Playboy After Hours

We've gone all out to get you some first-hand information on kissing. Our research has led us to the surprising conclusion that not everybody is in favor of the pastime. Long ago, of course, George Meredith cried: "Kissing don't last; cookery do!" But we've preferred to go along with the definition Edmond Rostand got off in Cyrano: "A kiss when all is said, what is it? A rosy dot placed on the 'i' of loving; 'tis a secret told to the mouth instead of the ear." Consulting a dictionary can be depressing: ". . . the anatomical juxtaposition of two orbicularis oris muscles in a state of contraction." And the scientists throw cold water on the pleasurable pursuit with the information that a single kiss can transfer as many as 47,000,000,000,000,000,000 germs. Presumably it was this last fact that led the authorities of Riverside, California, to issue a by-law prohibiting all kissing until the four lips involved had been sterilized by a mixture of carbolic acid and rosewater. At London airport, a kiss on the airfield is against the rules because small, dutiable goods – such as diamonds – have been passed from mouth to mouth during a kiss. Kissing is also illegal in Britain between the driver of a car and a passenger when the car is in motion. This law is enforced in America too, and in Boston a traffic cop testified that a woman driving at 40 miles per hour kissed a male passenger for three and a half miles. Kissing is illegal in Britain if the girl is unwilling, but the law makes no provision for unwilling males. Our favorite pro-kissing historical anecdote concerns a wonderful lady named Lillie Dickson. In 1905, she went into a grocery to buy some spinach. A young clerk, who found her charms overpowering, drew her to him and kissed her passionately, whereupon she fled, ruffled. But 10 years later, when she died, that young clerk received $65,000 in her will, because, she said, he was the only man who ever kissed her. The moral of the story, perhaps, is to keep puckered at the spinach counter. Anyhow, for the time being at least, that's all we know about kissing.

•

In the hip set, a great new game called quirling is catching on like wild fire (one quirling aficionado claims he knows a wildfire that isn't catching on as well). You'll be happy to know that it requires no money, coordination, athletic ability, will to win nor expensive equipment. It takes no courage, self-sacrifice, team effort, esprit de corps nor devotion to God, school or country. All you need to play is a thumb and one finger, a tack (quirl) and a smooth surface to spin it on. The rules of thumb are as simple as the equipment. You take the thumbtack (the long carpet variety doesn't work), hold it firmly between your thumb and finger, and spin it onto a smooth surface, point downward. The idea is to make your quirl quirl longer than your opponent's quirl quirls. The present championship is held by a Dartmouth alumnus who kept his quirl quirling for 72 seconds. Championship quirling requires a stop watch and a dedicated group of contestants. Always make sure your environment is sympathetic to a quirling bout before you begin. Unwary quirlers have found themselves viewed with alarm, and even forcibly detained. Exercise care; without it, the quirling situation can become sticky, even tacky.

•

People in the District of Columbia get to read advertisements in their newspapers that are stimulating, to say the least. In its fashion section for ladies, the Washington Daily News, in the recent past, carried an ad reading: "Open-crotch play suit with its own button front skirt. Such comfort for an all-day outing! Drip-dry cotton in bright blue or pink muted print. The squared-off playsuit goes sightseeing, picnicking, playing all day because the crotch unsnaps for your convenience." We understand that the ad caused quite a flap among its readers.

•

The last several issues of The Village Voice, read by the Greenwich Village beatnik set, have featured the following filler, which we feel is important enough to reprint in its entirety:

"(Special to The Village Voice) In 1938 the State of Wyoming produced one-third of a pound of dry edible beans for every man, woman, and child in the nation."

•

With the thought that some of our readers may be interested in a post-graduate brush-up, we pass along a bulletin we've received: "A leading Scottish doctor, Mr. A. W. O. Taylor, chairman of the Marriage Guidance Council in Edinburgh, has just asked the city's education committee to support a scheme for night classes in the art of love. Dr. Taylor wants to start an evening school course for youngsters between the ages of 16 and 20 to teach them all about the arts of love and marriage. At the end of the course diplomas will be awarded to successful students." Thus far, we've had no word as to the nature of the homework or the final examination.

