In 1972, Burt Reynolds, fresh off the set of Deliverance, posed naked for a Cosmopolitan magazine centrefold — cigarette dangling, chest hair styled, reclining on a bearskin rug. Despite the strategic obscuring of key anatomical parts, the novelty of male pornography shocked and delighted readers. So much so that the image entrenched Cosmo's then-editor, Helen Gurley Brown, as a feminist hero of sorts. One year later, Playgirl magazine was born–the brainchild of a former L.A. nightclub owner with an eye to reaching a growing market of "women's libbers." But last week, after 35 years in print, Playgirl announced that it will publish its very last issue this fall.

Arguably the biggest surprise to come out of the announcement was the news that Playgirl still exists at all — and with a respectable circulation of 600,000 copies, printed in 32 countries. Which begs the question: who the hell has been reading Playgirl for all these years? Ex-employees swear it's straight women — single and married — many of whom live in that mythical place called Middle America. But also, in equal quantities, gay men — those who enjoy the fantasy of being with straight men who are (ostensibly) off-limits.

As it turns out, Playgirl wasn't always Cosmo with penises. It was, at one time, an important artifact of the '70s women's liberation movement — pro-sex feminism's answer to Playboy and Penthouse. These women said: if men can see Jayne Mansfield in the pages of Playboy, splayed naked between Marlboro and Kahlúa ads, then we demand to see Lyle Waggoner of The Carol Burnett Show in all his glory. And see him they did (June 1973).

Early issues had serious content, too. "The articles weren't all about sex," says Michele Zipp, Playgirl's former editor-in-chief, who left in 2005. "It was all about female expression and empowerment." Topics included "The closet chauvinists of Washington," for instance, and Maya Angelou on "Are feminists humourless?" There was fiction by Joyce Carol Oates, Raymond Carver and Canada's own Margaret Atwood(!); a fashion column by the legendary Mr. Blackwell; sex advice from Dr. Ruth; and intimate interviews with Marlon Brando, Gore Vidal, and Margaret Trudeau ("The ex-first lady of Canada on the men she's loved," September 1979).

And yes, there were penises. Readers saw this as their right — as much a political victory as an aesthetic one. But the little matter of whose — and how many? and how starkly lit? — created a battle between the magazine's editorial staff, its publishers, and its readers that persisted until the bitter end.

"In the '70s, the photography was very moody," says Zipp. "It was sexuality without being overt. It was quite beautiful and casual." But as the '80s dawned, bearskin rugs and perms made way for waxed chests, body oil, and neon headbands — what Zipp calls the "Let's Get Physical" era. "The photo shoots got a lot brighter over the years," she says, "more like a doctor's examining room." Much to Zipp's frustration, Playgirl never really moved beyond this brawny, shiny '80s style, even as the popular standard of male beauty evolved into something leaner. And matte.

The great conundrum of Playgirl, it seems, is that despite its predominantly female editorial staff, it has always been controlled by straight men — most recently, the owners of New York's Blue Horizon Media, who also publish hard-core porn titles like Chéri and Finally Legal. Commenting in 1997, former Playgirl editor Judy Cole put it this way: "The irony of electing men who objectify women for a living as arbiters and executors of female desire is Playgirl's day-to-day reality."

"When I first started, there had to be a penis on every page," says Zipp. "I was like, are you kidding? Women don't want that." Several female editors tried over the years to guide the publication back to what it was in its '70s heyday. In 2004, Zipp oversaw a complete redesign. "I tried to make it darker, moodier," she says, "but they wanted more nudity. I got the first redesigned issue back from them with a tab on each of the pages where there was a penis, and they were like, 'There's only seven.' And I thought, you know, out of a 96-page magazine, seven's plenty."

As the magazine became raunchier, its content eroded, advertisers and readers dropped off, and celebrity participation all but dried up. "I really felt that I did everything I could," says Zipp, who now edits for Working Mother Media. But in the end, not even CSI's Marcus Patrick (September 2007) could save it. Playgirl is survived by a website and cable channel.

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