When I was an adolescent I had two different Playboy magazines under my bed. At the time I felt like a nudie magazine millionaire. Well, maybe not a millionaire, but a very wealthy man. It felt like I was dating those centerfolds with the regularity that I saw them naked. At night, before bed, I’d crack one open and with my imagination racing I’d enjoy a hot-and-wild fifteen minutes before falling asleep as a highly satisfied thirteen year old.
Then you end up in High School and there are post-pubescent girls all over. Large breasts in tight white button-downs and plaid skirts. You want to be a wild animal. You want to fuck them all. You’re in bed at night and you’re thinking of Lynette with her long dark hair, and her perfect skin, and her full breasts, and suddenly Miss October seems a little less appealing. Lynette had the depth of reality; Lynette represented possibility.