LUST RING by Don Holliday (Nightstand 1962)

Welcome to a grand tour of the sleaze inferno! Your guide is none other than a cursed ruby ring.

That's right--this is literally the tale of a ring, and the novel opens as a fat, sweaty business man is picking out the stones for his illicit mistress, a stripper. He's the first to suffer when she slips him a mickey, grabs his money (and the ring), and runs. From there, it hops from sleazy character to sleazy character: pimps, hookers, gambling addicts, nymphomaniacs, and even the razor killer on the cover. That killer, by the way, makes up for my disappointment with Crystal Mouse; he dispatches a couple of lesbians with a meat cleaver quite like the one on that cover. The ring always changes hands with one character's horrible final downfall at the hands of another, and all who acquire it go down hard in their turn. Since there's usually crime and violence involved, that means each transition sends someone on the run--to Chicago, Vegas, the Big Easy, etc., all over the map.

It's as fast-paced and high-energy and flat-out entertaining as that sounds. This would actually be a fine introduction to sleaze, since it covers so many bases. I should add that the dialog these characters sling at each other is the greatest, hyper-hard-boiled and funny as hell (though not to those on the receiving end, I'm sure).

If sleaze intrigues you, I'd highly recommend this.

Harold W. McCauley painted that amazing cover.

SIN-A-RAMA ed. Brittany A. Daley et al. (Feral House 2005)

A lot of people ask me if there's a coffee table book out there corresponding somewhat to the Groovy Age of Horror. Well, this is as close as I've found!!

What we have here is a drop-dead gorgeous, hardbound treasure trove of hundreds of beautiful covers (some full-page!--really, you just have to see this to believe the quantity and quality of the reproductions), original art, incredibly informative insider articles (many by Earl Kemp), all kinds of annotations about pseudonyms and cover artists, and a generous sprinkling of teaser excerpts from the paperbacks themselves.

The focus, of course, is vintage sleaze, but sleaze was a very broad category, and the permutations ranged across all genres--quite often into horror. So horror and near neighbors like sci-fi and jungle fantasy are generously represented. Speaking of jungle fantasy, oh man, I just gotta get Ape Rape (oh, and if you like that title, you should see the cover)!!! Some of the covers will be familiar to you from Groovy Age, and there are others in my to-read list that have yet to be posted here, and there are a gazillion others that I've added to my to-get list (I'd humbly add that there are a few sleaze covers here at Groovy Age that you won't find in the book!).

For cornsakes--this thing is, like, worth its weight in gold, and yet at Amazon you can snag it for less than sixteen bucks! That's a no-brainer, Groovy Agers. This gets such an absolutely highest recommendation from me, if I could put a gun to your head and freakin' make you buy it, I would. And you'd thank me when you feasted your eyes on all the beautiful, groovy sleaze within. Get it. No joke, no April Fooling.

Sleaze Break: PASSION HUNTERS by Pamela Kaye (Brandon House 1966)

Strictly speaking, Passion Hunters is sixties sleaze, but it could be considered horror of a sort. In fact, it has a lot of interesting parallels with Roman Polanski's 1968 horror masterpiece Rosemary's Baby. The couples are almost identical at the beginnings of both stories. Attractive, newly married, not as innocently depicted as a fifties couple might have been, but still quite traditional--the husband is the husband, the wifey is the wife, and it goes without saying that some day they'll have children.

Rosemary and Guy move into an apartment building with a dark history of devil-worship, and fall under the influence of an evil coven. The difference in Passion Hunters is that Gwen and Pete move to the suburbs, and their lives are taken over not by satanists, but swingers! In both cases, the husbands plunge right in, and the wives are plunged into nightmarish chaos and confusion. After Gwen's and Pete's first neighborhood orgy party, she "felt as though she and Pete had visited briefly in another world, a strange and disturbing and frightening world." After her first lesbian encounter, she "was appalled and frightened at what had happened."

