Raising a Child On Playgirl Magazines

How two latchkey kids lived similar, yet different lives.

Bobby was one of those kids with an infectious laugh because you knew that he was just quirky and naive.

Bobby would tell jokes that were so old, we’d laugh because he was laughing harder. Once in a while, another kid would say something mean to him, and he’d just giggle, blush, and respond back with, “I know!”

When I started the fifth grade, I had already been a latchkey kid for one year, and a divorced kid for two. I’d come home to an empty house, dig a TV dinner out of the freezer, and stay up to 11 or 12.

It was at this time I became good friends with Bobby.

We were both 9-year old boys, living with divorced moms, and had no siblings. He was a latchkey kid too, but more of a part-timer. There were a couple days out of the week his mother didn’t have to work, and would be there waiting for him to return home from school. His house was just a block away from my mine, and we’d walk home together everyday.

Bobby was on strict orders to return home right away. There was no hanging out after school, no stopping at the corner market, and no stopping at someone else’s house. His mother watched the clock and expected him to come through the door at the same time, every time. It wasn’t until after a few weeks of being friends that he finally asked his mom if I could hang out in his bedroom with him.

When I saw her for the first time, I was stunned.

She was absolutely gorgeous. She reminded me of Lynda Carter on “Wonder Woman”, but with blonde hair. Tall and well put together, she had the motherly love of a Carol Brady, the feminist grit of a Murphy Brown, and the dominatrix control of a Mama Carlson.

Bobby walked up to his mother and let his body collapse into hers. He put his hands on her sides and pressed his cheek against her breasts as she eveloped him in her arms. He giggled in her squeeze, and then looked up to receive a kiss to his forehead. I didn’t see it back then, but there was an effeminate way in which Bobby submitted to his mother.

Inside his bedroom, the first thing Bobby wanted to do was look at Playgirl magazines. These were issues given to him from his mother. We laid on his bed, on our bellies, and kicked our feet in the air. He flipped through the pages and pointed his finger at bare butts, bulging underwear, and penises strategically obstructed from view. Bobby giggled on and on.

Bobby’s amusement with Playgirl magazines seemed to be a mixture of fascination with adults, coupled with modesty and shyness. The control with which his mother had over him left him sheltered from the “real world”, and this was a way for Bobby to get a glimpse of it. For a woman who seemed so matronly, so protective of her son, it seemed odd that she collected Playgirl magazines and fed them to Bobby.

At first, I was surprised to learn that Bobby liked looking at naked men, though not at all disappointed or disgusted. None of the other kids at school thought Bobby was “queer”, just dorky and funny. Yet his favorite thing to do was look at naked men.

It reminded me of when my mother and father were still married. My dad used to let me look at his Playboy magazines. Each month came a new issue in the mail, concealed in a brown wrapper. I’d take it into my bedroom, close the door, and stare at naked women. That was before I discovered I masturbation, and I don’t think it was anything sexual for me. But I was still very fascinated by them.

Was my fascination was different from Bobby’s?

Bobby turned to look at me and whispered into my ear.

“Do you ever go… boing?”

He giggled, pointed his index finger up, and then giggled some more as he dipped his head down in shyness.

I paused to think about what he was saying. But I realized what he meant.

“Oh, you mean, boing?”

“Yeah”, he cracked up into a laugh. “Boing!”

I nodded my head and giggled back, “Yeah, me too!”

It was somewhere around this time that his bedroom door cracked open. His mother poked her head through.

“You have about 30 minutes and then you have to do your homework, OK?”

I immediately felt embarrassed knowing that his mother saw us looking at Playgirls. Yet, Bobby was unfazed. He felt so safe and loved that being open and honest came natural. Not having anything to hide meant not having a reason to feel ashamed. That explained why no one could hurt him with mean words.

So I asked Bobby, “Do you ever read Playboy magazines?”

He blushed and giggled. “No!”

“My dad used to let me read his Playboy magazines”, I said.

“Look at this one!” Bobby giggled again, pointing at a hairy, naked cowboy whose penis was cleverly concealed from view.

I guess the idea of looking at naked women didn’t mean anything to him. I couldn’t figure out if Bobby really was gay, or if he was just working with what his mother gave him.

His mother parented him through a rigid framework of rules, chores, and expected behaviors. As long as he remained true to it, he got all the intimacy he wanted. He was never punished other than the simple denial of hugs and kisses. By contrast, my mother left me with little to no framework. I didn’t have to come home right away. I could eat whatever I wanted for dinner, and stay up as late as I pleased.

Meanwhile, Bobby had boundaries to respect, while I had none. Bobby felt loved, while I felt abandoned. He had no weaknesses to exploit, while I had many.

Was he a “momma’s boy”? Absolutely.

Did he like a being a momma’s boy? Absolutely.

Bobby and his mother left a profound imprint in my memory. The way she controlled him and protected him, the way he remained submissive and loyal, yet both very happy together, seems so sexual and beautiful. Today, I find women with dominant, maternal personalities so powerfully attractive.

But the Playgirl magazines?

Perhaps she didn’t want Bobby interested in other women but her. Perhaps she was suggesting that men could be objectified and women could not. Perhaps it was a way to distort his understanding of men and women.

Over the decades I’ve gradually come to terms with my bisexuality. I still find naked women fascinating to look at, but I also love looking at naked men too. My mother’s “hands off” approach to child rearing left me having to define my own boundaries, causing me to go through years of figuring out what sexual orientation I am.

I wonder how he turned out? Did he turn out gay? Is he still living with his mom? Is he still happy?

Hey Bobby! You wanna lay on the bed and read Playgirl magazines?