While the breast parade passes by…

Did you hear the one about the dyke who went into the library to find Playboy magazine?
She was reading it for the interviews.

No, really.

I’m a college professor. I was teaching class on interviewing. It may be a cliché at this point, but Playboy really did have good articles. And superb interviews. I wanted a copy of the Martin Luther King interview. (It’s from 1965, but I didn’t know the month at the time.)

Because I do not have a collection of vintage Playboys and no one I know would admit to owning them and my uncle whose stash I used to snoop at all the time is dead, I needed a library. Lucky me. Universities have libraries.

Problem #1

• At the time, I was teaching a public policy research course. People in the library knew me. Combine this with the fact that I am, well, visibly queer, and you get the picture. Walking in and asking where to find the Playboys is not the typical path to maintaining a professional image.

Solution:

• I teach a public policy research course. I know how to find stuff without a librarian’s help.

Problem #2

• As I cruised casually through the stacks, I learned that the only Playboys in the bound magazine section did not include the year I needed. Strangely, the collection includes only the late ‘60s through the early ‘70s. Maybe those girls didn’t have what the average college boy likes because according to the librarian the rest of the years aren’t there because they have been ripped off or ripped up by library patrons. The campus was one of the hotbeds of ’60s radicalism so maybe guys (and the occasional gal no doubt) were just too busy changing the world to get spend time stealing pictures of girls’ boobies. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t doing me any good.

Solution:

• The year I wanted was available on microfiche. Getting the little boxes of film was no big deal though I did have an urge to casually drape my hand over the typed white label that seemed to scream PLAYBOY!!! I resisted, but it might have had something to do with my distractions with what I knew was coming.

Problem #3

• The microfiche machines sit out in front of god and everybody, which puts me and my “streaming video” of naked girls on display. Of course, this was the day, the student worker decides to “help” me get the microfiche hooked up and rolling. I try to persuade her that I have got it all figured out, but she just keeps insisting and rolling the film forward until a decidedly nude blond is filling up the screen. She says, “oh” like a teenager does when she walks in on her parents kissing. Somewhere between adult politeness and eeeeewwwwwww. I consider telling her that I am looking for an article, but it seems just too pathetic to say out loud. Instead I nod, I mumble and begin scrolling as quickly as humanly possible through a sea of boobs to find the interview.

Solution:

• Student workers usually ignore library patrons so it is unlikely I will ever see her again.

Problem #4

• The research librarian’s office is next to the microfiche machines. I teach a course in public policy research. When I am in the library and he is in the library and our paths cross, we carry on conversation. He sees me. We of course speak. I see him read the box label so I explain how many problems I had finding the necessary issues of the magazine, adding a self-deprecating, “Yeah right, I’m just looking for the articles.” He laughs.

• I keep running the microfiche. We glance occasionally at the pages rushing by. A whirring tableau of Tits and Ass.

• The librarian and I talk about how bizarre it is that people still steal pictures from the magazine. He tells me they keep the current issues behind the counter in the periodicals room. I can’t help but wonder who has the guts to go ask for it and why they need to. Wouldn’t it be less uncomfortable to fork over the cash at local 7-11? Do they not have computers?

Salvation:

• I find the article relatively quickly. The interviews are not surrounded by nudes so at least when the page is cued up for printing, I can relax.

The Conundrum

• I am not a prude. I am not closeted at all. No need to go into details, but I’ve been around the block a time or two. So why does being seen in the vicinity of Playboy embarrass me? I’d like to say it’s some kind of feminist response to the objectification of women, but it’s just not true. I am perfectly happy to objectify breasts when I want to.

I think it’s some leftover developing sexuality thing. I sneaked more than a few looks at Playboy when I was a confused teen, and I felt the same way then — like I needed to get the heck out of Dodge before someone saw what I was up to.