We’re going to take a tour through the whole February 1958 issue of the men’s magazine Jem, with complete articles, advertising, humor, and, of course, the babes. Let’s begin…
Jem, to a roll of the Mambo drums introduces a comedy in four acts entitled “What Fur?”
Jently we inquire… “Can two and two make fur?”
Jenerously, & Jingerly, We take the long view on this beautiful girl…
Jentlemen, do you prefur this?
Jimini Crickets, or this?
YOU MAY not be quite ready to start a new season as you read this, but Jem Dandy is. He’s well into his second year as—we hope—your favorite pixish guide through a pixy world of fact, fiction and femininity.
It’s possible, we concede, that this is your first encounter with J.D. If so. our heart bleeds in sympathy: we cannot urge you to write in for previous issues because even J.D. has only one dogeared copy of each preceding JEM to his name, and each one of those is guarded like the diamonds whose dust is sprinkled herein.
But he of stout heart. Look forward, man. When you contemplated the delights herewith assembled hv J.D.. you may rest assured there will be more of the same on your newsstand ere the mon has gone full cycle, whatever that means.
We urge that you remai n alert, however: sometimes JEM disappears faster than lipstick in a game of spin-the-bottle. You may even have to become resurceful as are the men of Harvard. There, our Cambridge spy reports, JEM was being brought in from New York in mass quantities hy returning weekenders after they discovered JEM was in short supply around Beantown.
Other magazines, we know (J.D. reads over people’s shoulders in the turkish bath), tell their readers what’s coining next, Well, sir, we won’t spill the beans. Whv should we, for example, pin J.D. down to some beautiful gal a whole month ahead of time when he’s got thirty days to whistle up a buxom surprise?
How does J.D. do it? Well you may ask. He seems to have an irresistable charm, and despite the words which accompany the pictures starting on page 36 of the young lady in the phone booth (Belle Telephone, mayhap?) you would not be wrong to assume she is actually calling Jem Dandy himself — and getting the old busy signal.
ONCE UPON a time there was a little sexboat named Red Riding Hood. She had a come-hither smile, a skirt you could see through, a dislike for underwear, and a thirty-eight inch bust: this made her very popular with the local wolves.
One sunny day Red decided to walk over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house. Granny had been feeling somewhat under the weather, and Red thought a carton of cold beer might cheer up the old biddy. So she put on her come-hither smile, the skirt you could see through, and a low-cut peasant blouse. Then, with the beer tucked under one pink arm. she started out.
Except for the whistles of admiration that always accompMied her journeys, especially during a high wind, the trip was uneventful for about half the distance. Then a red Jaguar convertible pulled up beside her and stopped, and a wolf in a plaid sports jacket, green beret, and dark glasses leared at her from the cockpit.
“Greetings, babydoll.” he drooled, patting the seat beside him with a practised hand. “How’s about a ride into the wild blue yonder, just you ami m
“Thank you very much, kind sir.” Red said, pulling back her shoulders and turning her best profile, “but I gotta take this booze over to Granny’s.” Then she swivel-hipped away, leaving the wolf in the Jaguar to concoct his evil plans. Which he did, of course.
A short while later. Red arrived at Granny’s cottage. The patio was empty, and the swimming pool held only water. This was strange since Granny was generally in one or the other, bikini-attired and glad of it. Red pressed the front doorbell, and the chime answered “How Dry I Am” four times.
“Granny,” she said through the screen door, “it’s your granddaughter, Little Red Riding Hood.”
“I’m in the bedroom, honeypot,” a hoarse voice answered.
“Poor Granny must have a cold,” Red told herself, as she walked into the house and across the parlor and into the bedroom.
Granny was in bed, covered to the neck with a plaid blanket. She was wearing a green beret.
“I brought you some cold beer, Granny,” Red said.
“Thank you, dear,” Granny said in a voice that for some reason reminded Red of the wolf in the Jaguar. “Just put it over there by the liquor cabinet for now. will you. and come here and sit down on the bed besides me.”
