I remember when I was fifteen I was given a mangled Hustler magazine in which all the women’s breasts were the size of watermelons. So I took it home and stashed it. I had heard they were stroke-books, but I couldn’t really fathom that since my mother lived under the same roof. I did consult the magazine, mainly the plumpish New Orleans centerfold, who reminded me of my biology teacher when she sat on the lab bench dangling her legs apart, stretching her short skirt outwards. Suffice to say, student’s fumbled their pens more than usual.