition and the 1967 reprint.
The court announces a sixty-minute recess so it can have—er, I mean speak—with the defendant in its chambers.
Sleaze from 1966, Sex Racket, from Saber, written by Mark Lucas. You wouldn’t think so, but he wrote other books. The mole on the defendant’s cheek gives this cover away as Bill Edwards art.
I’m glad you think they’re pretty, but they’re not my underwear—they’re yours. One of my red dresses got mixed in with your laundry.
It’s been a while, so here’s another cover from Saber Books, Jack Moore’s Call of the Flesh, published in 1963, with art by Bill Edwards. You can see another cover from Saber here.
I’ll kick your ass with one arm tied behind my back, bitch!
Like any art form, pulp illustration runs the gamut from scintillating to disastrous. Today, with Mark Lucas’ lesbian sleaze novel Suzanne, we’re confronted with a cover from the latter category. The book was published by the low rent imprint Saber, which was owned by Sanford Aday, and if you take a look at the art, you see a woman whose right arm is on backwards. Or who has two left arms, depending on how you prefer to describe it. Just about the time you start wondering if she has two left feet, too, everything suddenly resolves like an Escher and you see that the bizarro arm actually belongs to her adversary. But what an amusing failure this cover is. We have no idea who to blame, though. It’s uncredited.
Actually, you’re drinkin’ the kerosene I use for my lantern. The moonshine’s over yonder. But I am duly impressed.
Above, the cover of Clouded Passion by Arthur A. Howe, for Fabian Books, 1962, with Bill Edwards cover art of a country girl chugging booze like a Zeta Tau Alpha. Fabian, as well as Vega Books and Saber Books, was owned by Sanford Aday, who made himself a constant target for various morality groups, including Citizens for Decent Literature, which was headed by that paragon of virtue Charles H. Keating. Aday was eventually convicted of obscenity, along with his associate Wallace de Ortega Maxey, for shipping a single copy of the book Sex Life of a Cop to Michigan. Aday got twenty-five years, but the conviction was overturned by a Supreme Court decision. The novels from Adey’s three publishing houses are somewhat collectible today, and most of the covers were exactly like this one—amusing but low quality. If you’re interested, you can see a group here.
So, you know how people sometimes say I'm a handsome woman? Before we get started I should tell you something.
You can always count on Saber Books for pieces of unsuccessful cover art, and here we have another example—Hard Way Back, from 1963. We don’t know who painted the cover, but we do know the femme fatale is supposed to be a real looker. Mission unaccomplished. Author Jack Woodford, who was actually Josiah Pitts Woolfolk, and wrote under such hilarious pseudonyms as Sappo Henderson Britt, was quite a prolific scribe—some of his output includes Unwilling Sinner, Three Gorgeous Hussies, and the terrifyingly titled Hoof Hearted. He also wrote how-to writing books, which may seem strange, but in literature lack of quality has rarely been a barrier to publication, and no one knew more about success in defiance of talent than Woodford. He’s credited as having described one of his books as, “Boy meets girl; girl gets boy into pickle; boy gets pickle into girl.” So there you go, aspiring novelists.
The headlines that mattered yesteryear.
1924—Leopold and Loeb Murder Bobby Franks
Two wealthy University of Chicago students named Richard Loeb and Nathan Leopold, Jr. murder 14-year-old Bobby Franks, motivated by no other reason than to prove their intellectual superiority by committing a perfect crime. But the duo are caught and sentenced to life in prison. Their crime becomes known as a "thrill killing", and their story later inspires various works of art, including the 1929 play Rope by Patrick Hamilton, and Alfred Hitchcock's 1948 film of the same name.
1916—Rockwell's First Post Cover Appears
The Saturday Evening Post publishes Norman Rockwell's painting "Boy with Baby Carriage", marking the first time his work appears on the cover of that magazine. Rockwell would go to paint many covers for the Post, becoming indelibly linked with the publication. During his long career Rockwell would eventually paint more than four thousand pieces, the vast majority of which are not on public display due to private ownership and destruction by fire.
1962—Marilyn Monroe Sings to John F. Kennedy
A birthday salute to U.S. President John F. Kennedy takes place at Madison Square Garden, in New York City. The highlight is Marilyn Monroe's breathy rendition of "Happy Birthday," which does more to fuel speculation that the two were sexually involved than any actual evidence.
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