Harold Rubin quickly closed the magazine. On the opposite page she was resting on her side, hips fully rounded, one thigh raised slightly and barely covering her pubis, her breasts revealed, the nipples erect. In one picture in the magazine he now held, Diane Webber was almost acrobatic as she balanced herself gracefully above the sand on her outstretched arms with a leg extended high over her head, her toes pointed up into a cloudless sky. It was said that she was a ballet dancer, which explained to Harold the disciplined body control she exhibited in several of her positions in front of the camera. It had appeared in a picture caption, and he was confident that it was her real name and not one of those pixie pseudonyms used by some playmates and pinups who concealed their true identity from the men they wished to titillate. While in some pictures she seemed remote and ethereal, probably unobtainable, there was a pervasive reality about her, and he felt close to her.
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It was not only her beauty that had attracted him, the classic lines of her body or the wholesome features of her face, but the entire aura that accompanied each picture, a feeling of her being completely free with nature and herself as she walked along the seashore, or stood near a palm tree, or sat on a rocky cliff with waves splashing below. She also had appeared in several men’s publications, adventure magazines, and a nudist calendar. He had first noticed her months ago in a camera quarterly. It was this woman whose picture he had just seen in the magazine he now held on the sidewalk, the nude on the sand dune. Recently, however, perhaps because he was feeling restless and uncertain and was thinking of dropping out of school, leaving his girl, and joining the Air Force, Harold Rubin was more detached than usual from life in Chicago, was more into fantasy, particularly when in the presence of pictures of one special woman who, he had to admit, was becoming an obsession. At other times, when alone with his magazines, he might recall moments with his girl friend, remembering what she looked like with her clothes off, what she felt like, what they did together. When he was making love to her on the sofa when her parents were out, he was sometimes thinking of the more mature women in the magazines. But, failing to find it, he knew he could return home and revive a relationship with one of the favorites in his paper harem, achieving gratification that was certainly different from but not incompatible with the sex life he had with a girl he knew from Morton High School.
He could ignore them in the closet for weeks or months as he sought a new discovery elsewhere. At the top of the pile were the more proven products, those women who projected a certain emotion or posed in a certain way that was immediately stimulating to him and, more important, their effect was enduring. While Harold Rubin usually could achieve some solitary fulfillment from these, they were soon relegated to the lower levels of the stacks of magazines that he kept at home in the closet of his bedroom. Either the volleyball-playing nudists in Sunshine & Health, the only magazine showing pubic hair in the 1950s, were too hefty or the smiling show girls in Modern Man were trying too hard to entice or the models in Classic Photography were merely objects of the camera, lost in artistic shadows. There had been times in the past when, after buying one of these magazines hastily, because they were sold under the counter and were therefore unavailable for adequate erotic preview, he was greatly disappointed. He flipped through the pages to look at the other nude women, seeing to what degree he could respond to them. It was an early evening in 1957, cold and windy, but Harold Rubin could feel the warmth rising within him as he studied the photograph under the streetlamp near the curb behind the stand, oblivious to the sounds of traffic and the people passing on their way home.
The picture was in a photographic art magazine that he had just bought at a newsstand on the corner of Cermak Road in suburban Chicago. She wore no jewelry, no flowers in her hair there were no footprints in the sand, nothing dated the day or spoiled the perfection of this photograph except the moist fingers of the seventeen-year-old schoolboy who held it and looked at it with adolescent longing and lust. She seemed lost in private thoughts, remote from the world, reclining on this windswept dune in California near the Mexican border, adorned by nothing but her natural beauty. SHE WAS completely nude, lying on her stomach in the desert sand, her legs spread wide, her long hair flowing in the wind, her head tilted back with her eyes closed.
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