Sex
Girls and tires
The girly calendars in the diesel shop of my youth were nothing like the Pirelli art photography -- except both feature sexy women.
When I was 12, my best friend’s father was a self-employed diesel truck mechanic; his shop was adjacent to their rural home. Throughout the week, great trucks — Peterbilts, Kenworths, White Freightliners — rambled down the long dirt driveway to have their ailments attended to.
For boys of the age we were, those massive macho machines were rolling icons, their big chrome-laden bodies and tough noises tickled our testosterone something fierce, and supercharged our fantasies of power and motion.
But the trucks we most liked to see approach come Christmastime were those of the suppliers — Cummins, Pennzoil, Snap-on tools. Because in addition to engine parts, lubricants or the swing-out displays of shiny new socket sets and open ends and torque wrenches and feeler gauges, they delivered calendars, glorious calendars. And on those wonderful calendars, wrapped around giant diesel engines or tenderly grasping a foot-long ratchet handle, were photos of some of the most spectacular women we had ever laid eyes on. They looked so friendly and inviting, all smiles, their breasts and bottoms packed into the snuggest, cleanest coveralls we’d ever seen, or bursting out of bikinis no bigger than the handkerchief-size rags that were delivered in tied bundles each week by another supplier.
My friend’s father posted the calendars throughout the shop and punctually flipped to the next page — and a new picture — on the first of every month. The presence of those women’s photos made being around all that big-time rebuilding and tuning-up just that much more exhilarating. But one calendar we never got to see is one that, frankly, might have seemed a little out of place, a bit too hoity-toity to share wall space with a head gasket for a Diamond Reo — the cheesecake-cum-art calendar published by Italy’s Pirelli tire company. Maybe if the shop had been a Maserati garage in Turin, things would have been different. Maybe not; even in Italy and Europe the calendar is made available only to “a privileged list of corporate customers and VIPs.” In any case, more than three decades on, I’ve recently gotten to see what we missed.
A new book, “The Pirelli Calendar: 1964-2001,” collects over 35 years’ worth of the tire company’s legendary (in some circles) calendar photos, often accompanied by a short statement from a writer, a photo critic or from one of the distinguished photographers the tire manufacturer hires to shoot its nudes — Herb Ritts, Bruce Weber, Richard Avedon, Annie Leibovitz and Bert Stern among them. The calendar, the book publisher says, has become “a paradigm of its genre,” a phrase I never once heard uttered in reference to the calendars in my neighbor’s diesel garage.
Paradigm or no, the Pirelli photos as a collection are something of a social history. The earliest calendars had nothing (or very little) in the way of nudity. The first year — 1964 — featured dreamy women strolling about in modest two-piece bathing suits, capris and sleeveless tops or swaddled in terry cloth robes.
By the following year things had progressed (or regressed, depending on your point of view) to allow one shot of a shapely tush in a striped one-piece swimsuit. For the ’66 calendar, photographer Peter Knapp explains, “what we did … was already the limit of what you could do then, and the models were careful.” Knapp captured a hint of a breast under an open shirt and peeked down some bras, but not too far.
For the 1969 number that year’s photographer, Harri Peccinotti, found that “everywhere you turned on the beach there were incredible-looking girls, just very sexy girls, and they were doing whatever they felt like.” Whoopee! So who needs models? Off to the beach Peccinotti went to photograph young women sunbathing, licking Popsicles, sucking on cigarettes, holding soda bottles to their teenage lips and so on. And it was the time of the multiple image — remember Warhol’s prints and all that split-screen stuff in the “Woodstock” film? — which the ’69 calendar uses throughout. Still, in an era when women were dropping their tops in Broadway plays like “Oh, Calcutta,” the Pirelli ladies were quite modest.
But then, maximum flesh exposure has never really been the point of the Pirelli photos. The tire company has always aspired to bring a little art and class to its girly calendar — this sex ain’t for drooling grease monkeys, it’s for the uptown blokes who own dealerships, and other big shots. Tit shots are okey-dokey as long they pack some pretension of art or drama. Those who just want to see as much naked female skin as they possibly can are no better than, well, testosterone-crazed boys — they don’t deserve to gaze upon the classed-up gals that Pirelli offers. Let ‘em go down to the local garage.
With the 1972 calendar, photographer Sarah Moon started to steer Pirelli toward a concept approach. Moon’s gauzy pictures depict David Hamilton-esque models cavorting in early-20th-century lingerie; a scene from the Ladies Lounge in “The Great Gatsby.”
Then, finally, in 1984, photographer Uwe Ommer makes the tire-breast-buttocks connection, painting the pneumatic models with a tread pattern. The tire tread reference shows up again in 1985, ’86, ’88 and other years. And using one theme — dramatized by the models’ costumes and makeup (sometimes full body) becomes, with few exceptions, an annual event.
In subsequent years there are athletes who look like they’ve leapt out of Leni Reifenstahl’s film of the 1938 Olympics, the signs of the zodiac, historical figures, African tribeswomen and, in 1992, Clive Arrowsmith’s dazzling hybrids inspired, apparently, by the Chinese lunar calendar moon signs — a dragon-woman, a tiger-woman, a horse with the nude painted body of a human female, goat, rooster and the rest.
But the most interesting of the bunch is Bruce Weber’s 1998 effort for Pirelli. For the calendar’s 25th anniversary issue, he dispensed with the too-easy parallels, affectation and self-consciousness of some of the earlier layouts and, for the first time, included men. Dressed, they’re still captivating because they’re B.B. King, Bono, John Malkovich, Robert Mitchum and other artists. Now, if this one had hung on the long-ago walls of that diesel mechanic, it would have stood out because it evokes pairings that are fun, intriguing and somewhat mysterious. In addition to the women in various states of undress, there are hot dogs and corn being barbecued (Patricia Arquette wielding the tongs), some goof in a gorilla suit about to gnaw on a model and several languorous golden retrievers (completely nude).
But the one shot I think many 12-year-old boys (and some who are older) would vote as the best photo in the entire book is of a naked woman stretched across the great gray cheek of an elephant who is lying next to another elephant on a faraway beach with a palm tree in the distance and the sea beyond that. There’s a boat, too. It’s pulled up on the sand of this perfect desert island that no lad of any age could resist — tropical waters, swaying palms, friendly pachyderms and a woman who’s found a most novel way to relax. What’s not to like?
Douglas Cruickshank is a senior writer for Salon. For more articles by Cruickshank, visit his archive. More Douglas Cruickshank.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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