Stag August 1981
English | PDF | 100 pages | 32 MB
Covergirl & Centerfold Angie Robbins
Outlaw Sex Cult: You Can Join The Porn Revolution!
Nude In New Orleans: Stag’s Angels Make Out At Mardi Gras
Mud Wrestling Mamas: Stag Gets It On In The Goo
Photo Exclusive: Annie Sprinkles For Stag
There was no reason for today to be a good day.
The taxi-driving geek who brought me to the office this morning, a worm-sucking Iranian in on a bad visa, had nothing to tell me but bad news. People like him get off on that.
I heard about muggings, murders and general Manhattan mayhem. By the time I left the cab I felt as frustrated as a two-legged dog with a terminal case of fleas and ticks.
But as I walked in the building, I put all that out of my head. When you’re in my line of work, you have to.
You know me, I’m a smut peddler. I’m the guy who goes out to the gutters, grabs the goods and splashes the gashes on these pages. It’s a thankless gig, but someone has to do it. I take comfort in believing that you guys appreciate it.
And that’s why the latest series of phone calls has me so pissed.
The brothers who are dialing me, are doing it to bitch. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me. Hell, I’ll listen to a gripe faster than a priest will take a confession. But in this case, I’m bothered.
Call me a prick, a bastard, a whore and you still won’t come close to what my mother has called me. But call me a liar and you’ll bring out the Merle Haggard in me; you’ll be walking on my fighting side. I know a lot of you guys think that you can whip me, but let me tell you something. Skinny guys like me are fast .. . and not only that, we fight dirty.
That said, let me get to what’s eating my ass. Back in my April issue, you know, the blue cover with the gorgeous redhead, I had a line on the cover which read, “Dial-A-Hooker.” It was on the cover because the information was on the inside.
I thought that was as obvious as a preacher on Sunday. Obviously, a lot of you didn’t agree.
I got phone calls, I got letters, hell, I even got a telegram, all complaining that there were no phone numbers in the issue and calling me a liar.
Well, like I said, call me anything, even late for dinner, but don’t call me a liar. The phone numbers I promised on the cover of the April issue are in the first paragraph of the story on page 28 of the same issue.
I can appreciate the fact that you look at the photos before you read the stories, so do I. But give me a break. Don’t cast me with pirates, turncoats, liars and Republicans without reading the articles.
I wouldn’t have promised it outside if I couldn’t deliver on the inside.
Stag exists to entertain and to inform. When we promise something—be it humor, sex or recreation—we come across. We put out what we promise. Which is why I’m annoyed.
I’ve broken my hump for you guys, and it hurts to think that you don’t trust me. I don’t have to do this. I could get a good-paying job as a Packard mechanic. I do it because I love it and because I believe in it and because I believe you have a right to know.
I also believe that you have a right, as readers, to take me to task if you think I’m jiving you. But I don’t think you have a right to call me a liar.
If you think you’re big enough, and bad enough, to label me that way, you better walk in these moccasins for a while. Do that, and I’ll either listen to you or fight you. Either way, we come out brothers.
All of that said, let me invite you into the August issue of Stag. Like every other issue, it’s a magazine which delivers what can’t be found elsewhere.
Stag searches out the sleaze.
Stag reports what others repress.
And call me a liar just once more, motherfucker, and I’m going to eat your heart.
And that’s the truth.
