Archive for sex humor

The Housewife’s Guide to Auto-Erotic Devices in the Home by Jane Long (Greenleaf Classics, 1970)

Posted in Vintage Sleaze Paperbacks with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2009 by vintagesleazepaperbacks


This is one hilarous book, from William Hamling’s Greenleaf as it headed into the 1970s under the helm of Earl Kemp.

Jane Long is, I think, Linda DuBriuel…reads like her style.

This is a faux “sex study” where the author interviews various housewives to find out how they get off while the hubby is away and all they have at hand are common household items.

Many women in my life have confided to me their discovery, a teenagers or earlier, the certan joys of shower nozzles, candle holders, and kitchen utensils.  These things happen.  Read this confession  from this book:

I was vacuuming out the bedroom, I remember, and I was in my usual summertime house-cleaning costume, which is to say, I was nude. Okay, there’s my narcissism coming out again, I know, but it’s just the way I like to operate. Well, there I was stripped to the buff and whirling around that apartment like nine devils were after me. I hadn’t realized that I had this erotic mood coming over me until all of a sudden I looked up and saw myself in the mirror, across the bed. I had the vacuum cleaner tube in one hand; I’d been vacuuming off the baseboards.

I’ll have to admit that I do think I have just as nice a body as those girls who pose for magazine centerfolds. Not that I’ve ever actually seen any of those models in the flesh, but lots of the men passengers leave their magazines behind, you know, and some of them have mighty revealing pictures.

Anyway, as I was saying, I stood there turning this way and that, admiring myself in the mirror. I moved over closer to the mirror so I could see more detail, especially down between my legs, the part I most like to look at. You see, I have this peculiarity: I have a lot of hair up high, on the love mound itself, but I’m nearly bald, I guess you’d call it, down where the lips and clitoris are. It’s odd, or I think so, but it makes it handy for viewing, if that’s what a person likes—and I like it.

I accidentally touched the vacuum cleaner tube to the skin of my thigh as I was standing there admiring myself. It attached itself to my thigh, right on the inner side, about halfway between my knee and my crotch. I pulled it off, impatient with myself for dawdling around, but then I realized it had felt sort of good when I tried pulling it off. Even my thighs get very sensitive to the touch when I’m excited like that, and I saw that I’d hit upon something very interesting.

A recommnded funny sleaze read, and example of Greenleaf Classic’s heydey.  It’s hard to find and pricy but seems Olympia Press has turned it into an e-book over here.

Sex doesn’t always have to be dark and serious.  As my colleague Larry McCaffery has often said, “Too many people never appreciate how humor there is in sex.”  He’s right: when you think about it, all that groping and coupling is hilarous.

PRIG by John Dexter (1964)

Posted in Nightstand Books, Vintage Sleaze Paperbacks with tags , , , , , on June 28, 2009 by vintagesleazepaperbacks

Dexter - Prig

John Dexter was a Reed Nightsand/Greenleaf  house pen name, and just about all their writers had a title or two under the name — often used if they had two books by the same writer in a given month.  Thus, the quality and style of every Dexter book varies. I ‘m not sure who wrote Prig — the clipped style resembles Lawrence Block’s early writing, but the title is not listed under his pen name books, and supposedly Block stopped writing for William Hamling after he left the Scott Meredith Agency in 1963 (he had plenty of work at Fawcett Gold Medal and other publishers). It might be Donald Westlake or William Coons, who wrote under Block’s usual pen name, Andrew Shaw; it is definitely not Silverberg.

This a funny, fast-paced romp about a priggish, shy 27-year-old virgin male, engaged to his sweetheart who are both saving themselves for the honeymoon night…he lives in a small nowhere town in Nebraska, leading an unevntful life as a stationary clerk.

Then his rich uncle dies, a man he hardly knew but was worth fifty million from oil investments.  The uncle has left him $1 million, but with a stipulation: in order to get the money, he must travel the U.S., mever more than two days in one city, and sleep with 20 women in 30 days — they can’t be hookers, he has to seduce the women.  As witness, the dead uncle has sent one of his call girls and a $5 thousand in traveling money.

OswaldThis book reminded me a lot of Roland Dahl’s My Uncle Oswald — the same kind of humor mixed with funny sexual experiences. It’s a nice break from the dark and serious Silverberg novels.