Ever wonder what kind of creature lurked beyond the green XXX door, helping create the $8 billion a year monster called the porn industry? Ever wonder how Marvel’s X-Men, the Incredible Hulk, and Spiderman himself were behind it all?
The superhero tale is revealed in the no-holes-barred Beaver Street: A History of Modern Pornography (Headpress) about men of steel, women of easy persuasion, and phone sex, the revolutionary fusion of computers and erotica.
The author is porn wunderkind, Robert Rosen, known to men’s magazine fans as Bobby Paradise. He studied under Catch-22’s Joseph Heller at New York’s City College in the ’70s. He spent the next eight years freelancing, and writing speeches for the Secretary of the Air Force. Between gigs, he drove a cab.
Then manna from heaven: after John Lennon’s assassination, a former classmate of Rosen’s, the Beatle’s personal assistant, dropped John’s New York diaries in his lap and asked him to ghostwrite an account of the star’s last days.
Before Rosen finished the manuscript, Lennon’s assistant ripped it off. The ’83 recession was in full swing. He now found himself back on the street with the 10 million other unemployed. So he sent his resume to a city PO Box for an “Editorial” job listed in the Times Help Wanted.
Days later, Robert, in suit and tie, was in a High Society cubical overlooking the United Nations building, writing “girl copy” and phone sex scripts, as well as brainstorming ideas for pictorials. His boss, Carl Ruderman, had started him at $17,000 to make the magazine “crazier” than its competitors. “I want to be a household name, like Playboy,” Ruderman told him, of HS. “And I want it yesterday!”
Tapping into his experience as a comic skit writer, the rookie cranked out his first HS pictorial feature: a Cool Hand Luke leather-and-lace lesbian chain gang.
Ruderman declared his new recruit a “creative genius” who “would not be standing in a breadline.” By this time, Rosen’s boss was clearing over a quarter million dollars a month from High Society’s phone-sex juggernaut. The computerized system logged over 500,000 calls a day, Ruderman made 2 cents per (the phone company made 7), and his best customer was the Pentagon.
Like his colleagues in the industry, Ruderman fancied himself a progressive publisher, not a purveyor of smut. So when Bobby Paradise described High Society to a New York Post interviewer as “porno,” the outraged smutmeister axed him.
Rosen landed an editorship with Ruderman’s competitor, Swank Publications, which published hundred of titles, including the iconic Swank and Stag.
Founded by Marvel’s Martin Goodman, Stag was run by his son, Chip. Robert and Chip had something unexpected in common: Yoko Ono. The writer was still trying to sell his Lennon book based on the purloined diaries; his new boss was being sued by Ms. Ono for publishing nude pictures of her and John.
Rosen’s distant predecessor at Swank Publications was Mario Puzo. Puzo had split after Putnam paid him $5,000 for The Godfather. Rosen, waiting for his own publishing ship to come in, collected $22,000 annually from fantasy tycoon Goodman, plus a 401K and full health benefits.
At Stag, Mr. Paradise worked with porno’s expanded Fantastic Four, “The Nasty Nine.” On the receiving end of the celebrity cocksmen were the likes of Wendy Whoppers, Candy Cantaloupes, Busty Dusty, Pandora Peaks, and Auntie Climax.
After fleshing out the death-defying deeds of these superheroes and heroines, Paradise got into the groove. “I’d not only become unmoored from all sense of conventional sexual mores … I’d ceased to think rationally about sex itself, “ he writes.
Next, he climbed the equal opportunity porno ladder and took over as managing editor at Stag’s sister mag, For Adult’s Only. Till now he had been a kind of Gulliver – a stranger in a strange land. At FAO, he went native with what he calls “an experiment in participatory journalism.”
He became the star of his own “$5 Blowjob” feature. But, in spite of the heroic efforts of his co-star, a Hungarian, the “newcummer” got stage fright. Otherwise known in the industry as the dreaded “waiting for wood.”