Ellington

I was listening to Z106 the other day when the disc jockey started crowing approvingly that he had never had a Playboy Playmate on his show before. I soon learned that this particular playmate was from Clinton (the Bible Belt's buckle) and an employee of WorldCom. I tittered to myself because I had quipped months ago when I heard about the "Women of Enron" issue of Playboy that WorldCom would be next. It seems Sherrie Sloane ("with an i-e," her bright voice said when asked for a Web plug) is a graduate of Belhaven College and works as a financial analyst at the shiny-but-tarnished WorldCom digs in Clinton.

I decided to drive the 20 minutes over to Clinton to procure a copy of this fine magazine and see this Metro-dwelling chick for myself. I also thought it would be funny to buy the "Women of WorldCom" issue across the street (er, interstate) from the mammoth, partly empty, glass and steel building. My husband didn't quite get it, but said he'd go along for the ride…if he could have the magazine when I was done. He was still skeptical: "Why do we have to drive all the way over there? They're not gonna have it," he said.

We stopped at a Texaco on Highway 80. At the counter, clerk Angelea said they didn't sell Playboy. I asked her and the balding male customer beside me in line if I could buy it anywhere in the vicinity.

"You have to go to the mall," said the guy, knowingly. "It's the closest place."
I asked if he had seen the newest issue, with the "Women of WorldCom." You should have seen his eyes light up.

I put the question of men's fascination with nudie pics to my husband. "We're dumbasses," he said on the ride back to Jackson. He told me about the time a Mississippi State girl was in the "Girls of the SEC." (He ignored me when I said, "I bet her daddy was proud.") Two of his friends wanted to go look for her on campus, he continued.

"What would they do if they saw her? Run up and say, "I saw you nekkid'?" I asked him. "Probably just elbow each other and point," he responded.

Unlike many proud feminists, I see nothing wrong with taking your clothes off for money if you're so inclined—as long as you're in control. I figured out a long time ago that I could either use my body to my own advantage, or let other people (read: men) use it against me.

Let's be honest—skin sells. At 23, I started bartending and realized that if you unbutton your shirt just one more button ("One for the people," my husband says), you can increase your tip ratio. As a bartender you make more money, while strippers and Playboy bunnies can make a career out of unbuttoning things—for a while. Yes, a bartender should be witty, bright, capable of pouring drinks and something of a conversationalist. But, hell, a lot of skin can make up the difference.

We ended up at Books-A-Million on I-55. With a new book under my arm ("The Bitch in the House," a collection of essays about women's frustrations) I asked the cashier if they carried the dastardly 'zine. It was Halloween, and her sparkly bat antenna bobbed a "yes" as she turned to get a copy off the shelf behind her.

At home I tore off the wrapper and leafed through until I found our fair Clintonite. Nothing special. Just another pretty girl with a rack that could have been on a payment plan, wearing nothing but an unbuttoned, sleeveless flannel shirt.

What did I expect? That she would look different because she's a local girl? Somehow she would look like a neighbor or a friend or someone I went to school with? All I can say is that I was disappointed. I could look like that with a couple grand in surgery, Photoshop and 10 dollars' worth of lip gloss.

At least Ms. Sloane now has a story to tell her grandkids. And who knows—maybe there's some important "producer" somewhere looking for nekkid analysts from Clinton to whom he can hand out big breaks in show business.

But, if not, there are plenty of Jackson bars where the guys dig girls in flannel.