Chapter 14

Against my better judgment, I took on another assignment for Ralph Baljoni last year. This time it was me who initiated the action, although it wasn't from need of money. I'd still been getting the good assignments, and I didn't really need Ralph anymore. But when he started putting out this magazine called Macho, that was supposedly aimed at women, I saw red.

I showed the first issue to Paul one night, and after he'd leafed through it he agreed that it was a misrepresentation, although it offended me more than it did him. I'm not saying that Paul's against the feminist movement, it's just that he is so sure of his masculinity, he doesn't really get behind porn one way or the other. He has always treated women with respect, and is coming along at treating them equally as well.

"Why don't you do something about it," he calmly advised me. "You worked for the guy, you can do something a little stronger than a letter-to-the-editor."

The next day, Paul left on a special assignment and I gave what he'd said a little more thought. He and I were seeing a lot of each other by this time, but we still were free to go our way if we wanted. I'd grown to respect his work, finding out from associates of his (as he was never one to talk about his past accomplishments) that he had covered the whole civil rights thing in the South in the early sixties, and had been awarded several times.

But to get back to my problem. I had a few days off for a rest, but I could see that this new insult to women from Pussy was too much. I'd begun to believe more strongly in the women's movement by this time, but I couldn't really say that I'd felt exploited by men's magazines as it had led to somewhere for me, although I could see a lot of women, particularly those who had husbands that expected their wives to look like the plastic centerfolds, had a legitimate beef about them.

My own point was, we had such things as Ms. and so on, so why shouldn't we have a woman's porn magazine ? Oh, Cosmo tried to get cute with the centerfold of Burt Reynolds, but why couldn't we have a magazine that dealt with men the same way Pussy had dealt with women? A class magazine with articles aimed at women, but featuring a little beefcake.

And then a couple of the second-place slicks tried to come out with their versions of such a magazine. But even without having worked for such an organization as the one that published Macho (I deal with them since I'd worked for them and might have been able to suggest some changes), a woman could tell that these rags were written by men, and would appeal primarily to men. They just wanted to bring the girls into the same world as Pussy, but the basic concept was wrong-men were writing most of it, editing it, behind the entire idea. Even the letters-to-the-editor were phony. And to top it off, Mr. B. himself is writing the editorial, trying to come off as some big spokesman to straddle the fence between the Chauvinists and the Feminists.

That was really what got to me. He didn't even have enough balls to be a Chauvinist.. . he was a neuter at best. And he only had one woman on the whole staff, and I could tell it was a dummy position, probably doing paste-up. Even Pussy had more girls listed on the masthead.

So I picked up the phone and had it out with Ralph. He was really surprised and disappointed that I was offended, so he had me come down. He still respected my opinion, only so far as he still considered me one of his star 'girls,' who'd gone out and made it big.

But once in the office, I let him know what I thought of the magazine, tearing it down page-by-page. He listened intently, but I could tell that he wasn't pleased with my overly-frank opinions. When I started laying into him about the fact that there was a girl in the centerfold with the man, and that it showed her in full-frontal nudity, while showing him from the back, he spoke up and told me that this was one area they were changing.

"In fact," he managed to squeeze in, "I agree with you on this. You're not the only one who's complained, and so we decided to run a nude male, full-front in an upcoming issue. In fact, why don't you shoot it?"

I turned it down at first, but was dumb enough to let him talk me into volunteering my services for about half my normal fee. But it did give me a chance to help change things, I realized, so why not?

I wasn't too ecstatic about the theme they'd chosen, calling the guy 'Golden Boy,' but I'd see what I could do. The shooting was set up at a studio of my choosing at my insistence. Since I was doing this for such a small fee, I had to have integrity, so I'd drawn a clause into my contract that gave me final approval of the layout.

I think 'Golden Boy' was pretty shocked at first, upon finding that a woman would be shooting the spread. I could see why they called him that, he was a natural blonde with wavy hair and a beard, a real muscle beach type. I was about to think he was a homo until he spoke to me.

"I'm Rick," he offered nervously. "I can see that things have come full circle."

That they had, I agreed. Here he was a distortion of maleness in the same way most of the girl centerfolds had been distortions of femininity-and to top it off, a female photographer would be shooting it.

We relaxed for awhile, as I adjusted the lights on the seamless backdrop, and checked my camera. I'd be shooting with a 4X5 today, so it would be a little more expensive than usual. But this was becoming a pet project of mine. Sort of my contribution to the movement.

He was very easy to pose, and I got my color shots first. I got a few black-and-whites once I was satisfied I'd gotten enough color, realizing that most of the rest of the spread would be shot outside on the following day-I wanted to get a natural feeling into it, but it was rainy outside this day.

I found myself becoming attracted to his oversized muscles as I put him through his paces, and realized that it had been quite a time since Paul had left. Although I was done with my shooting, I kept posing him and reposing him, going over to guide him into the next position between shots, or faked shots. I did this for several minutes, maybe longer, until he caught me at it.

"Excuse me," he said when I went over beside him to show him another pose, "but why aren't you taking the pictures anymore? I do some photography and . . . "

I don't think I heard the rest of what he said. I turned beet-red in embarrassment-busted.

"That's all right," he smiled, running a hand around my back. "I guess you just wanted to see a little more of me, huh?"

No use denying it. I tried to blurt out an excuse, but he put a finger over my lips. He knew what I was up to, so he told me to just follow him. He unbuttoned my clothing very deliberately and then stood and looked at me.

"Damn, you look like a centerfold yourself," he smiled, gazing at my nudity.

"I was," I admitted.

"Well, shit," he said in his good-natured but distinctly rural manner. "Maybe we should make some centerfold babies . . . or pretend to."

I was waiting. He finally got his mind un-tracked and lifted me high over his head, kissing at my tits and belly. God, he was strong, I marveled, hoping he wouldn't drop me. But he had me put my legs over his massive shoulders and he ate me out while standing. It was a first for me . . . you see, it's never to late. A bit of acrobatic sex.

The rest of it was more conventional, Rick balling me on the floor, then I think I blew him, and then it was the other way around, with him eating me. I'm not exactly sure of the sequence-only that one thing stands out since it was so unusual. I've blocked out most of the session because, though fairly recent, it was so painful to me. Not from Rick's standpoint-he was just a big, not-so-bright, muscle-bound kid. No, the evil shades of Ralph Baljoni are all over this one.

The problem came up due to the fact that I was in a car wreck on the way home from the studio that day, and one of his other photographers shot the exteriors the following day (Jim had been smart enough to quit long ago), as I was laid up with a broken leg. It was a good thing that I'd gotten the approval clause, because when I got the brown-lines and saw what had happened to 'Golden Boy,' I really freaked.

I got on the horn to Ralph right away, screaming at him until his ears must have hurt. There were two girls with Rick in the outdoor scenes, and if that weren't bad enough, they'd done a piss-poor cropping job of my color shot, a girl posed in front of him so that his cock didn't show.

I threatened to sue if he printed them with my name on them, so he finally backed down. That fucking magazine is still as bad as ever. I'll never work for that sneaky cocksucker again. And you want to hear something really rich? One that'll frost your balls? He called me up with the idea for the biography on me a few months later. The fucking nerve! Trying to figure out another way of exploiting the fact I'd been Miss May clear back when.

And then it came to me . . . to do an autobiography. Sure. Only I could say what I want. Even dedicate it. By all means, a dedication:

Here, Mr. B., is your biography.