Red did this, and Granny smacked her lips.
“My,” Red said, “what big lips you have. Granny.”
“The better to kiss you with,” Granny said, pulling Red down on the bed and planting u juicy one plunk on her lips.
“Gracious.” Red said breathlessly, “and what big hands you have. Granny.
“The better to hold you with, my dear:” Granny said, holding Red in places she’d never been held before.
“And what a large— My goodness.” Red said, suddenly realizing, “you’re not Granny. You’re not Granny at all!”
“Not the least bit.” the wolf admitted happily, “and the better to —”
He finished with a statement Red had once seen written on a sidewalk, after which he proceeded to carry out the promise.
After awhile. Red asked. “Whatever in the world happened to Gran-ny?”
“1 haven’t even seen your sweet little old grandmother, the wolf said, sighing contentedly.
The closet door burst open and Granny appeared, her bikini askew. “I was in here, dear, helping Hector do his good deed for the day.”
A young man in uniform followed her from the closet. “Hector Blodgett, Eagle Scout, reporting!” he snapped, saluting smartly with one hand and hiding a bottle with the other.
They all went into the patio and had some cold beer. The next day little lied Riding Hood went out with the wolf in his Jaguar. Granny invited the entire bo\ scout troop over for a barbecue, and they all lived sexily ever after.
So many people talk about “witches” without knowing what they’re talking about that we decided to do something to rectify the situation. At great expense, we contacted Beulah Broome, a professional witch, and asked her to write her life story for us. Herewith, the authentic, never-before-printed story of the life and times of a witch.
BROOM and BOARD By R. FRED ARNOLD
MY NAME is Beulah Broome. 1 am a witch. 1 wasn’t always a witch, of course. Witches are made, not born — well, but that’s another story .
I started out in life as a simple girl, from simple folks. My father ran a tea shoppe in Coffeyville. Kans. He wanted to start a coffee shoppe in Teaville. Kans.. but there isn’t any such place. I had a happy childhood in Coffeyville. and I seemed like a nice, normal girl. Of course, I did have a great taste for biting little boy’s necks, but m\ mother decided that was due to some dietary deficiency and none of us worried about it. least of alt me.
I went to grade school and high school in Coffeyville. getting very good marks. And I was thinking of becoming a teacher—-all those little boys bitable necks!—hut then something very odd happened.
It was late at night and I had just returned from a date. He kissed me good night and I cast hungry eves on his neck. But he was too hairy, so I just nipped him a little on the chin.
“Ouch.”‘ he cried. He lost his temper and slapped me. “You witch!”
The second he uttered that word. I heard a strange whirring sound and there was a blinding flash of light and I seemed to hear a far-off cackling laugh. It was all over in a second—but when 1 looked for my date, he was lying dead on the front porch with a look of shock and fear on his face.
I didn’t think much about the incident—the coroner returned a verdict of death by reason of heart failure, which was good of him—and went on about my daily life.
Only a week later, my Aunt Sophie wanted to borrow my blue-net evening gown and I said no. 1 just never did like my Aunt Sophie.) She slapped me and called me a witch and the same thing happened—the whirring noise, the flash of light, the cackling laughter and then, boom, a dead aunt.
That worried me. Not that I missed Aunt Sophie, hut I thought maybe the whirring noise was symptomatic of something wrong with my ears. I consulted a physician. He dropped dead w hen he found I had no blood pressure or pulse whatsoever. Now I really was worried. But I didn’t have to worry for long.
During the next night, while I tossed and turned in my bed trying to get to sleep, I heard the noise again and the laughter. No flash of light, though. And the whirring and laughter grew louder and suddenly, seated on the edge of my bed, was a witch. At least. 1 imagined it was a witch.
She had on a peaked hat and long, grey robes. There was a broom clutched in her hand. But, far from being the weather-beaten hag pictured in the usual drawings of witches, she was a beauty. The grev robes fitted tight over a voluptuous figure. The peaked hat made her long face and laughing eves seem even more beautiful.
“Hi-ya. witchey,” she said to me.
