Last night, a story on the tv news gave us word about some monumental Playmate decision. According to Hugh Hefner, Playboy hoped that the decision would destroy some kind of stereotype. The first of two important realizations from this moment was that if a fossil from the Pleistocene Era ever decides to become a "swinging bachelor," the current Hugh Hefner gives us a good idea of what he'll look like. The second realization came when the terminally perky anchoress made the comment "And what stereotype would that be?" I found myself replying to the tv set, "Honey, the only differences between you and the supposedly one-dimensional bimbos you're feeling superior to right now is a set of implants and better taste in clothes."
This was the moment where it all sank in for me. For my entire adult life, I have had a fantasy, a darker one than Jimmy Doyle's by far, and one that may be shared by no other male: I get hot watching female news anchors. Now that you've gotten the involuntary shudder out of the way, let me explain. When I see Little Miss Prissy pretending to be real serious and understanding the story she's reading, I just know that there's a tigress inside that business suit that wants to sweat the shellac out of her hair doing nasty things to perhaps two to twenty men at once.
True, there are genuinely asexual News Units out there, but these are a distinct minority. I got a hint of what was possible back in the early 80's. At that time, a woman now on one of the big networks was working at one of our Portland stations. In her 20's then, this attractive young lady was a fixture at the club and music scene in town, and I was more familiar with the sight of her taking hits from a bottle of Corona or dancing to Billy Rancher than describing a water bureau hearing. Now when I see her in her current high-profile position, all I can remember is her hips moving ever-so-delightfully inside oh-so-tight jeans on the dance floor.
Just in case anyone out there would like a further look into this dark world, here is my terribly biased assessment of some of my current faves:
Kim Singer and Kathy Smith: For literally decades, both women have occupied my fantasies as often as any porn star or stripper you can name. There is a secret sassiness to the delivery of each woman. One gets the sense that when either one talks about having "seen it all by now," they're speaking as much about tricks in the sack as about ice storms and political infighting. No one lasts as long as these two without knowing exactly what she wants and not being shy about asking for it. I would expect either or both to have an extensive video library of scenes that could destroy careers in politics, news and sports if ever made public.
Reed Coleman: If you've seen Reed away from the studio, you know she's the Portland anchor most likely to be popping in or out of Satyricon. In fact, if she's mellowed out after our face-to-face meeting, she's the one woman in Portland news I would expect to be a regular reader of this magazine (Reed, I never was a stalker, I swear to God).
Shirley Hancock: No one is this "I-am-so-June-Cleaver" in real life! I mean, really. Anyone who doubts me, try this experiment at home: picture Shirley in black leather, wielding a cat-o'-nine-tails and being very mean. I'd be willing to bet that anyone that determined to be "nice" has got some very specific ideas about ways to make people behave.
I hope that I've ruined the experience of watching tv news for you. From now on, when some anchor-atrix is droning on about trade talks, imagine that someone is under that desk, head between her legs, doing his best to break her concentration.