Playboy has always been a target of parody. In fact Playboy liked to consider itself a advocate of the art of parody and satire. But the truth was that Playboy magazine was fairly thin-skinned when it came to being the butt of the joke.

In 1965 Playboy set out to produce a parody of itself. The idea appealed to Hef, a long-time fan of satire and wit who, at one time, thought he might grow up to be a cartoonist. So the assignment went out to the editorial and art staff to think seriously about making fun of themselves and the magazine that provided their paychecks. The problem was, the editors took their notions of sophisticated urbanity very seriously. But they'd been given an assignment by the Boss , so --clinching their teeth firmly on their collective pipe-stems -- they set about the task of ridiculing that which they held sacrosanct.

It was determined that the parody issue would be one of the regular monthly issues distributed to the same subscribers and newsstands that received the customary, authorized men's lifestyle publication. And that it would be written, photographed and illustrated by the same group of orthodox cosmopolitans who were being lampooned and ridiculed.

So Phyllis Diller was hired and photographed as the centerfold, LeRoy Neiman made paintings that ridiculed the sporting life and long-legged showgirls, Harvey Kurtzman produced an episode of "Little Annie Fanny" that portrayed Hefner as a nebbishy Clark Kent-style alter-ego to a costumed (actual) rabbit super hero. The Playboy Philosophy was sarcastically savaged. The Playboy jokes on the back of the centerfold were abundantly more half-witted than normal. And the Playboy Advisor doled out fallacious counsel to fledgling predators in search of lewd and dirty instruction.

A huge amount of time, energy and money was allocated on the project. The parody issue was completed, and the next step would have been plating and printing. In the "upcoming issues" section of the legit and sanctioned Playboy, the mock magazine was announced and promoted as impending. But, at the eleventh hour, weak-kneed editors got cold feet and pulled the plug. In the end, it was anathema that Playboy would make light of the suave and erudite concept it had worked so diligently to champion.

This all happened a decade before I joined the art staff. And it took me awhile to understand the legacy.

One of my functions as art director was to produce, create and direct humor pieces for the magazine. More often than not, I'd take a project through the entire process. Starting with a manuscript, I'd hire illustrators, photographers, and models. We'd build sets, shoot principal photography, have color separations made and prepare final paste-up boards in preparation for the printer. At every step along the way our progress was reviewed and initialed by the editors. And, too often, at the last minute the entire project was killed as being not Playboy compatible. This by the very same editors who'd approved the thing at every stage. Cold feet, I came to realize, was a congenital affliction at the Big Bunny. Late term abortions were common.

Delicious, fully developed projects bought the farm. Like "Frederick's of the Yukon", a faux catalog that was a combination of L.L. Bean and Frederick's of Hollywood. A fumetti (photo comic strip) that was intended to run monthly. And my cartoon biography of Hugh Hefner that was scheduled to publish in Playboy's twenty-fifth anniversary issue.

Of course there were projects that did see publication. Like "New Magazines for the 80s", with titles like "Apartment Drugs" (A fusion of "Apartment Life" and High Times".), "Tentacle" (a magazine that catered to multi-national military/industrial corporations), and "The Saturday Evening Klan" (With a cover in the style of Norman Rockwell's "Called on Account of Rain" that originally depicted a baseball game but, in my version, featured a cross-burning).

Also there was "The New Boy Scout Handbook" (Gay scoutmasters, merit badges relevant to the disco era and the burgeoning commodities market). And "Veterans of the Sexual Revolution", an homage to those brave souls who gave their all on the front lines of the Sexual Revolution, authored by the distrurbed Bill "Mad Dog Helmer, one of the scant crazed and less formulaic editors at the 'boy.

One of my closet friends at Playboy was Richard Klein. We all knew him as R.K.

R.K. was a photo assistant and was the brother of Barbi Benton, Hef's long time girlfriend.

R.K and I spent many happy hours smoking weed in the catwalk above the Playboy Photo Studio, watching naked women being photographed by internationally celebrated Playboy shutterbugs.

It came to my attention that a gaggle of humorists in NYC intended to produce a parody of Playboy titled "Playbore". Sedition has always occupied a warm spot in my heart, so I offered my services to the New York satirists.

