WHO IS YOUR DREAM GIRL?
Who is your dream girl?
Virginia Bell. Linsey Dawn McKenzie. Roberta Pedon. Chloe Vevrier. Uschi Digart. Devon Daniels.
Any of the above? All? None?
I believe that breasts are beautiful: I am not a heathen because of this.
If you're reading this, you probably have a healthy interest in the most obvious of female anatomy. Breasts are beautiful. When they are they at their best they are soft and feminine and erotically charged and they are beautiful. The Ancients knew it, as is reflected in their sculptures of the human form. Artists have known it for ages. But what most of us here share is that we are innocent victims of the breast fetishes of a few rather remarkable men of this past half century of so. Their obsession has woven a tapestry of tits which many of us these days can recite by heart. Indeed, the real result of the legacy they created has been the burgeoning pantheon of women we have come to revere, to love.
Virginia Bell. Linsey Dawn McKenzie. Roberta Pedon. Chloe Vevrier. Uschi Digart. Devon Daniels.
To me, these are just the brightest jewels in that wonderfully rich tapestry we chauvinists, euphemistically called "breast men", lovingly refer to as the Tit Culture. A tapestry with a distinguished history, ancient when compared to the faddish interests of generation neXt, fleeting when compared to the treasures of antiquity. While breasts aren't a relatively new phenomenon, we're really talking about a fifty-year period - more or less, and continuing unabated - when the female bosom has postured itself at the forefront, so to speak, of male sexual interest.
It used to be legs, of course. "Pinup" models of the 1940's all had great gams. Stems. Sticks. Pins. You get the picture. Vargas girls with long, pointy legs.
Howard Hughes and his breast obsession changed all of that.
It all started when Hughes discovered Jane Russell in a dentist's office, impressed enough with her mighty torso to design a special brassiere for her and assign photographer Lucien Ballard to give her a screen test. "Hughes had a thing for tits", noted Ballard, who had the test made into a loop "so [Hughes] could watch it over and over." He cast her in his new western, The Outlaw, and had her bend over so her cleavage was on full display during one particularly notorious scene in the film. The Outlaw was a sensation, the cause of a giant censorship battle, and it once and for all squarely focused the American attention on the bosom.
So Mr. Hughes gave us the Spruce Goose and introduced us to boobies.
And we liked what we saw. And no, I do not mean the Spruce Goose.
By the 1950's, through no fault of our own, we had become transfixed by the sexsational shapeliness of softly feminine archetypes like Marilyn, Jayne and Mamie. The sexy gals had curves, man,...curves. That's what the movies told us, man, and movies don't lie, dig? We even developed this secret lingo to talk about Them - the Boobs, I mean. Even at the height of the Cold War the buzzwords 'ICBMs' and 'nuclear warheads' and 'torpedoes' had pretty obvious double meanings. And looking at the tightly-sweatered bombshells of the Eisenhower era you had to admit that there was something awe-inspiring and pleasing about a curvaceous figure. The gals wore bullet bras that made them look positively cantilevered. They were curvaceous and sexy and looked the way men thought women should look. The way they jiggled and sashayed across a room, smoldering with lipstick thick enough to chew...that was some potent sexuality. Perhaps the queen of on-screen bosomania in those more innocent times was the Nordic amazon Anita Ekberg, whose bountiful bosom seemed to fill up every screen on which she appeared. Italian T&A man Federico Fellini cast her to great effect in his ode to the good life, La Dolce Vita.
It wasn't long, of course, before the big bosom interest spread to other media. Men's magazines were another great product of the 1950's, and allowed for more liberal "uncoverage" of the female form than the prudish Hayes censorship people allowed onscreen in mainstream cinema. It was here that the big boob phenomenon really flourished. June Wilkinson had one of the most insignificant, God-awful film careers in recorded history, but on the pages of Playboy, Fling, Adam and other breast-obsessed men's mags of the late 1950's and early 1960's she and her forty-three inch bust became a legend, fantasy girl, and collector's item all rolled into one. Sabrina was England's top heavy, no-talent counterpart to America's Jayne Mansfield, both boasting peroxide blond hair, dizzy personalities and bust measurements of - get this - forty and a HALF inches. The HALF inch was vital - Jayne guarded it zealously and even made sure that extra half inch was included when her measurements were printed on her director's chair for the films in which she appeared.
