Joe Shuster, the co-creator of Superman, was born in Toronto, Canada, 10 July 1914. Fame found him years later when he was living in Cleveland, Ohio, and by 1940 Superman was a household name. After a falling out with his friends and his publisher in 1948, Joe became depressed. Little is known about his life between 1950 and 1975, except that he had lost all his money to National Periodical Publications (as DC Comics was officially called then), his eyesight was failing, and he was working as a delivery boy to pay his bills. In 2009 comics historian Craig Yoe came across a box of 1950s fetish art with a few familiar faces. The publication known as Nights of Horror was, in the opinion of many, unquestionably drawn by Joe, and was arguably some of his best work. None of this can be confirmed, as the artist passed away in 1992, but his fans, friends, and family are left to wonder as to his motivations for drawing what was, at the time, very questionable content. Shuster was a virtuoso of the female form, and his erotic work is stunning. Some of the drawings are beautiful, some fear-inducing, and some funny, but for many fans it is undeniable that the work in Nights of Horror signed simply “Josh” belongs to the late, great Joe Shuster himself.

PART 1: SECRETS

Joe’s work was directed, unprettied, crude and vigorous; as easy to read as a diagram. No creamy lines, no glossy effect, no touch of that bloodless prefabrication that passes for professionalism these days.—Jules Feiffer (quoted in Craig Yoe, Secret Identity: The Fetish Art of Superman’s Co-creator Joe Shuster, p. 11)

Yesterday I met a woman at the state fair.

Tall and lean

ten times more beautiful

than Miss Ohio herself.

Later that night,

as her head rammed into my mattress

and I bent her right leg

as close to her nose as possible,

I saw us sketched onto the white wall;

watched the ink shift.

She let out her muffled scream;

I faked a twitching fit.

White face, red lips,

she looked up,

said  thank you

fell asleep.

Pictures of Clark pour off my desk,

crumple and rip under

the weak legs of my wooden chair.

Automatic writing;

outlining extended limbs,

sweat droplets,

bulging veins.

I am

bearing over her with a whip;

I see the cityscape

outlined in red,

Toronto at night;

black and blue grand narrative.

The stars melt into planets,

no longer my own

but I keep moving

scribbling and scratching my way

into a deep sleep.

This morning,

I wake in a mess of cum

black as ink

stains the sheet

I wrapped myself in.

Glued to my forearms,

my thighs,

I peel it off slowly:

villains, spaceships,

Luthor bending Clark

over disassembled Metropolis. . . .

My kryptonite is also

my secret identity.

I used to hide the pictures

under the floorboards,

at the bottom of my drawers,

in picture frames,

folded thick

behind snapshots of the family dog.

I ate a few once.

Ripped them up real small

tasted the inky zest,

washed them down with the water

Mom brought me before bed.

Vomited them up onto

my pillow in my sleep.

Flipped it over

and forgot about it.

My life is

showgirl after showgirl

I call them all babydoll

they make great models,

subjects.

Brought one home last night named Lucy

and thought

“I’d like to bring you to my mama”

—haven’t seen her in a long time.

If I stood in front of this beauty

I bet her chin would sit just right

on the top of my head.

Feet resting on the bed frame

I draw her

exactly as she’s sleeping

ass-up across the bed

I try to dream up something dramatic,

I see her flying

circling tall buildings

searching for her lover.

I draw her naked breasts bouncing,

hair between her bounding legs

blown dark against her body

Soaring through an open window

She discovers him

breathless, drops to her knees.

Looking up;

dark innocent pools,

I pencil in her cum laden breath,

a whisper

—Joe—

My best sketches are drawn

between 5:30 and 6:30 a.m.

I am an early morning Superhero.

Fucking, cumming, pillow talk

penciling, inking, lettering

primary colours

blue, red, and yellow. . . .

130 dollars

was the price they paid me

for Sir Galahad himself.

Part 2: Nights of Horror

Come, come boy don’t go into another dream. We have work to do, remember?—Ellen, a writer, to Joe, a reporter, in Nights of Horror Issue No. 3

Nights of Horror treats sexual perversion as a normal way of life. . . .—James B. Nolan, Deputy Police Commissioner and head of the Juvenile Aid Bureau (quoted in Craig Yoe, Secret Identity, p. 29)

Living next door to my publisher

leaves me free to do what I want.

I sit in my room and draw

shamelessly

as the sun comes up

then go wander a while

worry about money.

Went out without a hat once

got picked up as a vagrant

cop brought me a sandwich.

As long as I put it on

and wear those damn thick glasses

they leave me alone.

No-one knows who I am

anymore.

Today in a coffee house

some kids were bugging me,

said I was too old to be reading comics.

So I said to them,

Don’t you know who I am!

I tore a napkin from their table

scribbled a quick drawing.

Hurt my eyes

drawing so viciously.

I showed it to them as proof!

They laughed and laughed.

I think I’ll tell people

my name is something else

from now on.

Jerry keeps fighting

for something long gone.

Fucker’s married to Lois

—the first Lois—

stole her right under my nose

at the Cartoonists Society’s silly costume ball

back in ‘48.

It’s okay though—

she wasn’t tall enough anyway.

I think he should move on,

expand his horizons!

Fuck those assholes at National;

I wish they could see me now.

Today I drew a delightful piece about

Lex capturing old Duff and his girl

—oh the nasty things he did to her!—

reminded me of the old days.

