Member-only story
I Posed for Playboy
I was eighteen. I was a feminist. How did that even happen?
It started with a small ad in the campus newspaper. “Models wanted.” Followed, in short order, by a big article in that same newspaper, decrying the small ad and all that it stood for.
It was UC Berkeley, after all; and even though it was the heart of the Reagan Eighties, Berkeley still held fast to its radicalism.
Playboy Magazine had decided to recruit nude models on our proud leftie campus?! Exploitation! Insanity! The very nerve!
I read both article and ad with great interest. They were offering $100 for “clothed,” $200 for “semi-nude” (just boobs, I guess), and $400 for “fully nude.”
Four hundred dollars was a lot of money in those days, my friends. Heck, it’s nothing to sneeze at today. Back then, it was as much as I made in two months in my work-study job — a job where I was always careful to ensure I was scheduled for Wednesday afternoons so I wouldn’t miss the weekly Donut Hour, an important part of my weekly caloric intake.
But I didn’t do it for the money. I mean, I did, but there were other, more complex reasons that drew me…
I had a boyfriend then, one who would subsequently become known among my friends and family as The Evil…hmm, oh, let’s call…
