It was in the days of bachelor pads and Christa Speck...the most beautiful Playmate ever.  The cool jazz of Ella, Sinatra, Mathis and the Count with Johnny Rivers and Maynard thrown in every once in a while.  The apartment in a complex with as many airline stewardess neighbors as possible.  Chevis and waters by the pool.  Trying not to look drunk when you were totally blatto.  Hoping to scope out ittsy bittsy, teeny weenie, yellow polka dot bikinied chicks if you stayed by the pool long enough,  and even though you had a strange colored tan with dark orange hands, elbows and kneecaps compliments of a five buck bottle of Man Tan.

Trying to cook from the recipes of Playboy chef Thomas Mario (who, although I never saw a picture of him, I know was far cooler and more urbane than Emeril), smoke a pipe and basically live like Hugh Hefner said we should.  And to be sure we knew how, he told us every month in the Playboy Philosophy and the Playboy Advisor columns.

And I never doubted for a second this was the real Me.  I just had a different name and was shorter than Hef.  And I lived in Denton, Texas and he lived in Chicago.  How could that really matter?  I knew they were nothing more than minor obstructions to Playboy bachelor justice.

So on my limited college budget I decorated my apartment with Danish Modern furniture on top of a turquoise and orange shag carpet, had Ella and the Count playing on the Gerrard record changer, puffed on my pipe and invited the airline stewardesses by for cocktails and a bit of my interpretation of the Playboy philosophy (which they hardly ever bought). 

And I made sure my turquoise and orange shag had been freshly raked before the cocktail hour.

For future reference, I saved every Playboy Magazine.  I've got them from July 1962 through December 1971.  And I had them all professionally bound just like good books.  Leatherette covers with gold lettering on the spines and fronts, sewn and glued...the whole nine yards. 

And then after all of that Playboy lifestyle concentration, wouldn't you know, I fell in love and got married.  (No, not to an airline stewardess. And she's never once worn an ittsy, bittsy, yellow polka dot bikini)

So, I've been toting these volumes around for years.  Now I know it's time for me to accept the fact that my Playboy days are over.  My wife says that at 67 it's time to stop dreaming.  It ain't gonna happen for you, she told me. 

But can it be that your Playboy days aren't over? 

Or maybe you still think there is time for you to be one?

Or perhaps you've unintentionally moved into an apartment building loaded with airline flight attendants who'll watch Kendra, Holly and Bridget on"The Girls Next Door" with you on your huge plasma with the surround sound.

These handsome bound Playboy volumes would go a long way in validating that Playboy You for all of your visitors.  And you'll also be able to see so many of the beautiful "Girls Next Door" who posed sans bras before there were implants, piercings and tatts.  There are even a few of my dear Christa.

And then try to tell me if Christa Speck wasn't the most beautiful of all.  And to think, she wasn't an airline stewardess and she was never my real life girlfriend, and now I know that she never will be. 

My God, it's totally cruel that I'm being forced to face these realities!

Oy vey, please buy these 19 Bound Volumes (14 Magazines ) - best offer over $1,000.00 - and put me out of my misery.