Playboy And My Bar Mitzvah

Today…I am a man

As I’ve mentioned in at least one previous story, my brothers’ bedroom in the attic (they were displaced when I was born) was covered on every wall with Playboy Playmates.

I used to sneak upstairs and lay on the bed amidst the comfort of my friends. I had names for all of them. Not baudy names like the ones I would see in downtown Chicago’s XXX movie houses, but rather Caroline, or Claudia, or Clarice (those were only the C’s…there were a lot of pictures). I didn’t understand the concept of air-brushing, nor did I care. When I was old enough, this is what women were going to look like. I couldn’t wait to be old enough. I went to sixth and seventh grade, looked at the girls, and could not figure out for the life of me how they became that.

June 14, 1968 was the date of my Bar Mitzvah. I received a lot of presents. I received the requisite cuff links and fountain pens and cash, but the thing I remember most was a present my mother gave me.

My mom. Possibly, at that particular moment, the coolest mom on earth. She gave me my own subscription to Playboy. I was one month away from being 13.

The very first thing I did was promise her I would only read the articles; and actually I did read a lot of the articles. I loved Ben Stein. Kurt Vonnegut wrote for Playboy. I promised I wouldn’t tape a single picture on my wall.

Every month I anxiously waited for the plain brown paper wrapper magazine on the door step. If it wasn’t wrapped in plain brown paper, it wouldn’t have been worth it.

I didn’t tell my friends about it. They were too immature. They wouldn’t want to gather around and read the articles. You know…like I did.

Every straight male in the world wanted to be Hugh Hefner. I remember, one kid asked, “Yeah, but do you really think he’s happy?”

We never saw that kid again. I’m guessing he’s now part of a major expressway in Chicago, but I’m only guessing.

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