masterpiece depicted below appeared some time ago on e-Bay, and I regret that I didn’t bid
on it. All Woman
is, I blush to admit, an important tome in my life. Back in the
early sixties, when it was new, it was the first dirty book I ever
managed to get my ever-stickier hands upon. Its effect was
remember nothing of any plot, but phrases and characters and
situations resound yet in my mind. There were two main female
characters, archetypes now in my subconscious: a blonde with enormous
gazongas and her slim brunette rival with the morals of an alleycat.
I remember descriptive passages of peculiar potency – an
account of the blonde trailing her shed bathing suit behind her on
the sand; a description of her stage act which involved a mannequin
made up as Satan. I recall horrid bits of dialog (“I got more
than eyes, baby!”) and a couple of moments that, as a presumed
adult, I hesitate to reprint. I even recall a scene delivering the
brutality promised on the cover – now distressing and
offensive. Rest assured that its implicit message did not
some notions did, I’m afraid. The sexy archetypes maintain.
The wooze of lust still depends on an inchoate sense of women as
amazing … and alien.
The richness and real reward of genuine females, learned as I grew
up, had no place in All
Woman. I recall no
humor in the book, no trust, no friendship – but when did
anyone scan a Beacon Book for humor or trust or friendship? No, they
were hands to glands,
fodder for the lizard brain, the primal male connection eye to
imagination to prostate, and this was one volume that made that
circuit spark, decades upon decades ago.
I recently bought a copy of ALL WOMAN on-line for (blush) $15.74. No, I'm not a fool. I'm a damned fool.