•

To judge by our mail, the sounds of commerce are taking on weird overtones. From the West comes a small brochure. Its message, in full, reads: "I have something you can use. I bark!! Have appeared in the Hollywood Bowl as soloist (barking) with the Los Angeles Symphony Orchestra under Kostelanetz in Ferde Grofé's Hudson River Suite. Have made recordings for dog food and other commercials. I bark, howl, yelp, whimper, roar, wail and make other assorted dog noises over 50 different ways and in 14 languages! Available for: television, radio, motion pictures, recordings, transcriptions, attention-getting commercials, special sound effects. Have your barking made to order – accurately and on cue. So – speaking for the dog set – meet Walter R. Scheibel. Keep my name on file for future use." Mr. Scheibel's address, of course, is Beverly Hills, California.

•

In the process of appending our own masculine viewpoint to the columns of Ann Landers and Abigail Van Buren (Dear Ann and Abby, December '58, Playboy After Hours, May, August '59), we've found ourselves more and more intrigued by the answers to letters that the ladies print under the heading Confidential. Since these answers are syndicated in hundreds of newspapers (through the Chicago Sun-Times and McNaught syndicates), they are only confidential to the extent that the original letters are not published – just the answers. Figuring out what these letters must have said has become a game around the Playboy offices, and one which we thought we'd share with you. It works like so: first you read the verbatim "confidential" answers from Ann and Abby and, working backwards, below them you'll find the letters we've dreamed up that might have inspired them.

Confidential To Bootsie: Sociable, my eye. Have you heard that "candy's dandy – but liquor's quicker"?

Dear Ann Landers: I'm a fairly attractive girl, and up to now I thought I knew my way around. Then I met Bill. He's the kind of droolsome, sixfoot hunk of handsome that brings out all my warmer instincts. But he just can't seem to take a hint. I've gone so far as to invite him into my bedroom when I'm wearing something filmy, but all he wants to do is sit on the bed, eat my candy, and talk about world affairs. I'm at my wit's end. Should I give up, and just settle for him being sociable? Bootsie

Confidential to "Mac": With your kind of luck I recommend that you wear suspenders, a belt and carry two safety pins. Good luck!

Dear Abby: I got a problem what I think it's unusual and I don't know what to do. I'm too lucky with the girls. They are always like attacking me. Some of them even go so far as to try to take off my trousers when we are alone. So what should I do? Mac

Confidentially – Lost Friendship: Check old neighbors, old friends, relatives and former employers. Good luck.

Dear Ann: I'm a pretty young girl, and I'm well known for my friendly disposition. The only thing is, I just discovered I'm pregnant, and I haven't the faintest idea who did it. Do you have any suggestions? Lost Friendship

Confidentially to Soft Touch: Of course you did right, but if you had to wait until you were asked you waited too long.

Dear Ann Landers: I am a maiden lady of 35. Last night, in a bar, I met the handsomest young man I ever saw. When the bar closed, he walked me home. I asked him to spend the night. He did, and it was wonderful. This morning, he asked me for $10, and I gave it to him. Did I do right? Soft Touch

Confidentially to Bluntly Speaking: I'll speak bluntly, too. If you "can't think of a good reason to wait" you'd better read this column more carefully. The tears shed by gals who learned too late why they should wait would float the Queen Mary.

Dear Ann: I've been living with a boy for three years now. Every time I suggest that we get married, he says there are good reasons why we should wait. I can't think of a good reason to wait. Can you? Bluntly Speaking

Confidential to "Too Good": The more chaste the girl – the more she's chased. Believe what your Mama done tole you.

Dear Abby: My Mother says that if I want to be popular, I shouldn't be so prissy, I should loosen up a little and have some fun. But I've always believed that the right thing for me to do was to stay pure. The trouble is that, as soon as the people I go around with find out I don't like to fool around, that way, they chase me out of the party, dance, or whatever it happens to be. What should I do? Too Good

Confidential to "College Grad": You remind me of amateur photography – exposed but underdeveloped. The school of experience has some distinguished graduates, too.

Dear Abby: I am a girl who frankly went to college to get a man. Though I was exposed to a lot of boys, they all seemed to want the same thing, and I've been taught that a girl should avoid that kind of experience. I didn't get a man. What should I do now? College Grad

That's the idea: any number can play, all you need is Ann and/or Abby, and a little imagination. Confidentially, it's fun.