Incendiary sexual material like this is frequently ignored by society's hypocritical and ignorant gatekeepers. You know the type of people I'm talking about. They're real big on telling you that THAT is literature and THAT is trash. If it's a Penguin Classic, it's literature -- if it's published by Mills and Boon, Satan's Press, or Eraserhead (Press), it's trash. Never mind the fact that Penguin publishes a lot of so-called "classics" because they're public domain. They don't cost them a cent in advances or royalties. It's a financial decision, and plonking "classic" on the masthead keeps the scam cooking.
At Phantom HQ, no distinction is made between literature and trash, art or pornography. Nope, here it's all about one question and one question only: Does it achieve greatness on its own terms?
The Just For Kicks cover is truly one of my all-time favorites. "Wandering nymphets, stoked with aphrodisiacs, were capable of any unnatural act." Like what? Well, having wild threesomes with men old enough to be their grandfathers. You can bet that this silver fox didn't need to pop a Viagra to "perform.
Not a bad read at all. It's worth keeping in mind that many, many porno novels were written by established names moonlighting for some extra bucks to put their kids through school.
Uncredited but fantastic cover art for Jim Felton's The Rapist (I love the silhouetted foreground), a book purporting to be the true confessions of an imprisoned man with a year to serve. The book, which is written in a spare, conversational style, has no truck with political correctness or conventional redemption. It concludes with these paragraphs:
I've been a model prisoner and that means I should be released in less than a year. Whenever I start musing on what I must do, I look out through the window bars of my upper story cell. I can see the prison road winding off through the fields. It's only fifteen miles from this place to the little farm town where I grew up.
Only fifteen miles to Susie Mills' house.
The publisher writes:
We loved it for its unusual candor and its provocative insights into the workings of a rapist's mind.
Jim Felton doesn't hesitate to editorialize on the "hypocritical games" of women and on quite a few other things, and though his views in no way reflect the publisher's views, we think you'll enjoy hearing a rapist "tell it like it is".
Therefore, we bring you "Confessions of A Rapist".
I love this image of a woman enjoying her alcohol. She's so damn thirsty she can't wait for her gentleman friend to provide a glass. Clearly, some good times are ahead.
Truly a tawdry tale from J.X. Williams, it is enthusiastically written and paints a vivid picture of a deliciously sleazy mindset.
It opens, literally, with a bang, and a great description of its leading lady.
A poster flapping in the gritty wind announced the feature attraction of the Bijou Theatre as a Payne-Hutton production for Colossal. No one on Hamilton Street was interested, though. The picture had been released for distribution six years ago.
Heavy boards were nailed over the Bijou's doors. Tin cashier's booth had long ago been demolished by vandal and the citizens of Hamilton Street had grown accustomed to seeing that last poster worn away bit by bit in summer rain and winter snow. The paper relic of the Bijou's decay was now reduced to a few letters of type, the right eye brow of Chester Morris and Richard Arlen's determined jaw.
Inside the Bijou this damp September evening, however, there was another kind of feature attraction, completely hidden from the weary citizens of Hamilton Street.
In the dark ruin of broken seats and ripped-up carpet, a seventeen-year-old girl named Rita Danilov was getting ready to take on eight boys one at a time.
Hell, she was ready.
Her head buzzed with the beer she'd consumed after the boys picked her up outside Olivetti's Variety Store. She kicked off her sneaks. She could hardly wait to get free of the binding constriction of her ultra-tight, dark blue toreadors.
More erotic magic from Greenleaf. I like the darker hues and utter lack of sophistication of this image. That's what makes it hot. Just plain white panties and a provocative pose.
I'm not sure why the fella is reading books on the floor, but one could argue that he's in the right place at the right time.
Porn novel logic can't be denied.
Satan's Press serves up its 107th entry, blessing it with an S/M-inspired cover that deMullotto would have enjoyed. Heavy on the S/M, the Satan's Press books are not true hardcore, and came before words like "cunt", "fuck", and "cum" were commonly used in print pornography.
The $.75 price denotes the era.
Sexual Freaks, by Stan Remming, features case histories of women encountering bizarre sexual behavior, behavior that would not have been out of place on a 70's Color Climax/Rodox film and still shoot.
Mr. Remming offers a telling introduction to the content:
As a newspaper reporter I have run across many strange stories of bizarre sex practices. Some of them involve warped, twisted psyches that have reached the point where no normal sexual practices are impossible.
At this point, their strange sexual compulsions drive them to all sorts of off-beat sexual contacts in the hope of achieving satisfaction.
While the daily police files are crowded with stories of rape of one sort or another, there are sometimes cases of such terrible magnitude that the details make the calloused reporter flinch.
To better understand how the mind works in these twisted sexual circumstances, I have drawn upon a few such incidents to outline in detail exactly what happened.
