#guild press

[uwmspeccoll]

Steamy Saturday

Navy Blues by Washington, D.C.'s “Sultan of an X-Rated Empire” J.J. Proferes, was published in D.C. by the gay publishing house Guild Press in 1966. The novel follows the routine life of bisexual Navy Yeoman Barney Reardon. Despite its sleazy appearance, with classic beefcake and Tom of Finland-style illustrations, and several explicit bisexual scenes, Navy Blues is a fairly straightforward, moderately well-written narrative of the life a Navy sailor. We just wouldn't recommend it for little Johnny or Sally to read, or for the priggish reader.

J.J. Proferes was a noted figure in D.C.'s 1960s and 1970s gay community and was instrumental in the city's gay rights struggle. He owned two gay porn cinemas in the early 1970s, the Metropole Cinema and the Mark II, which was charged with obscenity for showing the porn film Deep Throat. The Metropole supported D.C.'s first Gay Pride celebration in May 1972 with special screenings of films during the festival.

Proferes was a friend and colleague of H. Lynn Womack (1923-1985), the owner of the Guild Press, and wrote some 200 hardcore gay pulp novels for the press. The cover design for Navy Blues is by Guild Press art director Vick Lester.

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[readerofwriters]

HONEY, WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

by Diane E. Sterling

She was my wife,

She was my cook,

She'd wash my socks

and fetch my book

She'd shampoo my car,

clean the garage, run the house

and tend the yard

She didn't need money

didn't need praise

couldn't get tired

and wouldn't complain

She never asked

so I didn't help

I just sat around,

and watched her

Watched her toil,

scrub and sweat

doing the laundry

and bathing our pet

When she left

I was very surprised!

When the maid comes in

it just isn't the same

She does get money

and loves to complain!

Diane E. Sterling, "Honey, where are you now?," in Survival: Cycle of a Black Woman, ed. Mordecia D. Strickland (Guild Press, 1985).

[readerofwriters]

EVERY ONE OF US

by Deborah Kelly

Content warning: mention of lynching

they had just celebrated their 15th wedding

anniversary. everyone marvelled at how much

the two of them still resembled newlyweds. each

week he would bring home cut flowers or tiny bottles

of scented oil to put in her bath. he seemed

to enjoy demonstrating his love for her, sometimes

sliding up behind to wrap his arms around

her waist and drop his head on her shoulder.

so, when she walked into the bedroom that night

and found him slowly paging through the slick

magazine with its pictures of painted women

in various stages of being raped and beaten,

gagged and sliced, she lost all sense of time

and being. she felt the dreams of a black man who,

while strolling through the peaceful green

of a neighboring wood, comes suddenly upon

himself hanging by the neck from a poplar tree.

in that instant she knew what love is not

in that instant she realized how

well hated

she is.

Deborah Kelly, "Every One of Us," in Survival: Cycle of a Black Woman, ed. Mordecia D. Strickland (Guild Press, 1985).