Hugh Hefner and Barbi Benton had recently ended their intimate relationship. Barbi had frequently graced the cover of Playboy, so I thought it would be amusing if she were on the cover of Playbore. It would also afford her the opportunity take a little light-hearted revenge against her former inamorata. I asked R.K. if he would approach his sister on my behalf.

He agreed. As did she. Playbore had its covergirl.

I also created a few cartoons -- in the style of Playboy artists -- for the parody.

Then the Playbore people asked me if I'd be able to produce a nude pictorial for them titled "The Men of the Playbore Photo Studio". It would be like the typical nude photo spread in Playboy. Only it would be guys instead of girls.

The primary obstacle was to find regular guy non-models who would agree to pose nude and in feminine lingerie -- without remuneration -- in a nationally circulated magazine .

Placido Anatra was a friend of mine, a Sicilian connected by blood and covenant to the Chicago Outfit. We would often carouse and run amok in the Second City's bars and byways. We were in dark bar drinking lunch, and I explained my predicament.

"I think I can help you," Placy growled. "There are a couple of guys who owe me a solid."

A time and date was established. I'd created a set in a room at my apartment. Satin drapes, fresh cut flowers, and a bed strewn with brocade pillows and velvet throws. I'd laid out a wardrobe of dainty negligées, peek-a-boo panties and a couple of pink crinoline tutus. I'd illuminated the area with diffused lighting, and had a 35mm slr Nikon mounted on a tripod.

At the appointed hour the doorbell rang and I buzzed in Placy and my models.

I opened the door and Placy, in a full-length fur and large dark glasses, and two frightening-looking thugs, gained ingress.

"Skip," Placy purred. "These are th' Boys."

"Boys...meet Skip."

The Boys -- their eyes lidded and evil -- grunted and snarled. They looked me up-and-down, sizing up various possibilities. None of which were without savagery.

"Placy. You want we should whack this guy, or what?" snarled Boy #1.

Boy #2 smirked and grunted menacingly.

"Naw," said Placy. "You guys do whatever Skip tells you to do."

I cornered Placy and whispered "You told these guys what we're doing here tonight, right?"

"I didn't tell 'em nuttin'. They'll do whatever you say."

He looked at me over the top of his dark glasses. "I gotta go cop some pot. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"No. Wait!" I squawked. "I thought you were gonna stick arou..."

But it was too late. He slammed the door behind him and was gone about his business.

I explained to the Boys that I was going to be taking pictures for a parody of Playboy. And that they would nude models. And maybe dress in women's underwear.

The two of them locked me in their icy stare, unamused.

"So if you would just get undressed..."

Their bodies were covered with jailhouse tattoos, most of which were apparently applied freehand. Swastikas surrounded by barbed wire, double lightning bolts, eightballs, hell-hounds feeding on children, impaled eyeballs, clocks without faces.

"Ok. Stick your butt out, give me a coy glance over your shoulder. Lemme see a sexy pout."

So it went until Placy returned and the three left in search of other, more profitable, mischief.

A couple of days later I dropped the transparencies into an envelope and mailed them off to the Playbore people in New York.

For unknown reasons the editors at Playbore chose not to publish the pictures of the thugs. I suspect it was because -- I don't know -- they were so thuggish.

About a month later I was slaving over a hot deadline at Playboy when I received a phone call from the Boys.

Menacingly they said "We want them pitchers."

"Can't do it" I said. "I sent them to New York."

"Git 'em back!" they snarled. "We want them motherfuckin' pitchers." The line went dead, a harbinger I thought. Not a good omen.

I called Placy and asked if he could intervene on my behalf. He said "I think you should get the pictures back to them."

For a couple of weeks I was uneasy. A foreboding malaise swaddled me like a shroud. I became very aware of my surroundings, varied the routine of my activity and kept a sharp eye on those around me. But, after a time, despair gave way and I began to relax a little. But morbidity nagged me and remained nestled in a corner of my consciousness. I knew that those with an agenda would likely bide their time and smite at their leisure.

 Then one day I was having breakfast with Placy in Philadelphia. We were reminiscing about the old days, and our many harrowing experiences together.