While it is hard to understand how certain individuals derive satisfaction sexually from warped sexual practices, it, nevertheless, is necessary to completely understand how their minds function in order to be of help in preventing recurrences in the future.
Therefore, we will focus our attention on the minutest details of these strange and twisted sexual psyches, and by looking at these acts dispassionately it is hoped understanding will follow.
These strange people can serve as vivid reminders that these aberrations exist all around us, and they can well serve as a warning to keep our guard up at all times.
How often one reads of two young teenage girls who are hitch-hiking and wind up picked up by two lusty young men. If they are lucky, they get to their destination unharmed. But, if they are like some unfortunate young girls who've tried hitch-hiking they are either molested, raped or killed. The sexual instinct is second in power only to survival in the human psyche. This must be remembered when anyone thinks sex is just a plaything.
The following case histories expose the depths the sexual drive gone awry can take a person.
A Greenleaf edition trading on 70's fears that grew out of the Vietnam War.
Cover illustration is not particularly striking.
Although I despise porno novels with actual photos on the cover (it was a sign of a turn for the worst in the business) , I like the description here:
The girls were beautiful and youthful... but not so innocent... and they were willing victims of the dirtiest racket in town!
It's a mighty claim that your racket is the dirtiest racket in town. There are so many others to compete with.
Another classic (?) from Russ Trainer and Satan's Press. Much of the novel takes place inside a prison, and what makes the male/female coupling possible is the hostage drama set-up.
In one exciting scene, a nasty husband gets his just desserts from a pissed-off wife:
Lisa raised her foot and struck him again. Then again and again, so fast that her smashing foot resembled the relentless striking of a trip-hammer. And as she tortured his body, she raised her head high, looked to the ceiling, and parted her lips. Her eyes glazed and she looked as if she were experiencing a sexual thrill, undoubtedly the first of its kind she had ever entertained. And she jammed and pumped her foot to him. Blood oozed and smeared at his groin. He looked bloody and broken, made forever limp and useless, injured beyond repair. He looked cutoff and left not at all like a man.
Finally, Burt Matthews yelped a final time before going unconscious. But Lisa continued her attack for it had become to mean something else to her. She pumped her foot hard and as she did so, she raised one hand to her breasts. She tore the bra from her body. She grabbed one breast and kneaded it madly as she continued to thump her sharp shoe into her husband's groin. And her eyes elongated, grew sensual and wild. Moisture dribbled at the corners of her mouth. And she kneaded and kneaded as she jammed her husband's manhood into total lifelessness.
Phyllis Marlowe's Lustful Karate Teacher was an attempt to mix Bruce Lee with porn. Enter the Dragon was big at the time, so it made sense to blend kung fu with fuck fu, didn't it? No, it didn't, it was a dumb idea, and Lustful Karate Teacher was a bust.
It's weird how they avoided any karate kicking action on the cover.
A killer who stalks the women of Los Angeles at noon (!)
I'm not sure why it's marketed as surprising that the "victims are always women". Afterall, these novels are aimed at hetero men.
On top of that, why the cover photo that clearly appears to be taking place at night?
The writing here is pretty good, and the Los Angeles trappings (read: lots of freaks and "perverts") make for a spicy read.
The conclusion wraps it all up nicely as the killer goes down:
Cautiously, sweating in his bulletproof vest, he entered the bathroom. It was empty. Slowly he opened the door of the shower stall. Sy Brendt lay slumped on the tile floor, his gun beside him. He had shot himself in the chest, but he was still alive. The toupee had fallen to the floor and his naked scalp trickled drops escaping from the showerhead. "I thought it might be you," Bishop said softly.
The actor stared at him. A glaze had come over his eyes. "Please make sure they feed my pets," he said. "Only rats. That's all Hamlet and Lollobrigida eat. They're the only things alive that ever gave a damn about me."
A moment later he was dead.
Bishop turned as he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Trask. He stood up.
"The girl's okay, Mike. She was all right as soon as they took her out into the fresh air."
Lieutenant Bishop shook his head, took off his hat and wiped his brow with his hander-chief. He moved closer to the window. "What a town! Los Angeles. Even the murders out here come out like B-movies. All these phony complications. Disguises, plastic bags, all that crap. Where else could it happen but Hollywood? Next week, Fu Manchu."
He examined the body for a moment and then went in to see how Penny was. When he came back, Trask was putting down the phone.
"Come on over to the house tonight, Al. Helen always celebrates the end of a case with a twenty-dollar meal: chicken paprika, Hungarian chocolate cheese cake, and champagne."
Trask flushed deeply. "I'd like to, Mike, but I just offered to take Sally Rosson to dinner. She's still a little shaken."
Bishop eyed him carefully. "Bring her over, Al. If she's going to be a cop's wife, she might as well learn how to cook."
A final entry from Satan's Press and the reliable Russ Trainer.
A man finds himself in a camp run by women who enjoy fighting more than fornicating.
Cover art clearly inspired by Eric Stanton.