“Hello, there.’* I answered. Strangely. I had no fear. “I’m here to welcome you into the IWW—
International Witch Workers. We’ve had our eye on you for years, sister. You’re a natural—
you’ll make a jim dandy witch. Let’s go.”
“Off to training school, of course. Wichita State University. Come on, get aboard.”
So I hopped on her broom and away we went. We were there — wherever that is — in thirty winks. And I spent two happy months at school, learning my trade.
I’m sorry I can’t tell you all the subjects we studied. Some are still listed as classified material. But I can tell you the names of a few of them — how to fly, of course; how to cast spells and also how to spell casts iC-A-S-T-S); how to become invisible; how to make a silk purse out of a sow’s sear; and many other helpful things.
When I was about to graduate, I was called into the office of the Dean of Women. And we talked about my future. There are many branches a witch can specialize in—general witchery, mother-in-Iawism, rock-and-roll, seduction, teaching, nursing, and so on. I decided to be a seductionologist, that being my natural bent.
So I was sent, for post-graduate studies, to one of the well-known women’s colleges. There my soul entered the body of a young and attractive freshman named Angela Pforzmeistei.
Angela, poor thing, was expelled within three weeks. Of course, she was innocent of any wrong-doing and I regret that I ruined her life, but I had to learn. During Angela’s three-week binge, she managed to seduce 18 male students, two instructors, one assistant professor, one janitor, the father of her roommate and a member of the college’s board of directors. This is still considered, in witch annals, the catch-as-catch-can seduction record.
And so I was given my degree and was assigned a territory. I was sworn in with impressive ceremonies in Witchita, taking the famous Withocratic Oath:
“L Beulah Broome, do solemnly swear that I will do my best to be my worst at all times; that I will look for the weakness in men and exploit it; that I will preach the doctrine that every silver lining has a dark cloud; that I will continually strive to prove that all women are witches at heart.”
And. with a tearful farewell from the Dean of Women, I was off to my assignment — to practice the fine art of seduction in and around Milwaukee and, of course, to keep my eyes open for any likely witch candidates.
You may ask if I had any reservations about my career. None whatsoever. This was the life I wanted. For the first time since I was a child in Coffeyville, I was really happy. For me, it was the ideal existance. To witch his own, as they say.
I landed in Milwaukee on a Tuesday. I flew a few brief scouting sorties around the city and picked a likely looking body to settle in. It belonged I later found out, to a pretty little housewife named Fredonia Schlitz. Her husband was a hops sniffer for Bud-weiser.
I picked a married woman because of the challenge. It is simple for a single girl to be a master (or is it mistress?) of seduction. But a married woman has a little more difficult row to hoe. I wanted to start out with a tough job. It was the spirit of youth and adventure and daring in me.
The next day. Fredonia was successful. A fireman came around selling tickets for the firemen’s ball and he and Fredonia worked out a simple barter arrangement. It was easy. Later in the week, she repeated with her husband’s best friend. The next night, she was shot and killed by her husband after a particularly nasty scene.
Her death, naturally, had no effect on my career. Oh, there was a twinge of remorse — I am human, after all — hut I had my job to do. A short trip on my broom, another desirable body, and I was back in business.
Within six months, I had seduced 175 men, been responsible for 18 murders, six divorces and about 35 black eyes. It was a thrilling and rewarding period. And, along the way, I managed to recruit 16 girls for the glorious sisterhood of the night, which is what we some times call the practice of witchery.
At the conclusion of that six months period. I was summoned back to headquarters, given a medal and a dangerous mission.
Our commander spoke to me in the gravest of tones.
“Broome,’ she said, “there’s a young lady at Vassar who refuses to have anything to do with men. This is not unusual, but we’ve sent two of our best operators. But they still couldn’t get her to cooperate. Now. if this thing gets out of hand, you can understand what that would mean.”
And she spread her hands to indicate such a development would be a major catastrophe.
