When I was a teenager, I got a part-time job at my neighborhood grocery store. Not unlike a lot of neighborhood markets, it did a fair amount of trade in skin mags.
One day, I was opening a shipment in the back room when my curiosity got the best of me, and I started going through one of the cheaper editions. You know the kind I mean-the women don’t look like the perfect, unreachable types in Playboy, but look like they might let you do them if you just got to meet them.