Garrett’s own collection contained traditional two-dimensional photographs of all dates, all genres. Black-and-white dirty pictures from as far back as the 1910s or 1920s, for example, were quaint but still pleasantly titillating. The girls’ short, permanent-wave coiffures might be dated, as were the painted silk backdrops before which they stood, yet those long shapely hips, pert little stiff-tipped breasts, and promising smiles still could stir the blood pleasantly. After all, despite the vast chasms of time, of fashion, of mores, they were still women, creatures whose soft silken bodies once had longed to be leered at in frank appreciation, handled in growing excitation, finally pushed full of the veiny brutish flesh which they themselves had helped to set rigid. And then when in their
