Not Just Another Pretty Face

She could be the most outrageous performer of the Nineties: an exhibitionist, but not in the calculated way of her ex-gal pal Madonna; deliberately ambiguous in her sexual preferences; a woman of unconventional attitudes, unconventional appetites and unconventional beauty. In other words, a perfect subject--not, you'll note, object--for Playboy. Still, talkshow host Arsenio Hall seemed surprised when Sandra Bernhard revealed on his show that she'd posed for the magazine. The time was right, she said: "My nipples are at their prime!" To create this pictorial, Sandra and photographer Michel Comte free-associated their way to the memorable images you see on these pages. Since nobody does Sandra better than Sandra, we'll let her explain.

Hello, I am Sandra. Since you know me well, you can, if you wish, call me Sandi. Be careful! I could become, all at once, fresh, kicky, bright and oh, so pretty. If you refer to me as Sandi, for that is my sexy side, it reflects all those moments I enjoy inserting my diaphragm. If you close your eyes, you could just as well imagine me to be vintage Ali MacGraw, circa 1968. I'm also Candice Bergen, Julie Christie and Mary Tyler Moore in their primes. A WASP goddess bitch, cold as a ten-carat diamond just out of the vault. But a martini or two, a first-class ticket to anywhere on Sabena, a spin in your Vette and I'm bound to melt into your hands. I am in many ways the perfect woman, ready to serve you, service your every need and love you until you beg me to stop. I'm Sandi--the dream girl I grew up to be.

There are always glimpses, nuances, hints of Sandi, but I can't seem to hold her still for long. And that's where you come in, darling, in your narrow-lapeled Botany 500 suit, Countess Mara tie and Oleg Cassini shoes. You can't seem to hold me, either, and at times you're not even willing to try.

I can remember as if it were yesterday sitting in my brothers' bedroom, thumbing through those illustrious Playboy pages, staring at the pendulous breasts, the neatly trimmed crotches, the innuendos, the dashing men who wore women like chic accessories draped around their shoulders. There were "stews," Misses Illinois, Alabama and Delaware, nurses, secretaries, coeds, debutantes, strippers and actresses--women seemingly devoid of any point of view, dying for romance and a swinging guy to drive them mad. I grew up on this stuff, longed to be it. All that the American dream was made of, I loved. I loved the women, the men, the tiny, eternally giggling girl balancing on the martini glass, the saggy-titted old broad in the cartoons: I wanted to be a part of it. Every inch of the jazzy, smoky, James Bond, Vegas-lounge, international sexcapade that was Playboy in those days.

Enter the Nineties. It's my time to shine, to remind everybody about those great moments before Pan Am went belly-up, when civil rights had a dream, women always had hairdos, men wore suits, transcontinental service was gourmet, movies were films, Warren Beatty was sexy, funny was smart, a steak sounded delicious, Presidents were dashing. I want to resurrect those moments. Here I am, big, bold, naked and all turned on for you.

This sex-goddess stuff comes as second nature to me now. I love it! I feel great. When I feel confident, I look like a million bucks. And damn it, I'm gonna hang out my wares while they're firm, fresh and fun to look at. Hell, when I get into my red Mazda Miata, throw that top down and blow kisses down Sherman Way, you'd best believe I get my pick of anybody I want. Why should I struggle out of my own skintight leather pants when there's always some cute guy who's dying to help me? I'm not asking for a commitment. It's just a fun, casual way to get to know each other.

I've done way too much work for the money they've paid me here. I mean, do you think it was fun getting painted gold? I did it for you because I know how much it takes to excite. You know I'll always go the distance. The makeup artist promised me it would wash right off. It took five people hosing me down to get me clean. But I'm not complaining; I never shower alone anymore.

I've always said I love sleeping on a bed of gloves, as long as there are hands in them. That was before I tried a bed of 12,000 roses. Why change sheets when you can just throw the whole thing out? Matter of fact, I'm thinking of throwing out this story along with it. Where were we, darling? Oh, right, right, right. The roses.

Do you see this gorgeous broad? No, not me, we already know I'm beautiful--that's a given. The other one. She begged, pleaded, openly wept to pose with me. At first I snubbed her, then I slapped her and finally she had her way with me. I'm refusing all her calls. It's just a picture, honey. Relax!

I don't know what the hell the guys in these photos were doing between my legs, and frankly, I don't think they did, either. Is this too obscure for you? Sorry, it's my life, and you want the truth, don't you? Besides, I figured you were smart enough to see it for yourself. I've always been a straight shooter. That's why you come to me with your endless problems and why you trust me. Implicitly. (Love you. Kisses.)

All the great girls started out as Bunnies. Debbie Harry, Gloria Steinem, I don't know--all of them. So isn't it fitting that I should end up as one? To me, Playboy is all about personal freedoms, and I don't mean Pantyliners. Now that I'm a Bunny myself, I feel that the circle is complete. Sophisticated Sandi has arrived!