Hugh Hefner sent me a letter last week. It was a big surprise, even though Hugh and I have a lengthy relationship. I saw my first copy of his magazine in the early 60s. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at but liked

it better than Reader’s

Digest.

Mr. Youngblood next door kept the latest issue around the house. His daughter was my age and would sneak me a copy. I never figured out why. She didn’t seem to like me very much so it couldn’t have been that. I know she wasn’t trying to charge my batteries; they were in the red most of the time already. Maybe she was creating a diversion.

By the time I left

home I was buying Playboy

every month. I finally figured out it was cheaper to subscribe in 1970. Two months ago I decided to let my subscription lapse. One of us has changed over the years, and it isn’t worth even the discounted special customer price anymore.

Still the letter was a surprise. My relationship with Hef is the longest of my life. My kids aren’t that old. Their mother hasn’t spoken to me in 15 years. My parents are gone. Randy and Richard are still around, but we don’t touch base every month. Hef and I have stayed together for over 40 years.

It’s always been a simple agreement. I would send him money, and he would send a glossy paged collection of male fantasies, political ideas, and really good writing. In all that time he never wrote me a letter to thank me or ask my opinion about the Playboy philosophy or see if I knew any good looking girls.

I sent three stories to him over the years and the form rejection I got back was from someone else. That didn‘t matter. I knew he had lots of stuff going on running the club and putting the magazine together and keeping up with the Dahm triplets. I never expected a personal greeting.

Playboy magazine helped shape me. The first time I saw a live girl undressed I started looking for the staples. I got rid of bad habits when I discovered they were “turnoffs” for the Playmate of the Month. All the toys and cars and stuff in the bachelor pads educated me about the finer things.

I formed political

opinions based on Playboy

articles. I discovered Hunter Thompson, Asa Baber, and Travis McGee in those pages. I learned that cooking and respecting women were manly things and got closer to the interviewees.

So the letter surprised and touched me. He even used a little known nickname, “Subscriber,” when he wrote and said he doesn’t contact regular people every day. So I’m honored. Not enough to start buying the magazine again, but still.

Naked pictures were never enough to get my money, and offering a better deal doesn’t

change things. The Playboy

magazine I grew up with no longer exists. The current one is more like FHM, or Cosmo. The difference is noticeable and disturbing. One of us is no longer interesting to the other. I just hope it isn’t me that changed.