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Alberto Vargas (9 February 1896 – 30 December 1982) – is one of the best, and some call it the best artist of the Pin Up.
Alberto was born in Peru, his father was a well-known photographer Max Vargas. With 13 years young and talented Alberto owns an airbrush and helps his father to retouch photos. At 15 years young Vargas and his father went to Europe, where he studied languages ​​and art. Five years later, he comes to the United States.
Alberto quickly finds work in various magazines and Hollywood film studios, where one of his tasks was to manufacture movie posters. It was during this period that he creates a poster for the film “The Sin of Nora Moran” ((Majestic Pictures, 1933), where shows almost naked actress Joanne Zita (Zita Johann).
By 1940 – he was already a celebrity, creating illustrations, half-naked and naked girls for the Esquire magazine. Vargas also worked with Playboy. For sixteen years he has written more than 150 pin-up girls arts for the Playboy.
His work – a mixed media of watercolor and airbrush. Until now, he is considered one of the best artists who ever worked with airbrush.

Alberto Vargas girl

Read “A Fling with a Show Girl”

a Short Story Inspired by Vargas

A Fling with a Show Girl

She was a stunner – there was no doubt about that. Long, shining red hair that cascaded down to her shoulders like fiery waterfall. Bright eyes, shining green even in the dim light of the clubhouse. And the way she carried herself! That was something else; every step she took looked as though it had been choreographed by a dance troupe. She had grace.

 

From the moment she stepped out onto stage until the moment she left again I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Neither, I think, could any of the men in that room. Cigars smouldered, forgotten in ashtrays. Conversations were abandoned mid-sentence. Dozens of pairs of eyes scanned the slinky figure beneath her clingy white dress.

 

She sang. With a voice like smoke and caramel, she sang. And from the very first harmonious note, I knew that I wanted her. The only question was, how could I go about getting her?

 

I was at the Soho Underground Club on business, which had concluded several whiskeys ago. The men I’d come to meet were happily chatting away to one another, and not one of them batted an eyelid when I make my excuses, swept up my jacket and left.

 

I’ve always been a pretty smooth guy, and I can usually get what I want without too much difficult. Entrance into the private area of the club was a little tricky, but I managed to make my way around to the alley at the back and tip a cook who was smoking outside to let me in. Once through it was a fairly simple matter of looking as though I belonged as I made my way towards where I thought the dressing rooms would be.

 

It was a short corridor, and there were only two doors which weren’t already open. The labels on each were hand-written. One read, “Gwen Charlton”, and the other “Rachel Mastiff”. I thought back to the enchanting vision I had seen on stage, and tried to fit her to each of the names in turn. It wasn’t a hard choice to pick the first of the two doors. “Ms Charlton?” I knocked and entered to find her sitting in front of her mirror, eyes wide as she fixed her makeup. “What is it now?” she said, her voice every bit as beautiful as it had been when she was up on stage.

 

I shut the door behind me and leaned against the frame. I knew she could see me in the mirror, so I didn’t bother going any closer. “Nothing in particular,” I said easily. “I just wanted to let you know that you have an absolutely stunning voice.” She smiled, and flicked her hair back behind her shoulder. “Why thank you,” she said, without turning around. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

“My name’s Crosby,” I said. “And really… I guess you could just call me a fan.” Now, finally, she spun around on her chair, turning her perfect body to face me. I drank it in – she really was a sight to see – from her smooth, pert breasts to her slender legs. I could have just drunk her down like a smooth glass of bourbon. “A fan?” she said with a smile. “I don’t see a lot of fans back here. The management doesn’t like it.”

 

“Well then the management are idiots, aren’t they?” I replied smoothly. I took a step forward, and she rose from her seat. With her sheer heels, her height almost matched my own – she was only a few inches shorter. Her green eyes burned into my own. It was a tiny room, and the two of us were standing remarkably close together. I fought the urge to reach out and touch her. “You deserve all the praise you get.”

 

Her eyes flicked down to my body, then back up to hold my gaze. “You’re a handsome man, Crosby,” she said. “Got a wife?”

 

I shrugged. “Got a husband?” “Plenty of offers,” she said. “But I turned them all down. Me? I like to be free.” “Free is a fine thing,” I said. As we spoke we were edging closer to one another. The tension between us was unbelievable, magical, electric. It was so powerful I could barely breathe. And yet I made sure not to betray my nerves in my facial expression. I was calm, cool, collected – just like always. “Nothing’s truly free in this world,” she said.

 

“Oh?” I raised my eyebrows. And then, risking everything, I reached out and put my hands on her hips. “Let me give you something free,” I said. And then I kissed her, long and deep. Our lips locked and our tongues met, pressing against one another. She was kissing back just as strongly as I was kissing her. Her slender arms rose up and looped around my shoulders, pulling me closer. I could feel her skin – the heat of it – through the thin material of her dress.

 

We kissed for a long time. At any moment I expected us to be disturbed by a knock on the door – by someone barging in. I was expecting her to pull away. But she did not. We kissed hard and deep, and then she pulled back, searched me with her eyes again, then reached down and gathered up her dress.

 

As she lifted it off over her head, the body beneath was revealed. And what a body! Her skin was smooth and cream-colored, taut and yet supple too. And you could see the fine angles of all her bones – she really was perfectly sculpted. Her brassiere and panties clung tight to her – dark white lace.

 

She watched me drinking in her body, and then smiled once more. “Be a doll for me and lock the door, won’t you?” My mouth dry, I turned, and did so. “That’s better,” she said – and then for the next twenty minutes neither of us spoke at all.

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