1
Maggie
I gasp and bring my hand to my mouth. Each naked man is better looking and bigger than the last. Playgirl must take out a measuring stick before they feature these fine specimens of manhood in their publication because while I’ve seen my share, these men certainly don’t look like the ones I’ve seen in real life. The shafts here appear three times as big and twice as thick around. Is this even humanly possible or is it all Photoshop?
“It’s crazy right?” my friend Sam whispers as she peers over my shoulder, her eyes round. “Who knew?”
Sam’s my best friend, and I can tell she’s just as impressed by the male anatomy spread before us.
“I know,” I whisper. “But imagine meeting someone like this in real life! What would you even do?”
She giggles.
“I have no idea, girl. All I know is that I’m so happy I went to that yard sale with my mom last weekend. The old dude selling stuff had a stack of these magazines, and I slipped this one into my bag when no one was looking. Seriously, I wish I’d stolen more.”
“You’re so bad!” I squeal under my breath. “You’re probably the only woman in the world who’s out stealing Playgirls!”
She rolls her eyes.
“But I think the more interesting question is why did that old guy have Playgirl to begin with? Shouldn’t he have Playboy instead? Hmmm?” she asks while winking. We practically dissolve into muffled laughs, then but then Sam sits up.
“Shh,” she hisses, eyes wide. “Quiet, quiet!” I look around the school library, but no one can hear us. The library has towering shelves of books everywhere, a bank of computers, plus a couple of seating areas. We happen to be at a table in the far corner, a bit removed from everyone else. If we talk low, no one can hear us.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper back. “We’re fine. Just try to look normal.”
But whatever danger she’s sensed has passed, and my friend’s already melting in her seat as she licks her lips, staring once more at the magazine.
"It’s not just the pictures, Maggie, it’s the text too. I think I want to write porn for a living," she murmurs dreamily while reading. "Look at these letters to the editor. Playgirl must pay someone to write them, they’re so unreal.”
I squint at the small text.
“What do you mean?”
Sam nods.
"See this one?" She puts her finger on the third paragraph down. "This girl has a problem because she's done the dirty deed with both her stepfather and her stepbrother. Now she’s afraid one of them is going to find out about the other, and wants to know what she should do. And how about this one?” she taps another spot on the page before throwing me a scandalized glance. "This girl is after her best friend’s father and doesn’t know how to let him know she’s available. How do they come up with this stuff? It can’t possibly be happening in real life, right? I swear, I want a job writing these things. I’d let my imagination go absolutely wild.”
I giggle because I’ve known Sam since fourth grade, and she’s always wanted to be a writer. First, it was children’s books. Then she wanted to write about teenage vampires and zombies for the YA crowd. Lately, it’s been romance novels, and specifically the really trashy ones you read on your Kindle because the covers would make you embarrassed if anyone saw. But now, I guess my buddy has graduated to porn and Penthouse letters. Why not? Hey, if you can make a living at it, then all the better.
But still, she’s hysterical, and that’s why I love Sam. She’s like a sister to me, and we tell each other everything. Not only that, but we kind of look alike too, making the whole sister vibe-thing even stronger. We both have the same curly brown hair and brown eyes, and short, curvy figures, which makes it easy to swap clothes and shoes. Plus, we both love to eat, and it’s nice to have someone who also loves pizza and hates salad.