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silicone breasts, dressed as slutty women, showing off fully-functioning cocks. Old women screwing teenage boys. Teenage girls giving head to granddads, women dressed as nuns pleasuring themselves with gigantic, multi-headed dildos. It was all just a click away. He took the free tours, never subscribed, never used his credit card number. He just browsed and browsed and browsed.
    After weeks of that, well into his first free semester in over fifty years, he began to circle in on what he’d come to consider his own domain. He found he liked to look at hirsute women, Earth Mamas, Hippie Goddesses, Hairy Honeys. Johnny was drawn instinctively to women with mounds of pubic hair like Myra’s.
    Finding images of such women was more tricky than he might have expected. While Johnny hadn’t been paying attention, apparently the fashion of sexual display had altered, and women began to coif their pubic patches, trimming them to narrow strips, or manicured valentines, or most frequently, to shave their mons pubis bare.
    Johnny assumed the style grew out of one of the modern age’s last taboos. The forbidden allure of prepubescence. Fully sexualized women simulating innocent girls.
    As the raunchy pictures filled his computer screen, Johnny felt no urge to masturbate. Instead, what he experienced was a persistent and cavernous yearning. While his eyes roamed the bodies of anonymous women, he suffered a vast ache in his soul. An absence that yawned within him as large and unknowable as that bottomless canyon that opened below Myra’s bare feet.
    In early October he realized one morning that he’d been obsessing over surrogates for Myra, and that’s when he decided to hunt for her.
    It seemed to John Fellows that the Internet had absorbed most of the tangible world and nearly everything that once existed in three dimensions was floating in cyberspace, if only one had the skill and resolve to search it out.
    Within a single day he located a site that trafficked in old issues of
Modern Photography,
the magazine she’d appeared in. Many of the pages within the magazine were reproduced and viewable online, but to his irritation, he could not locate Myra’s picture among them. Unsure of the exact date of the magazine he had spent so many hours absorbed in, Johnny ordered every issue from 1954 and 1955. Furthermore, he paid an outrageous sum to have all twenty-four of them delivered the next day.
    That night in a fever of expectancy he sat on the couch and pretended to be alive. Candace was watching their favorite sitcom and giggling along with the laugh track. Johnny held himself still, feeling the fracture lines branching through him as though he might crack apart right there and spill out a grim confession to his sweet blond wife, reveal that he had sinned against her, that he had betrayed her, that indeed, their whole romantic life together had been one long sham. For half a century he had been furtively in love with a woman named Myra. A ghostly being who haunted his reveries, whose perfumed breath whispered into his dreaming mind, and even now in his deep middle age, this seductive mistress had more than once materialized in his sleep to harden his cock, make him grind against the mattress until he released a flood of nocturnal emissions into the secret flesh behind Myra’s nest of hair.
    “Is something wrong?”
    He made himself breathe. He made himself look at her.
    “No,” Johnny said. “Why do you ask?”
    “You’re so quiet.”
    “I am?”
    “Yes,” she said. “Very quiet.”
    “It must be the writing,” he said.
    “Not going well?”
    “It’s harder than I imagined. I’m just preoccupied.”
    “When are you going to show me something?”
    The commercials ceased and the sitcom resumed. Johnny steered his eyes to the set and chuckled at the first comedic moment.
    “Soon,” he said. “When I’m comfortable with it.”
    “You can show me anything,” she said. “No matter how raw it is. I’ll go easy on