Passion Hunters is written from Gwen's point of view, and the most surprising thing to me about it was how joyless and downbeat so much of it is. She watches in horrified dismay as her husband lets the sexy redhead across the street seduce him, and as he goes deeper and deeper into the swinging lifestyle. He expects her to embrace it as enthusiastically as he does, and often loses patience with her Kentucky-bred scruples. They spend a lot of time arguing, and he spends a lot of time sleeping downstairs on the couch while she cries alone in their bed. The situation is complicated by the fact that the whole neighborhood is in on the swinging, and by the fact that Pete's boss is the ringleader. At one point, as Gwen and Pete argue, she demands, "Pete, do you really want me to make love with Larry--to get you a promotion?"

Actually, that point is somewhat moot, since she's already had steamy sex with Larry at an orgy, right after an equally scorching encounter with another husband from down the street:

Then she opened her eyes, because she sensed someone else was there. Over Don's blond head, resting on her breast, she saw the dark gleaming face of Larry Crawford. He was gazing at her, and she sensed at once that he had been there in time to see the end.

A hot flush blazed through her, the blood racing through her body. She tried to raise up, but Don's limp body pinned her down.

Larry waited. Don moved, sat up, rubbing his face, yawning.

"I'm next. Scram," said Larry to Don, pleasantly.

"Right-o." Don yawned again widely. "She's great. Just great." He patted Gwen's hip affectionately, and got up off the bed.

Despite the euphemistic terms and coy phrases, there's a lot of sex, and it's described in vivid detail. Gwen gets caught up in it often enough, and lets herself go in the moment, but the harsh self-recriminations that inevitably follow really throw a wet blanket over everything, and ruin much of the eroticism.

The biggest downer of all is when the redhead's mousy husband has a fit of pent-up jealousy and almost kills her (the redhead, not Gwen). It's a repulsive, bloody scene in a novel that I expected to be light, fun, and sexy. The callous, indifferent reactions of the other neighbors throw an even more sinister, almost coven-esque light on them:

"Oh, she lost some blood, that's all. Larry bailed Floyd out of jail and sobered him up. Why in the world did you call the police?" Don looked genuinely puzzled. "We could have handled all of that."

I guess the ending is supposed to be a happy one, with Pete changing jobs and returning to Gwen's loving arms, and both of them moving back to the safe, baby-friendly environment of town ("Nice houses, near schools and shopping centers") where they mean to start a family. At least they've learned how to enjoy sex with each other, and the novel ends with them in bed putting good use to their hard-earned knowledge and experience.

I knew I had to have this one after seeing the cover scan at the Vintage Paperbacks site. The painting is by Fred Fixler--read about him here. If you want to check out more related covers, see the Robert Bonfils and sleaze galleries (good luck hunting down any for sale, though!).

HEY, LET'S MAKE LOVE: If they'd moved to the suburbs, the couple from Rosemary's Baby could just as well have been The Passion Hunters.

PART-TIME CALL GIRL by a Wife Who Was One [Helen Trott] (Gold Star Books 1965)

Everything I said (in my review of Satan Was My Pimp--scroll down for it) about sleaze being downbeat and depressing is true, not just doubly but exponentially, for Part-Time Call Girl.

Jean's husband was injured at work. Medical bills, etc. have put them in debt and taken them to the brink of homeless poverty. Everyone else in their suburban neighborhood senses it, and uncomfortably avoids them. The truth of the matter is, we get more details about their financial straits than we do about any of the sex that comes later. We see Jean go to the pharmacist, where she's already ashamedly on a line of credit, to beg for more prescriptions when her husband has a relapse. I mean, this story really grinds your face in it. Trust me--the relentless dwelling on financial problems in this story will have the same effect on the reader's mood as it would in real life. Forget about towel-ups!

Not that the sex itself is anything to write home about. I'm only writing about it here to warn the curious that it would be a waste of your reading time. If, like me, you just can't believe it could be that bad until you see for yourself, here's one of a very few scenes that aren't glossed over in summary:

He was all over me, pinching and panting, huffing with exertion. I tried to blank out ny mind. I tried not to see or feel or think. I felt the smile pasted to my face, and I stared rigidly at the ceiling.

"Hey, baby, come on!" he panted. "Gimme some fireworks, Baby! Come on, let's get going!"