Rosina Revelle, England's deliciously-built "pre-Page-3" Page 3 girl, boggled the mind with her dark Mediterranean good looks and staggering, incomprehensibly firm forty plus bust (some sensational accounts reported a whopping forty-six!), sadly retiring by the age of nineteen. Sexy redheaded American striptease icon Virginia "Ding Dong" Bell was certainly the first big-bust megastar, virtually single-handedly putting Fling magazine on the map. Her extraordinary physique did then, and does today, merit her a place of high honor in history's glamour parade.
The 1960's brought a real revolutionary mode of thought to glamour modeling, and martyrs such as noted sexploitation film director Russ Meyer, British glamour photographer Harrison Marks and others, through their constant battles with heavy-handed censorship officials, helped pave the way for more explicit treatment of the nude female form in media. Nudie-cuties became true sexploitation films, of which director Russ Meyer became the undisputed King of the genre. The low-key photographic style of Playboy was supplanted by the overtly breast-obsessed focus of Arv Miller's Fling magazine, which became, truly, history's best men's magazine during its 1960's heyday. Anyone who's nearly gone broke collecting them can vouch for this.
Yes, in fashion circles, the sixties was the decade of Twiggy. But the 1960's also galvanized the breast fancier crowd, with a wave of awesomely contoured models of nearly incredible proportions. Women like "Two Guns" Paula Page, Julie "the Bosom" Williams, Lorna Maitland, Joan Brinkman, Janie Reynolds, Lisa Matthews, Sydney Hearthstone, Candy Morrison and Cynthia Myers gave new meaning to the word 'well-endowed', and it was men such as Meyer and Miller and Playboy's founder Hugh Hefner who made stars of them all.
By the time 1970 dawned, the big bust landscape was firmly entrenched as a legitimate, if still fringe element of the adult market. Perhaps no two models more defined the late 1960's and early-to-mid 1970's bosomscape than Uschi Digart and Roberta Pedon. Icons. Legends. There were others - gorgeous Lane Weldon and Joyce Gibson, super-stacked Arlene Bell, perfectly pendulous Penny Pontoons, the all-natural hippie chick Dean Ackerlund, Suzanne Pritchard, Starr Murphy. But the two truly memorable modeling icons from the period are unequivocally Uschi and Roberta. Tit and Tat.
Uschi was Russ Meyer's biggest and most enduring star. He had ambushed his fans with the Swedish lass (a former United Nations interpreter) in his 1969 release Cherry, Harry & Raquel. Though she appears throughout, as a physical manifestation of Soul, her actions symbolic of the events of the film's plot, it is her appearance during the film's opening credit sequence that shocks one into a state of bamboozled pleasure. Indeed, it must have been revolutionary to see this incredibly upholstered...dish...literally filling the screen. The impact was far reaching. Uschi became a bona fide modeling superstar, appearing in more magazines and photo shoots and softcore sexploitation films than any woman in history. I'll never forget her smiling face and epic cleavage engulfing the screen as she milks a cow in Meyer's Supervixens. How's that for in-your-face symbolism? There was a last name, of course, but like any true icon she will always be known by her first. Ask any boobhound old enough to remember and a smile will cross his lips with the mention of one word - "Uschi".
Roberta Pedon was one of the most mysterious of figure models - perplexing, given her astonishing popularity. Like Uschi, she was an A-1 figure modeling feature, who automatically increased the sale of any mag in which she appeared. Slender, pretty but never glamorous, and unusually fit for a figure model, she boasted a rather incongruous set of breasts that made her a legend. The term "pendulous" should have been coined for her. Despite the abundance of photographic evidence to the contrary, rumor has it that she modeled only a brief time, before electing to have a breast reduction because of recurring back problems. The world hasn't been the same since.
