If you can tell a society by its smut, America in the 1950s 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 brunette Amazon in a sea of soft and curvy blondes--an anti-Marilyn, dominant and demanding where Monroe was compliant--who deflected the ravenous gaze of stroke-book buyers with a look of defiant... More >>>