I agreed. While witches can easily get inside the bodies of mortals, there must be some cooperation from the mortal. All that witches are, in fact, is the subconscious mind coming to the fore. If a mortal — such as this girl at Vassar — were to resist, the whole witch movement could collapse.
“Broome,” the commander went on, “you have a marvelous record. I want you to try. Go out there and fight. Win this one for Alma Mater.”
So off I sped to Vassar. My quarry — her name was Virginia Frigid — was easily spotted. She was tall, built on the grand scale with a tremendous bosom and a shock of sexy red hair. I quickly slipped inside her body, and almost immediately felt cold. This was a sensation I had never experienced. Most bodies are warm and I always felt comfortable and welcome inside them. But Virginia Frigid had a freezing body. And it made me feel unwanted, afraid, miserable.
That night, she had a date with a handsome football hero from Colgate. He did his best and I did my best. But Virginia wouldn’t. She laughed at him — and I thought I detected a note that she was laughing at me, too — and. being an expert at jiu jitsu, she tossed him into the riservoir.
Virginia went home in high spirits, but I was utterly dejected. It was my first failure. Then I had an idea.
Through our thought transferance system, I contacted headquarters. I had them assign a son-of-a-witch (that’s the male outfit with which we witches have a loose w:orking agreement) to the body of the Colgate football hero. I figured if we could work together, we might have a chance of saving her from a fate worse than death — virginity — toward which her conduct was inexorably heading.
They had another date three days later. The son-of-a-witch inside the football player took charge, as I directed. There was no more soft soap, no gentle little college tricks. I had decided that the only answer was to shock her into her senses.
So the college boy slugged Virginia, knocking her cold. But right there he stopped.
“What’s going on?” I messaged to the son-of-a-witch.
“I don’t know” he messaged back. “Something seems to be wrong with the motor. He just stopped.”
“Well, get it going again. We’ve got to get cracking.”
But he couldn’t. I heard the son-of-a-witch scream, and then the football hero ran away.
This was approaching tragic proportions. Virginia woke up eventually and we both went home. She seemed very nonchalant about the whole episode. She didn’t report the football hero, or say anything about it to anyone. It was as if she wasn’t concerned, as if she’d known all along his attack wouldn’t be successful.
For two weeks. I tried every trick at my command. But without success. Virginia Frigid would go so far but no further. I was at a loss for an explanation. Her behavior was against human nature.
And then one day, in a twinkling. I found the answer. I was wandering idly around inside Virginia, trying to see if all her glands were in working order, when 1 suddenly stumbled on a shrew busily unplugging the pituitary.
Now shrews are another union entirely, much less widespread, much more evil than witches. They try to make old hags out of girls, while we try to make honest, upstanding witches out of them. You can see we are the much nicer union.
“Aha.” I said, “so that’s the trouble.”
“Aha yourself,” said the shrew. “We’ll see which union is the more powerful. I don’t think this body will ever be any good to a man when I get through with it.”
So it turned out that the only thing wrong with Virginia Frigid was that she was the victim of a jurisdictional dispute between two unions.
The matter was turned over to the NLRB—National Love Relations Board — who ruled in our favor, since we had jurisdiction over beautiful women. The decision said that shrews had to confine their organizational activities to ugly women exclusively. It was a ruling that had very important ramifications.
The night after the Board ruled on the case. I dashed back inside Virgina, quickly repaired all the damage the shrew had caused, and relaxed. She felt warm again and I knew we’d have a grand night. We did. (The shrew was picketing outside, carrying a sign reading, “This body unfair to shrews.” but nobody paid any attention to her.) The football hero came around — he was a never-say-die type, fortunately.
Like I said, a grand night.
That was. by far, the toughest case I’ve ever had to handle. Most of my job is fairly routine. Find a body, enter it, get together with the subconscious mind and then sit back and have a ball.
It’s a good career for a girl, witchery. I recommend it highly. You’re always well fed, satisfied in mind and spirit and body, and you have the inner satisfaction of knowing you’re doing something for your fellow man. So, if you know any girls who are lonely and unhappy, just tell them to wait until they hear a whirring, see a light, and hear far-off cackling laughter. And. if they’re too impatient to wait for that day, tell them to practice a little first. It will be good for them in the end.