1970 was a watershed year for the adult entertainment business. Figure modeling was absorbed rather unceremoniously into a broad new arena called "erotica", where anything - and everything - went. That is, anything and everything became "acceptable". First it was pubic hair, then softcore sex, then open-legged shots and hardcore sex. The 1970's truly revolutionized the adult biz but at least no one took away our beloved boobs.
In film, Russ Meyer settled down into a relationship with his newest flame, bouncy Latina boob girl Francesca "Kitten" Natividad, and his film output slowed to a virtual dribble, but not before he gave us three of the best sexploitation films of any era: Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, Supervixens, and Beneath the Valley of the Ultravixens. Watching any of them would be enough to convert anyone into a "breast man".
So, as Meyer's work petered out in the 1970's, the dawning of the "video era" brought renewed hope to the breast fancier. Less expensive to produce than film, videos were the perfect distribution package for nudie films produced on small budgets, films that could be filmed "on the fly", as it were, without scripts, and were reasonably affordable for the breast aficionado who valued his privacy and preferred to leer from the cozy confines of his den. So the bosom craze was once again to begin in earnest.
Thanks to magazines like Fling and Gent and BUF a new generation of curvy cuties emerged to rule the 1980's. Britain's cheeky "Page 3" tradition - the tacky habit of London tabloids of publishing topless cheesecake shots of British nude models and celebrities--made world headlines when the subject was busty blond pop star Samantha Fox. Sam and her 36D's seemingly put breasts back on the map in mainstream entertainment. That was just the tip of the iceberg, however, and soon the rest of the world discovered the seemingly endless parade of buxom Brits warming the cockles of British hearts. Debee Ashby. Lu Varley. Natalie Banus. When future SCORE founder John Fox was the editor of Gent, during the 1980's, we were exposed to a glorious parade of more and more magnificently built superwomen from all parts of the world - Debbie Jordan, Pauline Hickey, Virginia Fellson, Lisa Phillips, Devon Daniels to name but a few. Pauline Hickey - also known as "Zoe" - was a pouty-faced, doe-eyed wonder from Scotland who unquestionably had one of the greatest bodies in figure modeling history. But after posing for a brief while, and making a few tease videos, she disappeared. A similar story could be told for sad-faced brunette Ginny Fellson.
It was during the 1980's that Russ Meyer gave us the obscure Hungarian Tundi Orwache, yet another of the greatest natural physiques on the planet during the period. Outside of what may lie in Meyer's own collection of photos and films, surprisingly little evidence of her magnificence remains. Danuta Lato came from Poland, courtesy of Penthouse, and within months she, too, was a fixture in Gent and other American boob mags.
American Devon Daniels made waves when she was introduced to Gent readers as the 1980's came to a close, but has become most closely identified with the 1990's, as that is when her pictures were most liberally peppered throughout men's magazines. A tiny waif of a gal at five foot one, Devon sported a bosom for the ages, reportedly forty-four inches in circumference, appearing even more massive because of her tiny stature. John Fox once proclaimed her as the greatest bra-spiller of all time, or something like that, and it's hard to argue. Though she had a frustratingly short modeling career, she left behind a legacy of photographs and video appearances that continue to boggle the mind, and have gained her rabid fans worldwide. Her incredible popularity makes her a lock for the Tit Culture Hall of Fame. A decade after she retired from modeling, Voluptuous magazine named her "Model of the Year".
Never had there been such a plethora of sensationally gorgeous, magnificently God-built figure models dominating the adult entertainment industry.
Times were good back then, but the landscape was changing. Toward the late 1980's more and more otherwise undistinguished magazine models were making big headlines due the advent of breast implants. Big ones. Huge ones. Colossal ones. As the 1990's dawned, strippers and models were quick to learn that a trip to the doctor for some radical breast enhancement could do wonders for the pocketbook. It seemed a comedy of errors when the pages of the popular men's magazines began filling with women who needed zip codes all to themselves and their chests.
