WHEN I was 14,
I stole my first Playgirl magazine
from the General Store.

I hid it under my bedroom dresser,
pulling it out and giggling
during thunderstorms,
as not to make
unnecessary noise.

Throughout time,
it became torn and tattered,
which I attributed to Snookers,
our housecat,
skittish ways.

Two years later,
the cat slept on the bed,
but my neighbor boy
came out of the closet.