I certainly did not anticipate the overwhelming tide of letters that were published in your July issue, most of them complaining that my comments about female midgets, especially redheaded ones, reflected nothing but the basest sort of male chauvinism. I had not felt, nor do I now feel, that my admitted lust for miniature redheaded women is in any way sexist, and I was quite frankly surprised and annoyed by these accusations, and by the suggestion from one of your readers (Dr. J. M., Seattle, Washington) that my “aberration” (as he called it) was nothing but a role-reversal acting-out of “the Snow White syndrome.” His diagnosis continues to baffle me. Full-blown sex in a king-sized bed with a perfectly formed little woman is hardly the same thing as cavorting with a gang of gnomic old men. I would like to call the good doctor’s attention to the definition of “midget” in the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language: “An extremely small person who is otherwise normally proportioned.”
Needless to say, the storm of protest quite unsettled me. Until then, I had enormously enjoyed your “Letters” column, which I found to be spirited, uninhibited, and literary besides. Such elevated dialogue, it seemed to me, was necessary in a free society, where sexual acts considered strange, bizarre, perverse, or merely monstrous might be revealed as natural and normal through a sincere exchange of ideas among consenting adults. I was surprised to learn, for example, how many men are sexually attracted to women with back problems, especially those wearing braces. Or, as a further example, I would never have dreamt that certain types of women are irresistibly drawn to men who have undergone surgery for the removal of knee cartilage. (For my tardy enlightenment, I thank the young lady who signed her letter M. S., Dallas, Texas, in your giant holiday issue.) And I was thoroughly amazed to learn how many couples use flavored yogurt to enliven their sexual encounters in or out of bed. My own aversion to yogurt remains undiminished, but an understanding of the needs and gratifications of others surely goes a long way toward an understanding of oneself. Returning to the point, the angry and hysterical letters you published concerning the apparently taboo subject of sexual intercourse between a female midget and a male of normal size (I myself am five feet eight and one-half inches tall, and built accordingly) shocked me, dismayed me, and caused me to reassess with regret what are surely preponderantly puritanical attitudes in this nation. It was not until your August issue, however, that the real problem started.
You’ll remember that you published my letter in May of last year, and that you headlined it (somewhat cutely, I felt) SMALL WONDER, and signed it Name and address withheld. Your “Letters” column (as I’m sure you know) warns that “Letters for publication should carry name and address — in capitals, please — though these will be withheld by the Editor on request.” I requested that you withhold my name and address only because it seemed de rigueur. For example, most of the gourmands who wrote in to describe the flavorsome uses to which they had put yogurt asked that their names and addresses be withheld, though God only knows why. To be perfectly honest, I once believed your editors were inventing all those unsigned letters. This was before you published my letter in May, of course, which I knew was genuine since I myself had written it. I assumed, too, that the July issue’s firestorm was equally genuine, and I thought I had seen the last of the correspondence in that issue — but instead, another letter appeared in your August issue. I reproduce that letter now, verbatim, including the precious headline which I’m sure was created by the same editor who headlined my letter.
TINY TURN ON
As a twenty-two year old redheaded (and red-blooded) female midget, I must say I was really turned on by that bald, mustached macho male who wrote to say he preferred abbreviated beauties to overblown broads. If ever you decide to pick up on his suggestion and run a midget in your centerfold, I hereby volunteer my face and form. My proportions, if you’re seriously interested, are a spectacular 24, 20, 25, and since your centerfold measures almost twenty-four inches opened wide, and since I measure only thirty-eight inches similarly, a nude centerfold photograph of me would be something very close to life-size. Think about it, and if you decide to go ahead with it, why not send the guy with the walrus mustache to take the picture? I’d be happy to oblige him in every way possible. L. E., Oaken Bow, North Carolina.
My first response to L.E.’s letter was, I am not ashamed to admit, anatomical. The very thought of photographing all three-feet two-inches of her in the nude was enough to trigger the wildest memories of what had happened with my first (and last) redheaded midget almost five decades before. Was it possible that your magazine would actually consider running a centerfold of a nude midget? Was it equally possible (vain desire!) that you would assign me to the pleasurable task of photographing L.E. in Oaken Bow, North Carolina?
And then I began to doubt.
Was the letter bona fide, or had it been concocted to spur another avalanche of angry responses from your readers? Immediately, I resurrected my earlier theory that all unsigned or otherwise anonymous letters were written by your staff editors, and concluded that the letter from L.E. had been written by one Louis Edwards, whose name appeared on your masthead — and who apparently had been sloppy enough to have used his own initials when signing his imaginary epistle. I even doubted the existence of Oaken Bow, North Carolina, until I looked it up in the Atlas that night after dinner — and then my entire perspective changed.
Oaken Bow did exist. It was a town in McDowell County, and it had a population of 787, and it could be found on the North Carolina map on page 109 at location D4, which I discovered was in the Blue Ridge Mountains, some twenty miles southeast of Asheville. I cannot begin to describe the enormous pleasure I derived from the simple act of locating Oaken Bow on the North Carolina map. If Oaken Bow existed, then it was entirely possible that L.E. also existed, that L.E. was in fact one of the 787 people living there, a twenty-two-year old redheaded (and red-blooded) midget who had invited me in print (was that legally binding?) to come take her picture in the nude for the centerfold of your magazine! I slammed the Atlas shut and turned to find my wife staring at me. I mumbled something about never having known Tasmania was so close to New Zealand, and then I spent the rest of the night longing for morning to come.
At the crack of dawn, I rose, showered, shaved, dressed, and was out of the apartment by seven-thirty. Instead of going directly to my office on East 40th Street, I went instead to Grand Central Station, where I searched through the out-of-town telephone directories until I found one for McDowell County, with combined listings for Garden City, Glenwood, Providence, Oaken Bow, Marion, Old Fort, and Sevier. My heart was pounding furiously as I scanned the “E” listings, and then my forefinger and my heart stopped almost simultaneously — I had found a listing for a woman named Lillian Eaton! It was the only L.E. listing in Oaken Bow, and I was certain even before I dialed the number that I had found my fiery-haired minikin.