Born Joan Lucille Olander in a small South Dakota town, Mamie Van Doren rose to "Blonde Bombshell" status in Hollywood when she signed with Universal Pictures in 1953, right on the heels of Marilyn Monroe. This comprehensive biography explores Van Doren's early life and career, spanning from her start as a bit player in Howard Hughes' Jet Pilot to her significant role as the last surviving member of Hollywood's infamous "Three M's": Mamie Van Doren, Marilyn Monroe, and Jayne Mansfield. A complete filmography lists Van Doren's roles in film and television. Entries include a plot synopsis, cast and crew details, and in many instances recent and contemporary reviews.

Atomic Blonde: The Films of Mamie Van Doren

Humor & Entertainment

Lowe, Barry

Movies

McFarland Publishing

Media Mythologies

Univ of New South Wales

Born Joan Lucille Olander in a small South Dakota town, Mamie Van Doren rose to "Blonde Bombshell" status in Hollywood when she signed with Universal Pictures in 1953, right on the heels of Marilyn Monroe. This comprehensive biography explores Van Doren's early life and career, spanning from her start as a bit player in Howard Hughes' Jet Pilot to her significant role as the last surviving member of Hollywood's famous "Three M's": Mamie Van Doren, Marilyn Monroe, and Jayne Mansfield. A complete filmography lists Van Doren's roles in film and television. Entries include a plot synopsis, cast and crew details, and in many instances recent and contemporary reviews.

Biographies & Memoirs

Arts & Literature

McFarland Company

Deanna Durbin in Hollywood: Her Life, Films and Music

McFarland

Excerpt from: Carbon Dating The Bear  I'm as embarrassed as hell. Normally, I wouldn't even consider appearing in public like this. Naked, except for handkerchief-sized red Speedos strung up between my ass cheeks like those Aussie lifesavers. I hope none of the neighbors is watching as I knock on the door to my best mate Robbie's house, hoping he won't answer the door. I'm praying it's his dad.  You see, I have a problem. I'm 19, pretty good looking, not an ounce of body fat on my slim, okay, skinny frame. Long, black hair, which hangs seductively across my face. My dick is average size, between 6½ and 7", depending on which porn movie is in the DVD player when you measure. My body is twink hairless except for a clump of pubic seaweed, and my ass is smooth as butter and as bubbly as a balloon. Okay, what's the problem, you're asking? The problem is I just can't get laid. Let me rephrase that. I can't get laid by the guys I fancy. I suppose two telling points I should mention here: I'm a bit on the, shall we say, less than macho side, nothing flaming, but you'd never mistake me for Russell Crowe. Plus, I'm a top. Sure, I'd love to reciprocate, but just the idea of a cock entering my butt hole sends my body into shutdown and sphincter central locks all entrances to the building. Oh, did I mention my homme (yes, I'm studying French at college) of choice is a delicious, mature daddy with just a fleck of grey through his temples highlighting his desirability. Hair on his head is not essential. Hair on his chunky body is. The more fuzz that covers his body, the better I like it. The better I like it, the harder my cock gets. Alas, most men of that age either find it too arduous to douche or simply only have time to stick their dick in any available cubhole and squirt before racing home to the wife, husband or spouse of unspecified gender. I usually satisfy myself with a quick fumble in a borrowed bedroom, a suburban shithouse, or a noirish alleyway, only occasionally going upmarket for a quick blowjob in someone's Ute or family sedan with baby seat attached. Once I encountered a truckie, who was everything I ever dreamed of, until he took off his trousers and revealed he was wearing white stockings and a suspender belt. No wonder then that last night I was running off at the mouth on meeting a gentleman of such proportion and charm that I was practically drooling. It was the occasion of a charmless party that I'd attended with mates Robbie and Viz. Unusually, none of us scored that night. "There was no one there over 35." I moaned dramatically. Robbie and Viz in the back seat were indulging me, though not without a certain amount of eyes heavenward.

Bear Skin: Hot Gay Bear Erotica

Literature & Fiction

Erotica

Lydian Press

Sex, drugs, and insatiable bottoms. Who doesn't love a good bottom boy? The men in these stories are better than good...they're totally insatiable, they simply can't get enough of what keeps them happy. Whether it's the guy who misses his stop on the last train of the night and ends up with three hunky workman repairing the tracks, a bottom who falls, literally, at the feet of three hot workers putting in a speed hump outside his door, a sex shop worker who goes to the aid of his favorite porn star bottom, a straight boy who bets his ass on a sure thing in a card game, a top man who finds his real calling at a private sex club, or the lead singer in a Korean boy band, these boys give new meaning to Entry at the Rear. Excerpt: I’m such a fuckwit. How else would you explain my predicament? The facts speak for themselves; it’s two o’clock in the morning, it’s the middle of winter, and I’m pissed off my brain – at least I think I’m pissed because it could be drugs – wearing nothing but a T-shirt, and jeans, with bare feet. I lost my sneakers somewhere during the night. Where am I? Your guess is as good as mine. Godknowswhereville, attempting to hitch a ride outa here. The whole thing is my own fault. There, I freely admit it. Are you laughing yet? Why are gay men so fuckin’ boring? They’d rather sit around discussing the latest Lady Gaga clip or gay rights for Antarctic penguins than get down to the nitty gritty. Where are the real men? Gay guys who like it rough and ready at the click of their fingers, who want nothing better than to ram a moderately hot just-past-twink-years bottom like me? I spent the night bored off my brain at a gay pub where a group of gay swingers thought they were on to a good thing by inviting me on a date. Better that they had just thrown me on the ground and had their way with me. A fuckin’ date! Do I look like someone who wants to go on a date? Fuck me. My filthy mouth always gets me into trouble. I’m too direct. There, I managed to restrain myself. I was gonna put the F word before at least three or four more of those words in those couple of sentences but I’ve learned too much of a foul mouth and you sound like one of those wussy porn movies where the actors sprout bad dialogue while looking as bored as I’d felt all fuckin’ night. After the pub almost sent me catatonic I headed to a disco where the music almost burst my ear drums and the only action in the Men’s was of the snorting or injecting kind and I don’t mean injecting in my ass. Somewhere between when I’d paid to go into the disco and leaving the leather den, I lost my wallet – or else it’d been lifted by some skanky fag – and I no longer had taxi fare home. Proof enough that I must have been in a bad way, it took me some time to realize I’d left my shoes inside the leather den but when I went back the door was closed and no amount of banging got me an answer. Plus for the first fuckin’ time in living memory the weather bureau got it right and the cold front had moved in: a bitterly cold wind that froze my balls off. Only thing in its favor was it made my nipples hard as icicles. Problem was, no one was sucking. My lack of mates, the sort who’d allow me to sleep on their living room floor let alone share their bed, sank any chance of a warm place to kip. I guess I must have looked the worse for wear because guys were giving me a wide berth as I walked up the street. In frustration, I shouted at one pissy bunch who giggled like high school girls at the fact I had no shoes. “Have I got two fuckin’ heads or something?” No cash for a cab meant sleeping in a park or a shop doorway for the night. I glanced up at the clock on top of the gay pub on the corner. Shit! If I hurried, I might just make the subway. Last train was due to leave in about fifteen minutes. I’d have to jump the turnstiles but that wouldn’t be the first time.

Butt Boys: Gay Anal Erotica

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Books by Lowe, Barry