If you can tell a society by its smut, America in the Fifties couldn't have been just a Frigidaire of repressive hysteria. Hidden somewhere in the closets of Pleasantville and Peyton Place, after all, was a stack of fetish mags bearing the face and hourglass figure of Bettie Page, and all the mysteries they contain. Here was a brunet Amazon in a sea of soft and curvy blonds — an anti-Marilyn, dominant and demanding where Monroe was compliant — who deflected the ravenous gaze of strokebook buyers with a look of defiant... More >>>