Ode to Liv Lindeland: Memories of Nordic Grandeur and a Revolutionary Pelt

A torso forged in the smithy of Thor...

A torso forged in the smithy of Thor…

First, let me mention: Get my new X-rated novella “April in Paris: The Erotic Travels of April Jones”!!

Now onto the serious topic of Liv Lindeland…

When I was a teenager, my friend Alyssa’s father impulsively bought things at auction, imagining them collectible; they usually remained untouched in storage. In the summer of 1987, he bought a bound parcel of Playboy magazines from the 1970s; he had no salacious interest in them and I ended up poring through them with Alyssa with almost scholarly interest. Well, mixed with a touch of prurience; and I’m pleased to say that the liberated 70s brought a touch of blithe, unaffected, even touching charge of sexuality to the moribund publication.

Of the Playmates, I remember Liv Lindeland the best, Playmate of the Month January, 1971 and Playmate of the year, 1972. She was a willowy model from Norway, photographed the side, wrapped in a blanket as blue as the bands of the flag of Norge, smiling with unconcerned innocence, leaning forward to emphasize the sublime superhumanity of her natural Nordic breasts, which seemed to invite (like some museum artworks that display “do not touch” when others do not), the natural inclination to suckle at the teats of Freya, the goddess of fertility. But history was made by the spectacle below, the first pubic hair to appear in a Playboy pictorial, delightfully tufted and dirty blonde; the teasing invitation to enigmatic, innocent pleasure.

Freya rises

Freya rises

That is where the mind leads, dear reader, into those valleys, dark and hidden from view. I’ve since been inspired to let the foliage of my valleys runs wild in tribute.

But in other photos, she actually appeared different and marginally more earthbound, lingering in fields, playing a guitar, ensconced in a 70s womb chair. The angles humanize her, and she becomes (for a moment), a freckled exchange student or wood sprite. But my memories return to the folded triptych and the blazing pudenda of the deity.

I seized the January 1971 issue and took it home with me, hiding it under my mattress. I occasionally touched myself as I admired Liv’s centerfold, more in solidarity with her sublime image than anything else. I am definitively a straight female, and the new fixation seemed like an organic extension of my sexually omnivorous nature, one of a hundred enigmatic turn-ons that I accepted with a sigh and tingling of the loins.  I surrendered calmly; the act was justified by its pure pleasure.

I felt my muscles contract around my probing fingers as I imagined Liv arriving in a heavenly trance, lowering her sacred flesh to my lips, first tempting me to bite before withdrawing capriciously into Valhalla. Perhaps I wanted to become her, reincarnated as the divine subject of a slobbering admirer’s attentions.

In the early 80s, she posed for Playboy again. Her hair was pulled back severely, and she broadcast a well-earned, imperious aura. Her flesh was riper and less willowy; the fertility goddess had reached her apotheosis.

Where are you now, Liv? Alas, there can be no beauty without decay; but you remain preserved, faded and stapled.

In closing, let me mention: Get my new X-rated novella “April in Paris: The Erotic Travels of April Jones”!!



sylvialowry1 (at) gmail.com

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