In my absence a rainbow coalition of fetishes had spawned numerous glossy full-color devotional publications—truly there was now something for every taste. Another noticeable difference was that major rack space was no longer devoted to, well, major racks, as it was in my day. Instead there now seemed to be a premium on youth, as if the world of flesh rags had shifted from full-bodied burgundy to nouveau Beaujolais.
When it came to selecting my publications, it turned out that I was a traditionalist—and something of a bargain hunter. I selected one volume called Club and another called Club International, in a discounted combo pack, both which seemed to rely on a conventional mixture of photo essays and prose narratives.
I will confess that I was still ashamed enough of my "stash" that I did not show it to or share it with Amy—I'm not sure she would have approved. Instead I hid the magazines in a manila envelope I had received with a solicitation from the Bill Clinton Foundation—which seemed strangely appropriate. Porn: When It Helps & When It Hurts
At the same time, Pappy judged that my level of testosterone was low and decided to give me a shot from the fountain of youth.
The extra testosterone in my system literally made me insane; my mind overtaken by a fog of perpetual unrealized desire. I would snicker over every possible sexual double entendre, daydream about women at work, in the elevator, in cars that drove by—all I needed was an outbreak of pimples to complete my regression to my teens.
Amy was not a fan of teenage-boy me, and as it turned out, my mental derangement made no difference in the shimmying of my squiggles. She suggested I try acupuncture.