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addressed to her father—the one who looked like a rabbi—and didn’t know what to make of the offending material. She described its contents on the phone incredulously, reporting, “Apparently men like to watch women pretend to have sex with one another,” and that there were “are a ton of vaginas in this magazine. And they’re all shaved!” From her tone, it was like Hannah had found supplies for a pipe bomb in the mail, or a catalog addressed to her dad that contained pictures of huge baby clothes for full-grown men who can only get erections wearing diapers. She was horrified.
    “I just can’t imagine that my dad would want to look at this stuff! Maybe it was a mistake that he got it?”
    Yes, Hannah. It was probably a mistake.
    “Then how did they know his name and address? Do you think it was a sample free copy?”
    Of course, Hannah. It was probably a free promotional issue of Penthouse they sent out to everyone who donated money to B’nai B’rith International that year.
    I was insistent that Hannah bring over the evidence. How were we supposed to believe her without proof? All these bald pussies and fake lesbians could have been figments of her shaggy, gummy imagination. She obediently swiped the issue and brought it to our sleepover, which must have delighted her father.
    We pored over every page, even the ads, as kids have always done when they first find porn. Melissa led the chorus of “ewwwww’” as we confirmed Hannah’s dutiful reportage. There were the bald pudendae, some with cute, trimmed stripes of pubeness on their tops, like sexy Hitler mustaches, and some with the full Paul Shaffer treatment. We beheld the Sapphic ringers, an army of them, decked out in Jane Fonda leotards over neon bike shorts, scowling their glossy, red Warrant “ Cherry Pie” lips in proximity to one another’s glistening genitalia. There wasn’t a lot of licking, spreading, or touching going on. The photos just documented instance after instance of gesturing with long manicured fingernails towards points of interest on the other model. Nipples, vulva, tongue, buttocks. Those ladies hand-modeled each other’s junk the way spokesmodels show off dinette sets. I was utterly compelled by the spectacle of it. The only other pornography I’d seen before Penthouse was boob-oriented—my brother’s issues of Playboy featured nature’s blondest coeds heaving their racks in between ads for luxury automobiles and interviews with Griffin Dunne. But Penthouse was all pussy: page after page of Virginias, shot like food photography. Labia were lit and airbrushed for maximum appetizing affect, like strawberries or ham.
    I woke up early the next morning and quietly fished the magazine out of Hannah’s backpack to review the spreads I’d already memorized. I read all the stories in the Forum and learned five new words for “vagina,” including “twat,” which sounded like a sound effect from the 60s Batman TV show. I pored over those lesbian photos like I was trying to memorize vocab for a test. I didn’t want to dive in to any of those modest muffs; I was just turned on to be closer to the mind of a straight guy with a hard-on.
    Hannah took away the magazine once everybody else woke up and rolled up sleeping bags, but like any first-wave pornographic material that captures your imagination while it’s still forming, Penthouse ’s content was erotically indelible. I see bike shorts sometimes and I get excited, which is weird, because they’re bike shorts. But the most influential section of Hannah’s father’s filthy pussy- magazine was the Penthouse Forum .
    It’s a cliché that girls like erotica and guys like porn, because women are more verbal and men are more visual, but the truth is that the more you leave to a woman’s imagination, the less you have to bet on the likelihood that she might not like the actor who plays the mechanic in whatever’s the featured clip on RedTube. Today, erotica bores me. Most