Bettie Page Finds Jesus

Iliana Rocha

When I turned my life over to the Lord Jesus in January 1959, I threw out all my netstockings, bikinis — some from Frederick’s of Hollywood, many I designed myself: you’ve certainly seen how my one-piece cheetah print greeted the Florida coast, then waved it goodbye for good, when I followed the chapel glow after I left a man in the middle of our two-step to Guy Lombardo’s “Auld Lang Syne.” The Lord was never mad. Not even when my nipple exclaimed its tender joy for Christmas, my black hair so shiny it was mistaken for tinsel. You’d never know I hated cigarettes by the way one would hang from my mouth, talisman to badass & red lip. Such divinity in Max Factor. Can we not talk about my bangs? My forehead never really disappeared just like I didn’t. When people ask me, Bettie, what’d ya think of wearing that leather horse costume, being spanked on the behind, I chuckle because one thing I never was was serious. Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to strap the brunette to a cross made with old broomsticks, but it was funny, & fun was the fetish I resurrected.


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