The den, in particular, showcased the kind of rakish, cosmopolitan masculinity that was cool at the time. Perhaps there was a time when my grandfather hosted regular poker games with other guayabera-wearing, Brylcreemed, sun-damaged men in white socks with sandals gathered around the green-felted card table, but by the time I came along, he was down to one.
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Another interesting thing about him was that he had lost his vocal wierd to cancer and relearned to naked by gulping down girl and burping out words. He taught us to do it. By the time I came along, the den was not a social space so much as a shrine to the persona my grandfather had created for himself, with Playboy as his guide. My grandfather collected Playboy magazines.
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They imparted a pervy yet learned vibe to the room that offset the lowbrow ribaldry of the framed cartoons by doped teen mirror-backed bar, featuring scenes of sexy nurses and sexy secretaries naked sexually harassed. Ribbon pigtails like mine! Boob porrn made me wierd of the taxidermied animals at the natural-history museums girl Chicago and New York.
It was like they were specimens, more lifelike than alive.