Dear readers, I have a habit I just can’t kick. It keeps me up at night, tossing and turning (pages). I do it in the bathtub, in bed, on the couch, even on the metro. The cashier looks at me like a freak, as I creep to the register, petite and shy, and hand over my magazine with nervous fingers. What does he think? He must think I’m a pervert! An old-fashioned, boobie-oggling pervert! He must picture it, my magazine and me, close and comfortable, reclining…

Ahem. Back to the topic at hand:

I, Alison B. Bee, am addicted to men’s magazines.

Ok, it’s probably not as weird as I think it is, but we’re not talking GQ or Men’s Health here, we’re talking good old bikinis-and-cars magazines, like Stuff and FHM. I don’t know what it is about them, but I just find them riveting, laugh-out-loud funny, and gorgeously composed, even in the trashiest of cases.

Ok, it’s probably not as weird as I think it is, but we’re not talking GQ or Men’s Health here, we’re talking good old bikinis-and-cars magazines, like Stuff and FHM. I don’t know what it is about them, but I just find them riveting, laugh-out-loud funny, and gorgeously composed, even in the trashiest of cases.
I know you’ve probably read gobs of denouncements of and admittances of guilty pleasures in trash culture, but the funny thing is that I never saw these mags as “trashy” or in any way different from the normal stuff sitting around in the bathroom. Sure, they show women in compromising positions and questionable bikinis (I question, is that even a bikini, or a misplaced shoelace?) but so do Vogue and Cosmo. Do these magazines even participate in what our culture deems as low brow, or are they caught in a middle ground: elevated by opulent consumer goods on every page but debased by wacky gender norms?

Frankly, I can’t claim to know the answer. But, I am intrigued by this idea of a certain type of ‘visual pleasure’ that is derived from looking, specifically at materials meant for the eyes of others. What can I say for sure about my Stuff addiction? It’s not based in sexual fantasy. So, this brings me back to the beginning; if I’m not thinking about screwing the girls in the bikinis (I save that for Rosario Dawson on the cover of Bust…) why am I so riveted? Is it because the trashy is turned into a taboo? Is it a competitive feminine instinct that drives me to compare myself to the models? Is it a hope that the knowledge contained therein might teach me more about men? While maybe it’s a little bit of all of these, I think by-and-large the logical solutions don’t completely fit.

The most comfortable answer I can come up with is the thrill of being included in a reading that’s not meant for me. It feels subversive (and fucking fun) to laugh along at jokes about Entourage or morning wood. It strokes a special part of me, and maybe other women, too; it’s the part that wasn’t included in the ‘guy talk’ but always felt most comfortable there. It’s the part that feels constrained by just getting one heavily gendered periodical. It’s the part that maybe, just a little, feels excited by cufflinks and perky nipples, no matter how little sense it makes. …that, and I love the smell of men’s cologne. Oh, fold-out samples, you harlot.

Wanna swap centerfolds? You can contact me at gee.alibee@gmail.com