Find a quiet spot, turn the page, and let’s see what this story has been hiding 🌙
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Not long after Julian called him, Richard Rosenzweig, the executive vice president in charge of the magazine business, stepped into the office.
“Sit,” Julian said.
“I have an idea.
It starts with something that happened a little over a week ago.”
Richard took the chair across from him.
“Right after the take-private agreement was signed, I went back to Nashville for my mother’s birthday.
At the party, one of the neighbors asked me if he could buy a 1972 issue from us.”
Richard listened without interrupting.
“You were not entirely wrong,” Julian continued.
“Some men really did grow up with the magazine.
They have nostalgia for it.
Not in a vague way.
In a wallet-opening way.”
He leaned back.
“So I want to publish a premium commemorative series.
Every Playmate, every centerfold, the whole history curated into collector books.
It signals a new era for the company, and it creates revenue.
What do you think?”
Richard considered the idea for a moment, then answered honestly.
“We have done many commemorative products before.
Fiftieth anniversary editions, annual collections, decade collections.
The idea itself is not new.”
“The old ones were not exactly shoddy,” Julian said, “but they felt careless.
I do not want a stack of recycled pages.
I want an art object people can collect.”
He tapped the desk as he spoke.
“The materials should be the best we can source.
Rigid board pages, the kind used in high-end photo albums.
The format should be twice the size of the magazine.
Each spread should use layered printing and embossing so the images have a dimensional effect.
We include signatures from the featured women where we can, add unused proofs and unpublished material, and hire a serious art director to make the package feel worthy of the brand.
What do you think a set like that could sell for?”
“At least five hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred?” Julian laughed.
“That is the cost.
The price is one thousand dollars.”
“Impossible,” Richard said at once.
“Absolutely impossible.
We have tried pure luxury products.
They do not move.”
“What if it is limited?” Julian asked.
“Every set individually numbered.”
“That helps, but not enough to change the whole sales picture.”
“Then what if we have former Playmates deliver the books to buyers in person?”
Richard stared at him.
It was the first time he had heard a proposal like that.
It had the wild quality of an outsider’s idea.
Still, he kept his patience.
“Of course buyers would pay more for that,” Richard said.
“But the cost would be absurd.
Travel alone could run several hundred dollars per customer.”
“We do not send one woman to one buyer.
We turn it into a signing program.
Fifty states plus Washington, D.C.
One or two women in each market.
They sign books, add short personalized notes, take photos, maybe press a handprint into a certificate.
It becomes an event.”
“Many of those women are no longer connected to the company.
Some have been criticizing us in the media since last year.”
‘Those women attacked us because I paid them to.’
Julian smiled calmly.
“Do not forget that the company has a new owner now.
They may be willing to talk.”
He certainly could not tell Richard the truth.
The man still cared about the company.
If he learned that the same hidden hand that had stirred up those attacks was now being praised as Playboy’s hope for revival, he might have a stroke in the chair.
Before the idea could move forward, though, they needed market research.
Julian had no intention of throwing money into Lake Michigan just because nostalgia sounded profitable.
He opened Twitter, wrote a short post, and linked it to a simple survey page on Playboy’s website.
The company newsletter list received the same link, which gave the poll more reach than Twitter alone could offer in 2007.
If Playboy released a one-thousand-dollar premium collector book celebrating its Playmates and centerfold history, with luxury materials, numbered editions, signatures, and a truly premium presentation, would you consider buying it?
The timing was useful.
The press around Faith had not cooled, and Julian’s name was still drawing attention.
In other words, it was free publicity.
The next day, Julian showed Richard the survey results.
“A thirty percent yes rate still feels low,” Richard said, shaking his head.
“Considering the bias in the sample, the real rate may be closer to twenty percent.
Many of the people following you now are already subscribers or curiosity traffic.”
“No, no,” Julian said.
“That is the point.
A large share of the responses came from people who followed because of this week’s news, not core magazine loyalists.
And the survey drew a little over seven thousand usable responses overnight.
For a rough public signal in 2007, that is more than enough.”
He brought up a second page.
“More importantly, the primary target is not the average Twitter user.
It is men from twenty-five to sixty, especially in the South and Midwest, and a lot of them barely touch social networks.
That is why I asked an outside research firm to test the idea through telephone and email panels in those markets.”
“And?”
Julian’s phone rang before he could answer.
The call came from the research firm he had contacted the day before.
“This is Julian Moretti.
Yes.
I understand.”
He hung up and looked back at Richard, excitement beginning to show.
“Their conclusion matches mine.”
The potential buyer pool was somewhere around five million people.
Even if conversion fell well below the optimistic estimate, the gross margin could still be enormous.
The final number would certainly be lower than the dream version, but there was money on the table.
Real money.
“I will put together a new project team,” Richard said, now fully serious.
“Paper, design, printing, binding, logistics, customer records, legal releases, all of it.
But you have to solve the Playmate side.
Without the women, the premium angle collapses.”
Julian nodded.
“Leave the blondes to me.”
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Ready for more?
I hope this chapter drew you further into the story.
Stick around, because there’s still a lot waiting just ahead.