We'll Take Romance!

The news is out: America has finally discovered an aphrodisiac. It is not something you buy. It is not something you can slip into the drink of an unsuspecting girl. It's no big deal, but it will make you better in bed. It's called romance. We first told you about it in the December 1978 Playboy. Since that time, we've seen the original impulse go astray. Some of you have suffered massive anxiety attacks, bought new wardrobes, opened charge accounts at the local florists, memorized the screenplays to Cary Grant movies. Relax. Romance is the result of style, of timing, of tiny gestures. It's like personality. If you are alive, you have one. If you like women, you are romantic. Romance is playful, not serious. It is natural, not acquired, the result of happy accidents and a willing accomplice--not artifice. It is improvisation, not practice. It is so easy it can happen in spite of your worst efforts. It is important enough that we thought you might need the little refresher course beginning on the next page. We've asked John Sack--a self-confessed prisoner of romance--to start things off by getting right to the heart of the matter.

I Love You, Polly, but I don't understand you. One night, remember, dear, we were in bed together and I was peering into the warm, wet and come-hither canal of your right (or was it the left? No, that was the night before)--of your erotic ear, so that nothing, nothing of your precious anatomy would be terra incognita, and I suddenly said, "Polly, I don't know your middle name."

"I haven't any," you laughed. "Go and invent one; I want one."

Polly Esther? No, in spite of your silver-sequin smile. Polly Phony? No, no, no, in spite of your oriole-orchard voice. "How about Polly Wolly Doodle?" I said, and now I can't stop it, Polly, in my head (concluded on page 96)Romance! there's a music box, it tinkles continuously and I can't quiet it. Look away! Look away! To Polly Wolly Doodle All the Day!

But, Polly: I'm not romantic, I don't think. I do not ply you with bonbons: I don't know them from bubble gum. Or ply you with poetry: I once wrote a poem to another girl,

Put your arms around her,Catch her by the toe,Bind her up, you bounder,In your seraglio,

Harass her and hound her,Da da da da do,

I forget that part,

Once you have found her,Never let her go,

but the lady eloped with a man in the diamond industry. I do not ply you with flowers: a nose-popping room of red roses like Lenny's in Lenny, I wouldn't want to let those roses die, I belong to Greenpeace, Polly. I haven't taken you on a hansom in Central Park or a cable car in Chinatown or, God knows, a gondola in Venice, as your other friend did, the prince of I forget. I haven't come to abduct you on a wild white horse like Lochinvar. A limousine, I haven't taken you in one little tinny limousine! Just once, I took someone to a world premiere in a Fleetwood, I had people there to, pop, pop, pop, photograph her as she debarked and say, "One more, your Highness," and I had ten little children there at ten cents each: a dollar, so as to implore her, "An autograph!" My date laughed, laughed, and later eloped with a cello player--no, Polly, I'm not romantic! The other night, remember? The moon was a white carnation in God's lapel and I said, "Polly, I think there's about to be an occultation of Aldebaran."

So, Polly, I don't understand you. I'm still in my red pajama pants and you just told me, "John, there's no one who's more romantic than you."

"Romantic?" I gasped. "I'm about as romantic as Donald Duck. We got home yesterday and I didn't put on Verdi, I put on the Village People. Macho macho macho macho macho, because there was a crack in the Village People. I didn't cook us crepes suzette but a plate of Maria's burritos, and I didn't light the candles, because of their being wilted: of their reminding us of the penises at an old folks' home. The lamplight in the bedroom, the red reminded us of some bordello in Mexico. It's morning now and I'm doing what? I'm cooking us Ralston."

"But even so----"

"I love you, yes, I'm romantic, no," I continued. "Do you know who's really romantic? The man who mailed you the first-class ticket to Venice. The prince of Who-Who? Of Hohenzollern?"

"Hohenlohe. Hohenzollern isn't a prince but an emperor, but," you insisted, "do you know what a first-class ticket is on Alitalia? A packet of carbon copies with the title Conditions of Contract. I got it, I felt like Eva Braun at a dinner party in Munich. Hitler presented her an office envelope: inside, a wad of reichsmarks. You call that romantic?"