Advice to the Loveworn By DON WAN
WE SEEM to be living in a climate of fear. that, unfortunately, even extends into the romantic realm where I function. People are afraid of every thing— wars, taxes, death, the high cost of loving—hut the boys and girls I come in contact with all seem to be afraid of one thing. They worry about getting fat.
I tell them. “Don’t worry about it. do something about it.” which is rather remarkable advice. I feel. I have done something about it. and I thought you all might be interested in the Don Wan Diet, or How to Lose Seven Pounds and Influence People.
Most diets miss fire because thev do one of two things wrong—they either starve you and you wind up looking like a corpse, or else they are too dainty and you get so hungry you eat more than ordinarily.
The Don Wan Diet is different. You eat enough, but not too much. It’s all in the scientific selection of foods, giving you the food values you need. 1 also approve of keeping your dining room table on a very level floor, thus insuring a well-balance table.)
Here is my diet day by day
MONDAY: Breakfast consists of sauerkraut juice with a twist of zucchini rind, two soft-boiled onions, a slice of raisin-bread toast (just eat the raisins, throw away the bread) and a cup of coffee without sugar, cream or coffee. Lunch is a salad meal—on a bed of cabbage leaves, place sliced artichoke hearts, cover with a dressing made from vinegar, salt and axle grease. Dinner starts off with Cream of Garlic soup, dotted with alphabet letters spelling out YOU’RE FAT, FAT. FAT. Then there’s filet of caribou, French fried wax beans, and succotash, without the tash. Dessert is a parfait made from whipped cream, ice cream, chocolate syrup and strawberries. Fat the strawberries and, for roughage, the glass.
FRIDAY: Same. I If, for reasons of your religious faith, you can’t eat caribou, substitute filet of barracuda.)
SUNDAY: If you’re still alive, the same.
Monday morning, look at yourself in the mirror. See that speck over there in the center? That’s cute little you, skinny.
And now. to answer some of my voluminous mail:
Dear Mr. Wan:
I tried your diet. And I just want to tell you—I’m sorry, I’m too weak to finish.
Dear Litter Case:
Always glad to be of service.
Dear Mr. Wan:
“I’m a college boy and I’ve been laboring under the delusion that college boys should date—and, eventually, marry—college girls. It seems fitting that that is the case. But the other night I went out with some of the boys in the fraternity house and we met some town girls. I got to meet a blatantly sexy chick who is a waitress by persuasion. She’s pretty ignorant of cultural things—she thinks that Lord Byron is a calypso singer, for instance—hut, wow, can she make love! I’m very interested in her, and contemplate marriage. What do you think?
Dear High. Highbrow:
Brains are nice to have around the house, but if all you want out of a wife is someone to share your love-making hobby, it doesn’t make any difference what her IQ is. However, there’s more to marriage than love. There is, for example, income taxes. At income tax time, it helps to have a wife who knows all the underhanded deductions you can take. My advice is to keep your waitress friend around for laughs, hut don’t marry her. One of these years, her charms will go up in a puff of obesity, then, if she’s
Mrs. Hugh Highbrow, you’ll be stuck for a hefty divorce and alimony hill. If she’s just a good friend, you can pay her off with a relatively inexpensive diamond clip and be scot free.
Dear Mr. Wan:
I am a waitress and I always figured I’d marry a waiter one of these years and stay with my own kind. But the other night I met a college boy who is tall, dark and intelligent. We made beautiful music together. Now he wants to marry me. What do you think?
Dear Tray Gay:
There’s no reason at all why a waitress can’t marry a college boy and the two live happily ever after. Actually, being a waitress is grand background for the wife of a professional man—when he can’t make a living, you can always go back to work, since you have a trade. So marry the guy, enjoy yourself, live it up. P.S. Don’t read the answer to the preceding question.
