He had returned again and again to that exquisite pictorial over the years, had he not? At the time, it was simply the very best thing he could imagine, sexually—the naughtily forbidden lesbianism, the half-lidded eyes and the smiling lips, the kittenish cavorting, the utter realness of those shamelessly penetrating fingers wrapped in sticky-smooth pink. Back when he and Samantha were going out, and then getting serious about the relationship, when the young woman, rather primly at the time, insisted that he throw away his smutty collection of men’s magazines, that first lesbian layout had been the one which, rather nostalgically and wistfully, he missed the most. But now, he chuckled to himself some solitary midnights before the brightly glowing computer screen, he had better than simply