And then along came Chloe. Just Chloe. Klow-eee. Yes, there was a last name (the very French 'Vevrier'), but in reality it was just Chloe. Nothing artificial, and yet impossibly buxom, more than a match for any of those surgically-enhanced, peroxide-haired waxworks. A literal goddess, the likes of which figure modeling had never seen. She was refreshingly soft and pretty and natural and Victorian in an era gone mad with technology. She was unearthly beautiful and made you believe in God again, for nothing or no one else could have conjured her up. Though it's awful to write of her in such lusty and thoughtless terms, Chloe represented the absolute best of what the Pinup Culture can be. She is more than that (see An Ode to Chloe), but it is true--a more beautiful face OR figure you will never find.
If Chloe represented a counterbalance to the Plastic Breast Era, then surely she paved the way for the success of the all-natural bosom brigade that followed her. Fantastically cute Danni Ashe put her mind to use, as well as her considerable body, and pioneered "internet modeling". I dare say she's become a self-made millionairess by now. Linsey McKenzie, the zenith of the Page 3 phenomenon in England, brought her mountainous home-grown GG-cup appointments to the men's mag market and has arguably become THE big bust superstar of the moment. There are, and will be many, many others in the times to come. Lorna Morgan. Jessica Turner. Cassandra.
And the beat goes on and on. John Fox's monthly opuses to the mammarily blessed, SCORE and Voluptuous, continue the breast feeding frenzy in the best tradition of Fling, Gent, and others in the long lineage of the "tit mag". Thank God they do. It gives us breast men reason to go on.
I'm not sure why I wrote this column, now, but I see that I've gone horribly off track from what I intended. Like most "boob guys", I probably ought to be drawn and quartered by a band of man-eating amazons. But many of us are not merely leering, drooling, brainless idiots. We see ample breasts as a classic symbol of femininity and beauty, and it is pleasing to us, like a piece of artwork that strikes one's fancy. I suppose that this look back through the Tit Culture was really just the preface for something else...for this. The reality is that we admirers are genuinely and sincerely thankful that these women do what they do. No, they are not bimbos. They are not one-dimensional, and they do not lack intelligence or common sense, or compassion, or talent. They are not tragic figures who have been sucked into a life of degradation. We know they are intelligent, sweet, caring, kind - the kind of Girl you always dreamed you'd marry. Just sexier. They touch our lives in ways we cannot comprehend or explain. We come to see them as regular people like ourselves, with the same kinds of everyday problems.
Some of us - we care about these women. A lot. If I thought I remotely deserved Chloe, I'd propose to her in a heartbeat. That's how highly I think of her. I don't care what she's done or with whom - I guarantee you I've done something worse in my life. A friend of mine claims he was on the brink of moving to San Francisco to find Roberta Pedon and charm her with his music. Another friend has spent thirty-four years being in hopeless love with Candy Morrison. Still another knows more about Uschi Digart than Uschi herself does. Yet another saw Cynthia Myers' picture in Playboy when he was thirteen and fell in love with her.
Is that irrational? I don't know the answer to that. Maybe for some it is and for others it isn't. I do know that to care about someone - to actually care - requires her to possess more than a nice set of breasts. Those are nice to look at, but you don't feel compassion for her because of her looks. I know that it does hurt - very badly - to hear or read a nasty comment about someone you fancy, even if she is seemingly a million miles away in space and time and circumstance. Models are not prostitutes. They do not have poor morals or bad attitudes simply because we may not always agree with the choices they make. How many of us have been in such bad fortune that we would do things we would not ordinarily do for money? Heck, if I could earn six figures a year stripping or having sex on camera I'd do it too.
I'm losing the focus of this piece now, so I'll conclude by coming full circle to my tapestry analogy, and say that each gem in this tapestry - this continuum of curvaceous female pulchritude - is beautiful and meaningful and priceless to someone. There - that is what I really meant to say. I wanted to thank each and every one of the women who "model themselves", as Chloe once put it, and who face a skeptical and disapproving world every day of their lives. The ladies we've dreamed about are beautiful people, not just a collection of beautiful parts. We owe them a debt of gratitude for making our lives a little less painful. If you ever get the chance to thank your own dream girl, do it. If nothing else, you'll bring a smile to her face and share with her some of the joy she's brought you. You'll make her feel good about herself and proud of what she does for a living. You'll be her friend.
For now, be good, and Godspeed.