WELCOME TO THE BEEFCAKE JUNGLE, GUYS : <i> A Few Words of Advice From a Practiced Practitioner of Leg Art </i>

Well, well, whaddaya know. Summer movies are upon us, and hordes of guys are trying to muscle in on the cheesecake racket. Kurt Thomas, that cute gymnast, in something called “Gymkata” (with more gymnastic-themed movies promised down the pike). John Travolta cavorting--the publicists claim reporting , dressed to the nines--in “Perfect,” backed by Chippendale’s boy dancers and lots of beefcake gyrating in aerobics scenes. The ads for “One of the Boys,” in which a girl goes “undercover” in male drag for research purposes, suggest that male actors will be used liberally to decorate the locker room-- sans wardrobe. And is there any doubt that Sly Stallone will be pumping his pectorals for some bare-chested shots in “Rambo: First Blood II”?

Yes, hunks and hunklets (male starlets, don’t you know) seem to be going after the beefcake parts like peroxided extras at a Central Casting call for a beach party movie.

I wonder if the poor dears have any idea just what it is they are letting themselves in for. . . .

Welcome to the jungle, boys. And good luck. You’ll need it.

It’s not going to be easy for you to make your mark in this line of endeavor. You’re up against custom. Tradition. Habit. As you well know, up to now it’s been the female alone who has carried the burden of sexual titillation for the motion picture industry. Up to now only we girls have been required to do cheesecake duty, never you boys.

And how very clever those in charge were. They gave us this ritzy name for what they asked us to do for them. They called it Leg Art. Get it? Leg A-R-T? A phrase without a doubt designed to con us into believing that we were engaged in an endeavor of the most tasteful sort. Akin, say, to perhaps a De Kooning, or Picasso, or Matisse.

And it certainly worked. Because we all did it. From Theda Bara to Joan Crawford to Mary Martin to Grace Kelly--you name her, she has done, was or is doing it. Between pictures we would scurry to the still photographer’s studio to do our stint for A-R-T as scantily dressed as the time would allow. To pose under the lights in bathing suit, shorts, and lingerie. In negligee (falling open) or discreetly draped feathers or furs or perhaps strings of pearls. In bathrobes (falling open), or maybe clutching a towel. Or, better yet, stretched out in the bathtub itself with the bubbles and foam cunningly placed. There was actually no end to where a girl could sit/stand/lie to show off her cornucopia of goodies.

I certainly did my share, which was how I was able to catch on to the many tricks of the trade so handily. Learned to point my toes for the lengthening of the leg. I learned which angles showed them at their most provocative. And I learned that--just as the shutter was about to click--I must wet my lips (the seductive look, you know), pull in my stomach, shift my upper torso slightly sideways so that my breasts would be outlined against the backdrop, then to quickly take a deep breath that would thrust them forward in order that they appear larger than they actually might be.

Leg Art, you understand, was not merely one’s underpinnings on display. All delectable features of the female anatomy had to be accounted for.

Breasts were forever a focal point. And I must say I can see why. They are rather festive, aren’t they? Painters from Titian to Goya to Gainsborough to Renoir have most assuredly thought so. Therefore it was hardly surprising that the motion-picture makers wanted to get in the act.

But right off they ran up against an odd sort of censorship.

Although it never mattered how large breasts were-- au contraire , bigger was better, indeed everyone gloried in the mammoth boob--producers only ran into trouble when it came to what they called “cleavage.” “Careful you don’t show too much cleavage!” was the constant cry in the portrait galleries.

My dictionary says that “cleavage” means “the state of being cleft, or split; division.” Rather an overwrought word, if you ask me, for what was being referred to: to wit, the indentation, the sunken space that occurs between the two parts of a Brobdingnagian bosom, and tends to create a shadow, or a crease, or a curve (or all three) that can be seen when one is wearing decollete garb.

And that, in the 1940s, my dears, was taboo. Any sign of “cleavage” was Absolutely forbidden, with a capital absolutely. And if such a thing did manage to sneak through, retouchers went quickly to work to obliterate the saucy sight before the photo could be sent out to stir up an unsuspecting public.

The result was that often in the old stills you will see a chastely smoothed, flat-planed upper chest (where the flesh is bare), completely denying the existence of the twin treasures (covered) of such excitingly titanic proportion immediately below.

All that seems too utterly absurd, now, like a naive little finger in the dike, trying to stem the flood of all-out nudity that was on the way.

And did arrive.

At first only for females, naturally. The festive breast emerged from beneath the carefully draped silks and satins and chiffons to decorate our screens. Behinds, too. Shimmering bare bottoms showed up everywhere. On sheets. Walking upstairs. In showers. Under water. In cars. Lovely, pink, flower-like, lush female derrieres.

But as time went by, to my surprise, the boys, too, began to get in the act. And their bare behinds began to twinkle and shine here and there and everywhere.

To tell you the truth, I was rather relieved. I had been thinking all this time that women were never going to make any progress in their quest for equality. That they were still the ones being “lusted after” (if I may requote Jimmy Carter in Playboy), still the ones being “objectified.” One could easily get that erroneous impression when glancing at the current ads for flicks.

Now it seems it’s the boys who are to be objectified and lusted after as the ‘80s go forward. Now it’s to be the boys who will be appearing nude on sheets and in silk robes and bubbly baths with their lips all wetted up and their chests thrust forward and their dainty toes-y-wozies nicely pointed.

Well, I, for one (and possibly speaking for all of girlie-dom) am terribly pleased for you chaps. It seems only fair that you should have your turn, my darlings. We females ought to be ashamed to have kept the entire focus of concupiscence aimed exclusively at our own selves all these many years; ashamed to have so greedily hogged all of what must surely be one of life’s more edifying experiences--that of having one’s very own person the object of all that prurient thought bouncing around out there. For as we all know, the sipping from life’s cup for ourselves is the source of all good acting, the material with which a performer can better pursue his craft. And, alas, this particularly enlightening sort of experience--one’s own objectification--has been denied you boys.

But no more. Now you, too, will get to know the many rewards that come an object’s way. You, too, will learn what it’s like to walk down a city street and have entire construction gangs whistle at you, and call out, “Hey, cutie, how about it?” as well as other more graphic suggestions. (They’ll do it with even more gusto when they know what you look like all over.)

You will learn what it’s like to have drivers of passing cars lean out to ogle and yell similar invitations. (Actually, this part can turn out to be rather amusing on occasion. Once someone was so busily doing this to me that he ran his car smack into a telephone pole. I loved it.)

Oh yes, and one of the best delights of all was visiting the butcher shop in the little New England town where I lived for a while, and seeing on the back wall a chart of a naked Marilyn Monroe, her body marked off in sections as they do steers, to demonstrate the various cuts of meat. Chops here. Flanks there.

(I’ll give you one guess where “brisket” was.)

Now that you gentlemen have arrived, perhaps you, too, will have the joy of seeing one of these charts made up in your likeness. (It’s always good to have a clear picture of one’s true worth, don’t you agree?)

Ah, and I mustn’t forget to tell you of the thrill you’ll know when producers and directors and heads of studios and stars and agents all around our very own town turn to you, their eyes shining with unstinting admiration and approval and appreciation and homage and esteem--whenever they feel like having sex.

So welcome, my lads. As you can now see, the delights that are there for you to look forward to in your new line of work are simply multitudinous. I expect you will love every single golden moment along the way.

Love them . . . probably just about as much as we girls always did. . . .