I’ve been signing them “Josh”:

JOe — SHuster .

I can’t believe no-one’s recognized us yet.

Drawing for Eugene and Clancy

isn’t hard,

not much different than

drawing Superman really:

the villain captures some girl,

ties her up good,

holds her against her will,

then the hero comes in and pulls her away!

Hell, Clark tied up girls all the time!

the bad ones at least.

Like old Evelyn Curry back in issue one

murdered Jack Kennedy

so Clark hitched her up

gagged her good

while he tracked down the governor

told him what she’d done.

I’ve started helping with the stories,

I fill ‘em with detectives,

writers, artists, reporters, showgirls.

Naming the characters

Jerry, Kent, Lucile, Lois.

The other day I had a girl named Ellen

captured and spanked by a Joe

and then later tortured by a Josh!

Still, no-one notices.

There’s a girl who works in the diner downstairs

long drawn-out legs

wears high-heels her whole shift

never slouches.

I sit and draw on place-mats.

She brings me coffee and toast.

The other day she leaned down on her elbows

got real close and said,

“I know you.”

She smelled like french fries and maple syrup,

had freckles that looked like a little stream

running down into a pool in her cleavage.

She told me she’d read it all,

starting at Action Comics till they fired me—

I hadn’t been recognized in almost two years.

She put one arm over the back of the booth

got close to my ear and said,

—I’ve even read those other ones.

Those dirty stories that you draw now

I know you don’t think we know it’s you

but Old Clancy from upstairs, he tells me all about it

says you help him come up with some ‘em ideas

chains and whips and stuff—

She held the coffee pot in one hand behind me

but snuck the other right down to my thigh

her long red nails dug into me through my pants.

She filled up my cup,

walked away.

Clancy told me her name is Betsy.

She ain’t no showgirl

but I’m getting too old for that anyway.

Strip clubs full of smoke;

it’s hard to see in there.

Last night I dreamed she brought me coffee

poured it all over my hand

soaked my sketches into brown pulp.

I looked up and she smirked

so I bent her over a bar stool

and spanked her until her ass was red.

When she turned around she grabbed my shirt

ripped it apart with all her strength

hundreds of buttons flew across the restaurant

in every direction.

My shirt flapping open in the wind

she kissed me hard and said,

“A super-kiss for a super-man!”

Part 3: Kids

Virtually every child in America is reading color ‘comic’ magazines—a poisonous mushroom growth of the last two years. Ten million copies of these sex-horror serials are sold every month. The bulk of these lurid publications depends for their appeal upon mayhem, murder, torture and abduction, Superman heroics, voluptuous females in scanty attire found on almost every page. Badly drawn, badly written, and badly printed, the effect of these pulp-paper night-mares is that of a violent stimulant. . . . — Sterling North, Chicago Daily News, 8 May 1940 (quoted in Craig Yoe, Secret Identity, p. 14)

I hear these kids found

a coloured man

catching a few Zs on a bench,

burned him with cigarettes and

punched him when he screamed.

They drowned him in the river,

just for a thrill, they say!

Four little Jewish boys

beating girls in the park to get warmed up.

The papers say their leader,

he carries a whip and a switchblade

dresses in a vampire costume

does things he saw in my drawings.

They’re called the Thrill Killers.

Saw their picture in the paper

pubescent mustaches

trimmed small rectangles

the words Nights of Horror right underneath!

It was the funniest damn thing I ever saw.

Kids these days are a far cry

from Jerry and me

cooped up in Maple Apartments—

me drawing on butcher paper

Jerry babbling about villains

and justice being served.

Jerry and I, well, we would have

dove right into the water

grabbed that coloured man

and flew off into the city night with him!

They say it’s our fault

that these kids are so crazy.

Shut us down today

grabbing piles of freshly pressed comics

tossing them into the garbage

breaking pencils and calling us perverts

like I was nobody!

Like criminals.

When I was a kid

I would troll the newsstands

devour copies of Weird Tales,

hide them inside other, more acceptable pulps.

It wasn’t easy to get your hands on those things in 1928!

I’d usually buy a copy of the less appealing

Amazing Stories—

not that I didn’t like hearing about the power of flight

or what would happen if you swallowed nuclear sludge;

but it didn’t have anything on the stuff in Weird Tales!

Girls chained up,

beaten and flogged by other girls,

touched in bad places.

I’d study the shape of their breasts

imagine what was under their skirts and panties.

When I got home I’d take out a pencil

scratch it down as good as I could.

But nothing ever looked quite right!

I hadn’t examined enough breasts,

experienced the face-to-thigh proximity

that lets you sketch it out perfectly

like I can now

in under twenty careful lines.

Half the time I can’t see the pen in front of me.

I got a better job:

doing sexy spy strips for The Continental.

Fancy magazine with fancy paper.

Annette, Secret Agent Z-4

much tamer than the last couple stories I wrote for Nights.

But, I can’t see the same.

I’m afraid to tell them

that it hurts too much to squint at those fine lines.

I go home to Betsy

and work deliveries during the day.

We act out things I might have drawn

only a few months ago, because

I didn’t bring my rickety desk to record them on.

I can barely sign my new lease

—Josh Kent

__________

Emma Vossen (www.getsomeactioncomics.com) is a sexuality and comics scholar originally from Clinton, Ontario. After living in Ottawa for the past six years, she now resides in Kitchener while pursuing her PhD at the University of Waterloo.