I tried to make my body respond, but it wouldn't. I felt the sweat sticky between our bodies, but I felt cold. His face seemed to balloon in size over mine, and his breath panted in my face. It seemed to me it went on forever and ever, and then he was squeaking in a high thin voice, uh, uh, uh, until with one last gurgled sound he went limp on top of me, his weight pressing me down, his red, sweating face pushing against mine.

I lay rigid and unmoving, shock and revulsion churning inside me. My mind was screaming.

With a grunt he pushed himself off me, and his face was sullen and flabby now. He shot an angry look at me.

"Might as well have been home with my wife," he muttered, stomping angrily to the bathroom.

If that didn't get you off, she gives this guy another chance, but he can't get it up, then they start to argue, then he beats her and leaves.

Here's how most of the sex gets treated, in summary, throughout the part of the story where she's working: "But tomorrow comes, and you get through it. You get through all the tomorrows some way. I wondered why the customers didn't complain to Joe about paying for my time. Maybe I was a better actress than I knew." We're treated to an uninspiring subplot about her turning frigid with her husband, and more financial problems. A mean neighbor who surprises her "at work" leaves bite and hand-marks all over her, then proceeds to stalk her. It ends with a police raid, and her picture in the paper tipping off her husband, and him taking their son and leaving her to her life of degradation.

I mean, really, what could be more erotic? When it comes to sleaze, the covers and titles are amazingly tempting, but consider yourself warned: sleaze is not erotica, or even porn. The main difference is that there's not an iota of playfulness in sleaze. It's serious, dour, almost puritanical. I' m working from a very small sample here when I make that generalization, but three-for-three, with different publishers, authors, years, etc., gives me a very strong hunch that much else in the genre fits the pattern. I'm sure there is some genuinely sexy sleaze, but I haven't found it yet.

PAY THE DEVIL by Peter Willow (After Hours 1966)

A lot of horror from the Groovy Age was sleazy, and that's mostly the kind I review here. But then there's also just plain sleaze, a genre unto itself. Many sleaze titles actually dip into the language and imagery of horror: Satan, devil, Hell, witch, etc. Sometimes the stories actually deliver some real horror goods, but more often than not they don't.

Once you understand that, you know that a title like Pay the Devil makes no promise to the horror fan. But that cover! This really does look like some kind of groovy, sleazy Satanic cult paperback. Alas, not!

It's the story of Matt Colby, who starts out as a delivery boy for the local grocery store. In the alternate universe of sleaze, any guy with a job like that is going to have to play stud to all the women on his route, and though it means lots of sex and big tips, Matt feels degraded by the fact that he has to perform for all these women's kinky whims:

Matt Colby knew he would have to go through with it. This was the most embarrassing part of it all. It was not the first time. On other occasions, in the cellar, or in a vacant barn, Irene had lured him, giving him money, too. She had made him do these things to her. It [anal sex] was too queer for his own satisfaction, but he was so flustered, he had to obey.

He dreams incessantly of the "big time." When he gets a chance to help some hoods from the city whack someone from a rival mob, he sees the opportunity he's been waiting for. Soon, he's wearing expensively tailored suits, driving around in a brand new Jag, and calling the shots with the women in his life. On this last point, though, things haven't turned out exactly as he hoped. He actually falls in love (or something) with Gail, a would-be hooker he helps out of a tight spot when her first trick turns nasty. The problem is, once he brings her into his life, the mob forces him to "turn her out" as a whore working for them:

It really started to spin when Gail Ahern was "inspected" by DeAngelo and Fortuno. They made her strip, spread-eagle herself, and twist all around. She did it and if she had a flushed face of shame at the way they poked her while grinning, Gail made no complaint.

Fortuno was the one who had to initiate Gail and show her how to please a customer. Then, she had to convince DeAngelo.

It made Matt flinch with anger but he should have known this would happen. Nevertheless, just seeing the way those two gorillas pawed her, slapped her bottom until it was red-marked, then hearing Gail scream from inside the room, really made Matt Colby feel tough. He hated the two hoods because of how they treated Gail. And he was already planning revenge.

