The pairing of music and sex is natural. Many names for genres of music are actually just euphemisms for sex. Bop? Sex, obviously. Rock and roll? Of course. Funk. Definitely. And even jazz, which according to music historians was just a mutation of the word jism. So Bob Tralin's Jazzman in Nudetown makes perfect sense, conceptually. This is about a sax player named Jock Midnight who's fleeing murder charges and somehow manages to get involved with a series of strange women along the way, including a pair hunting for buried treasure and a 6'5” dynamo named Lily Mae. 1964 on this, from Gaslight Books. Consider it an addition to this collection, and check out more from Tralins here. 

S. Robert Tralins returns with another piece of sleaze, 1953's Corporal Glory, which he wrote for New York City based Exposition Press. Tralins worked extensively in this genre, even seeing his 1963 book Pleasure Was My Business banned in Florida. This cover lacks the usual lurid blurbs because it's actually a hardback dust jacket. Yes, this got published in hardback. Maybe he was a better writer than we think. See more Tralins covers here and here. 

The James Bond book and movie franchises spawned an army of literary and cinematic spies with numerical and acronymic designations. The film we talked about yesterday is a good example, and 1964's television show The Man from U.N.C.L.E. is another. Author Bob Tralins joined in the fun in 1966 with his creation The Miss from S.I.S. The letters stood for the Society for International Security, and the group consisted of women—particularly lead spy Lee Crosley—cleaning up the mess men had made of the globe. Above you see the three entries in the series with their great cover art that is, amazingly, uncredited. We'll keep digging for info. In the meantime, more Bob Tralins here. 

One of the early cover collections we put together dealt with the theme of women interrupted while skinny-dipping (for our non-U.S. readers that's a term for swimming naked). Above is a fun addition to that group—Hillbilly Nympho, written by Bob Tralins, for Rendezvous Reader books, published 1961.

This was also put out the same year by Tuxedo Books as Naked Hills. Tralins, a few of you may remember, was the man who ghost-wrote Pleasure Was My Business, the infamous tell-all about the South Florida prostitution trade by flesh peddler Madame Sherry, aka Ruth Barnes. The book was banned in Florida and prompted a massive lawsuit from the former king of Egypt, Farouk I, who Madame Sherry had named as one of her best customers. We talked about that way back. See here. 

Here’s a July 1962 issue of the tabloid Vice Squad, with several interesting items on the cover. Cadillac girls—self explanatory, very smooth ride. Sexual cripples—ditto, very rough going. Same with sex roulette (bad odds), perversion unlimited (sticky ends), and the phobic feature on "lesbians and homos." But, aha, the story on Farouk’s $400,000 libel suit against a Miami cathouse operator is well worth detailing.

In brief, Ruth Barnes, a Miami madame who went by the nom de directeur Sherry, published an autobiography—ghost-written by veteran sleaze author Bob Tralins—called Pleasure Was My Business. The book named a raft of celebrity clients, including the ex-king of Egypt, Farouk I. Furthermore, it claimed he was not only a regular client, but that in 1952 he once snuck into the U.S. via some helpful port authority folks and rented Madame Sherry’s entire house for a night of fun and games. Quite an incendiary claim.

When Farouk learned he'd been outed, he flipped out and sued for libel, specifically claiming he was never in the U.S. at the time in question and he was outraged and infuriated and humiliated and so forth. The suit was not for $400,000 but rather $750,000, which was a fortune at the time, something in the area of five million in today's dollars. Long story short—Farouk lost. Not only had he entered the U.S., he’d indeed entered Madame Sherry’s house and followed that up by entering a few of her employees.

The epilogue on this guy is so fascinating. Always a bit of a gourmand, he started life thin, and remained so through his heyday, but as middle age approached the eating caught up with him and by age forty he was tipping the scales at nearly three-hundred pounds. One night, after gorging himself as usual, he collapsed and died. He was 45. We’ve taken the lesson to heart here at Pulp Intl., and we’re cutting back on the fatty foods and getting more exercise. But we’re never, ever giving up the hookers so don’t even ask.