"But those romantic gondolas----"

"The gondolier hadn't had his spaghetti yet. He told us, 'Presto, I haven't got all day!' We said please sing us O Sole Mio. He told us, 'Basta, I'll sing it for ten thousand lire!' We said, well, thank you, no. He told us, 'Ostregheta! Avaracci stranieri!'"

"What's that in English?" I asked.

"'You little lousy penny-pinching gringos!' John," you persevered, "it was more romantic with you in Sacramento yesterday. You took out the inner tubes so we could float down the Sacramento River."

"And going home?" I reminded you. "You drove all the way and I sat in the passenger seat like a damn double amputee. No, Polly, I'm not romantic."

"You sat on the parking brake!"

"So?"

"You sat on the parking brake from Sacramento to San Francisco!"

"So, Polly?"

"So that's romantic, that's what! You sat on the parking brake so you could be six inches closer to me! Do you know," you went on, "what you're doing romantic now?"

"No, I don't," I confessed. I was cooking, a kitchen knife in one hand and a banana in the other. "I'm cutting up a banana into the Ralston."

"Right!"

"The banana's romantic?" I said.

"Right! I like bananas, right, but you yourself don't, am I right?"

"The banana's romantic?" I said.

"But still you're putting the awful, awful, detestable banana into our Ralston. Do you know what romantic is? It's caring for me and showing it."

"The banana?" I said. "The banana's romantic?"

"You're practically telling me, I love you!"

"But, Polly! Who wouldn't love you?" I said.

"See, you're being romantic again!" And saying so, Polly, you put your arms around me, I put another banana in your adorable mouth and the opposite end in my mouth, chomp, and we chewed away to a rendezvous at its squishy center.

"Oh, Polly," I sputtered. "Someday I'll carve a tree trunk in the Presidio, I'll put up a poster on the Embarcadero, I'll rent a whole jumbo jet and I'll stencil it Polly Wolly Doodle, I love you, and I'll fly it under the Golden Gate! I promise you, I'll really be romantic someday!"

"Oh, men, men, men," you moaned. "You just don't understand."

If you look around, you'll notice that a mood of sexual détente has descended on the nation. The war between the sexes is being settled with honor, wit and charm. Making out is no longer a marital art; men and women are discovering the joys of friendship. Romance is the most fun you can have with your clothes on and the most fun you can have with them off. Say goodbye to old-fashioned how-to-pick-up-girls seduction. Say hello to conversation, smiles, laughter--the infinite connections of courtship. Say hello to romance.

How Do You Keep Romance Alive?

Alex Karras (pictured above with wife, actress Susan Clark): I'm in love with my wife, so keeping the flames burning isn't hard. I listen to her closely, so we never become distant. We know when to be away from each other. Also, flowers work. If I forget a birthday, the next year I'll send a present the day before and the day after. Steve Allen: One simple way is to marry Jayne Meadows, although I realize that may be impractical in the context of a national policy. Sexual attraction is all too easy. It is considerably more of an accomplishment to develop a mature, long-lasting relationship. Jayne Meadows: [Romantic love] ... is such a small part of a real, enduring relationship. Adult love is really where it's at. Think realistically. The golden rule is still the best. Be a good listener. Ann-Margret: I think it starts with friendship and is held together with respect. Roger [Smith] and I made a promise that we would always be nice to each other. We give presents for no special occasion. If we have an argument, I can give in more easily. He is a great source of emotional and creative support and we never take each other for granted. Irving Wallace: 1. Loving each other, 2. Being supportive, 3. Compromise, 4. Communication, 5. Separate vacations, 6. Sheer tenacity. Sylvia Wallace: 1. Loving each other, 2. Separate vacations, 3. Forbearance, 4. How could we explain a separation?, 5. Forgiveness, 6. Secrets. Loretta Lynn: How do you keep romance alive? The answer is that you work at it. Period.

My Funny Valentine

Are you having a first-rate romance? Is your partner? Check in with yourself: Would you want to be romantically involved with you? Are you interested or just interesting? Are you daringly opinionated or merely hypercritical? Are you adventurous or predictable? Can you laugh at yourself or just at jokes? Are you cooperative or demanding? Do you feel passion as well as lust? Are you optimistic or anxious? Can you distinguish between sentiment and sentimental? If your answers to these questions are the right ones, someone special is looking for you.