Gail repeatedly urges Matt that they need to get out of that life. He'd rather try to move high enough up in the syndicate that he can finally claim her exclusively for himself. To that end, and as part of the revenge he's been plotting against DeAngelo and Fortuno, he embarks on a risky, reckless course of action that culminates in the following scene:

The naked couple was forced outside into the snowy banks . . . Screaming, the two of them tried to run away but the thugs took careful aim. Bullets splattered into legs. They howled with pain. Now bullets sliced through arms. Another pair of bullets shot into Matt's groin and what had been his stallion pride was now a bloody mess. Bullets poured into Gail's breasts.

Screaming, blood pouring onto the snow, the naked victims writhed in agony as a final pair of well-aimed bullets sent crashing into their skulls put them out of their misery.

Blood oozed out on the snow and long after the Rolls-Royce was gone, as snow began falling to cover them, the red goo formed a strange shape--a red head with two horns. The Devil was being paid.

The End. You gotta love it! Though I wish the story had delivered on the supernatural promise of the cover, it was still kind of a fun read, and I'd recommend this if you happen to chance upon it on eBay or wherever.

WITCH FINDER by Ralph Brandon (Fabian 1960)

There are a lot of long sermons and speeches in this book about the evils of sexual hypocrisy and censorship. The action of the story is pointedly crafted to support and illustrate them. And in case we miss the point, a concluding section titled CENSORS DON'T PROTECT MORALS reprints some letters to the editor of the Miami Herald arguing that very point. I suppose the parting gloat on the very last page puts all of this in perspective:

JURY VOTES FOR FABIAN AND SABER BOOKS

In April, 1958 THE Government charged that eleven books published by FABIAN and SABER BOOKS went substantially beyond contemporary community standards and appealed to the prurient interests of an average normal person. Before trial, the Government dismissed its case as to eight of the books and the case went to the jury as to the remaining three. After a three week trial, and after considering the case for some sixteen hours, the jury acquitted as to the book Rambling Maids and voted nine to three in favor of The Strange Three and Turbulent Daughters.

Despite the title, this book has less to do with witches than even The Crucible. The blurb on the front cover pretty much nails it. It's about a woman who's orally raped by half the men in town, and then horrifically punished by their prudish, frigid, vengeful wives for tempting them to sin. As the cover illustration depicts, a mob actually strips her and rides her on a rail. Their intention is to tar and feather her, but she faints from all the rough handling before they get to that part of it. So they torch her house. At least they're nice enough to get her kids out first.

The instigator of this all is the eponymous "witch finder"--the self-appointed moral conscience of the town who got the crime and horror comics taken off the stands, and is currently trying to clean up the paperback racks, as well. She's also making sure that no Bridget Bardot movies come to the drive-in. She's just as mean and narrow-minded as they come. It's tempting to describe her as a one-dimensional caricature, except that I've actually known people like her.

I'm afraid I can't recommend this, unless you have an historical interest in the controversies it addresses (which were real enough at the time, considering the many prosecutions like the one mentioned in the quote above). The parts that are actually somewhat sleazy are way too grim and dour, and there's an implicit sermonizing in them that I found very grating, however much I might agree with the underlying point against hypocrisy and censorship. Plus the fact that there's no witch here, only a "witch hunt." This might be an interesting document and product of its time, but I wouldn't call it groovy horror.

THE UNLOVED by Peggy Swenson (Midwood 1964)

Pearl, a virgin at twenty-five, goes on a Romance Tour in Hawaii. She sees this as her last chance to avoid spinsterhood. After losing her virginity to rugged rancher Tom Oregon, who breaks her heart in fairly short order, she has a drunken fling with the shy mama's boy, becomes conquest "number 3246" for the tour guide, and gives in to the advances of her lesbian roommate. All this promiscuity finally overwhelms her conscience. Luckily, there's a sadist in the group. She goes to him to literally expiate her sins! He's only too happy to oblige, but he isn't very careful about leaving visible marks. When Tom sees the bruises and whip cuts, he becomes Mister Protective, and all hell breaks loose.

I wasn't sure if this would have any kind of supernatural angle or not. It doesn't. It's straight-up sleaze of the most conventional sort, not horror. There's really not much to say about it, except that I enjoyed it well enough. I wouldn't recommend hunting high and low for it, but if you happen across it for a few bucks, it's pretty good for what it is.