On being a proud female fan of a distinctly male magazine

People reading in public places draw attention. On the bus, other passengers’ eyes wander… People reading in public places draw attention. On the bus, other passengers’ eyes wander toward a book perusing the text for some incidental entertainment on the way from point A to B. Bench reading leads to joggers – people more ambitious than I – angling their heads to scan a headline.

This behavior leads me to read things that turn actual heads. I’ve read the “Good News Bible,” pored over Howard Zinn and Machiavelli, and flipped through the Victoria’s Secret catalog, all on buses and benches.

Machiavelli draws stares. Victoria’s Secret raises eyebrows. But nothing catches attention like my favorite vice: Maxim.

Before anyone asks, there isn’t some journal specializing in microbial life or an alternative ‘zine of the same name. The Maxim I read is the same one gracing the racks of finer convenience stores. And invariably written below the masthead lies the subtitle reading: “for men,” telling me that, as a woman, I’m not a member of their target audience.

Yet, during each trip to 7-Eleven, I have to run my fingers over the glossy covers until I find it. When I do, squealing, jumping – hard to do in high-heeled boots – and perhaps a festive song ensue.

Marching back to my overheated room, I proceed to leaf through, hands leaving sweaty indentations on the pages. Being a periodical junkie, magazines litter the apartment. But Maxim gets the best rack in the house – the plastic shelving that functions as a coffee table in the center of the commons room.

Why do I afford this magazine – that doesn’t even want me as a reader – such an honor? The answer is as simple as the writing. Maxim isn’t any more than it pretends to be – a magazine written by men, for men. The writing is simple and tight, and the subjects range from liquor to gadgetry to movie reviews. Plus, the pictures are just this side of pornographic. Unbelievers can refer to the picture of Alicia Witt wearing hoop earrings and good lighting.

Women’s magazines have pictures of women. Men’s magazines have pictures of men, women, cars, cameras, Mexico and people who tried to swallow screwdrivers. And the latter list is infinitely more interesting than the former.

Glamour and its ilk lack substance. There are only so many ways to apply lip-gloss, and I’m happy with the using-my-index-finger method.

Many women’s magazines include some actual journalism – articles on women in Afghanistan, for instance. These are solid pieces of writing, done with honesty and integrity. But in context I find them too eager to please. Burying one actual article in a pile of fashion advice will not pique my interest.

Maxim strikes a balance between actual journalism and insipidness. It’s unpretentious and its view of women proves less insulting than most women’s magazines. In a recent issue, they reviewed a new album by The Donnas, gave it a four star review and mentioned the hotness that is all four Donnas. Contrastingly, I couldn’t find music reviews in Glamour, and the book reviews seemed to be solely about shopping and self help. Pandering to a preformed image of women insults me more than showing them half-naked.

As one friend put it, when she looks at Glamour, she feels inadequate. These women are painted up pretty, in extravagant clothes frolicking through lilac bushes. When she looks at Maxim she sees women portrayed as desirable, if heavily airbrushed. From this she knows that she too could be desired and digitally retouched.

Not all magazines will scratch my escapist itch. Stuff and Stun! are too plebian for my tastes, and Maxim’s derivative, Blender, is like the Designer Imposters to the real thing. Playboy stopped publishing short stories, and what’s a skin mag without literary merit? Plus, after trying to use one as a coloring book in a fit of intoxicated boredom, I can’t look at one without giggling.

But Maxim hits the spot, on bus, bench or bedroom floor. Now if they would just do something about the subtitle.

Sydney Bergman wants a subscription to Maxim for her birthday; since she already owns the bra on page … nevermind. Feedback can be sent to sbergman@pittnews.com.