New Year, New Announcement - by Alice Greczyn
I want to be really transparent with you about something.
I’m now on Playboy Centerfold. Yes, that Playboy. Yes, their platform directed by Cardi B, the one best described as the Raya of OnlyFans.
Before you get too excited—or disappointed—no, I do not create explicit content. But it is scandalous and it is scintillating. (If I do say so myself.) Most of all, it’s fun.
“I’m actually really excited about it,” I texted my sister.
“Lol how can you be excited about it?” she asked.
“Because I’m doing vintage pinup cosplay!”
“Ohhh that’s cool.”
My sister has seen me play dress-up our whole life. I, the proverbial girly-girl, used to pay her, the proverbial tomboy, to dress her up, too. Poofy princess dresses, figure skating costumes, hand-me-down confections of tulle and sequin from second-cousin’s ballet recitals… If it sparkled, fluttered, and squeezed my waist Little Women tight, I wanted to live in it.
And I did. I fashioned homemade hoop skirts out of wire hanger and shoelace. I slipped Laura Ashley knockoffs overhead and cinched my middle with a hole-punched belt. I completed my ensemble with stockings, white lace gloves, and a peek-a-boo bonnet I made by stapling a ribbon into a straw hat so it would fasten beneath my chin, allowing the brim to hide my eyes like a proper coquette. Off I went to church with my family, fancying myself a Victorian debutante who would one day have beaux lined up to court her. (This was before the word courtship became soiled by certain religious teachings.)
I daydreamed of being a Las Vegas showgirl. At ten years old, I didn’t know about sex but I knew what sexy was. Many little girls do, whether we care to admit it or not. The kind of sexy I wanted was nothing short of glamorous. I wanted fishnets and feathers. I wanted stiletto heels and blood-red lipstick. I wanted can-can symmetry, wing-tipped eyeliner, and the worship of men. I wanted power.
My parents rightfully inhibited the more revealing outfits I came up with, the ones my mom called “suggestive.” I still played dress-up, suggestively, in the privacy of my own closet. I took inspiration from whatever movies I was allowed to watch, from the low-cut flamenco gowns of Baz Luhrmann’s Strictly Ballroom to the knickers and corsets of the aforementioned Little Women.
The heaving of cleavage beneath lace trim and blushed cheek stirred me in ways I didn’t understand. All I knew was that I wanted to be them, those tendrilled dolls fussing over silk stockings in preparation for Sally Moffat’s coming out party. I spent weeks planning my own coming out party, what modern-day people called Sweet Sixteens, and I fully intended on having cleavage to heave by then.
I got older, turned sixteen, and had no coming out party nor cleavage to heave. It took a few years to resign myself to the fact that, barring surgery, I’d be a lifelong member of the itty bitty titty committee. At least God gave me a slender waist and long legs.
The detours of my life eventually led me to Hollywood where I became an actress—not exactly a Las Vegas showgirl, but a show-girl of a kind, the television sort. Unable to do a British accent and too ethnically mixed to be cast as an early American (so I was told), my period piece dreams eluded me. Pole dancing classes, modeling shoots, and numerous roles as a prom queen hopeful allowed plenty an outlet for dressing up. Still, I yearned to play dress-up for bygone eras.
Enter the world of vintage.
In 2017, I launched House of Simpkin, an online shop offering authentic vintage and antique clothing. Here, all of my girlhood dreams could come true. If Hollywood wouldn’t cast me as an Edwardian madame of a Wild West saloon, or a pie-baking ’50s housewife having a torrid affair, or an Art Deco mountaineeress après ski in pointelle long-janes, I’d cast myself. Modeling for my vintage shop indulged my lifelong love of ruffles and lace and corsetry, of history and femininity and evolving sexuality, and of pintucks, push-up bras, and pantaloons.
As a seller on Etsy, there was only so far I took the sensual side of my creativity. I was selling clothing, not smut. But oh the smut I wanted to sell! The flappery, finery, and fuckery! I didn’t just want to mimic cheesecake pictures of the ’40s, I wanted to recreate Playboy spreads of the ’60s. I wanted to channel Bunny Yeager and art direct scenes of women, by women, for men—or for anyone who enjoyed what critics call “the male gaze,” like it’s a bad thing or like it’s just male.
It really was only a matter of time until I started making what coy link-in-bios call “exclusive content.” That I get to call myself a Playboy Bunny is just icing on the cake.
If you’d like to play voyeur to my escapades, and I do hope you shall,follow me for free to see a little pinup cosplay meets modern boudoir. And if you like your retro risqué? Subscribe!
Once more, there is nothing explicit in my content. I’d hate to disappoint you. But as I told my (very supportive) boyfriend and photographer cohort… I won’t do anything Kate Moss hasn’t done. So I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. ;)
P.S. If you’re dabbling with the idea of being a Playboy Bunny yourself, apply here! Don’t want to apply and wait around? My research nominates Fanvue as the best adult platform. Like OnlyFans, only better. 💋
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