If you’ve already read it, forget it. If you don’t forget it, just remember one cardinal rule of people who write columns like this — “Don’t know what you’re talking about, but be positive anyhow.”
Dear Mr. Wan:
Seventeen years ago. I met a girl and we got engaged. Then she went off to sea I she’s a mate, by trade) and was gone sixteen years. Got back a few months ago. I hardly recognized her. She has two hulls-eyes tattooed on her chest, she smokes a pipe, she has muscles as big as grapefruits and she curses. I still love her though, hut wonder about our life together. Can she settle down? What kind of a mother would she he? How could I introduce her to im friends? Let me know your opinion, please.
Are you sure of this woman? In the first plaee. are you sure she’s a woman? I would suggest some slight investigation, to assure yourself of her sex. If you are satisfied on that score, I would also make a point of finding out whether or not she’s true or fickle; maybe she has a boyfriend in every port. Finally. 1 would insist on seeing her mate’s license: maybe all this bit about being a sailor is a cover-up for something sinister, like perhaps she’s reallv a soldier. However, if you are convinced that she is telling the truth, go ahead and marry her. And good riddance to both of you.
Dear Mr. Wan:
I think you’re full of bologna. You told me a couple of issues ago that 1 should marrv the girl. So I married her. You’ve never seen a more miserable w retch than me. She’s got me under the thumb so tight I feel like a second-hand thumb tack. I can’t go out alone. I can’t even cash my paycheck. I can’t do a thing. Why don’t you drop dead?
Dear New Groom:
Dropping dead isn’t as easy as it sounds. Have you ever tried it? Come to think of it. maybe that’s the solution to your problem. Or. I»etter still, a little rat poison in her tea might work wonders. I am not one to advocate violence, you understand, hut you do seem to be in a pickle.
Dear Mr. Wan:
As an expert in romance, sir. 1 wonder if y ou can shed any light or something that seems to have occurred. I am a man in my 70s and I’ve been quite successful with the ladies for well nigh 60 years. And they seem to be getting younger. I keep trying to act my age, and go out w ith babes my own age. but even girls I went to school with seem to be younger all the time. Is this true, or are my senses failing me?
YOUNGER THAN SPRINGTIME
Dear Younger Than Springtime: My dear boy, there’s nothing wrong with your senses. You’re just in the prime of your life. Perhaps the girls do seem younger to you; that’s because your heart is young and you see through your heart. Keep it up. Enjoy yourself. I only hope that when I’m your age — in a year or so — I’ll still have your faculties. You old goat, you.
Dear Mr. Wan:
I am a young girl, just blossoming into womanhood. It gives me a strange feeling — sort of like goose pimples w ith Elvis Presley’s picture on each one — w henever 1 get kissed by a boy. Is this what’s meant by sex?
FEELING MY WAY
Dear Feeling My Way:
That’s the start of it. child. It is a strange feeling, this sex business. And it s a wonderful feeling. Savor every moment of it. I f you send a stamped, self-addressed envelope, with your name, address and telephone number. I’ll be glad to find time in my busy schedule to give you some private lessons. At no charge.
Dear Mr. Wan:
I am mad for this girl, named Clara-bella. And I’ve proposed 19.5 times — that half-time doesn’t really count; I fell off the sofa in the middle — but she keeps saying, “Dream Foot, I’m sorry, but I don’t love you.” I’ve tried everything — getting down on my knees, sending her flowers and expensive gifts, but still no success. Is there a tried and true method of proposing?
Dear Try Again:
No, Sir, there’s no tried and true method of proposing. Maybe you’re pressing too hard. Usually, these things just sort of happen. A boy wiH say something innocent like. “Gee, that was a good movie we saw tonight,” and the girl will say, “Yes, I will marry you,” and that’s it. In your case, something more drastic is needed. Have you tried torture? A burning cigarette butt, placed at strategic locations, can often turn a “no” into a “yes.” You can often pick up medieval torture devices — racks, thumb screws and other toys — at antique stores. Place her on the rack and even if she still says no, it’ll be a fun evening.
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