Diverse sex in the middle of a carnal attraction


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I don't usually read boys' comics.

They're a bit trashy, a bit crass and a bit too titillating for me. I don't read boys' comics. I prefer the Hardy Boys and the Nancy Drews.

So it surprises me when on a Saturday night on a big city train, I find a copy of the boy's comic of the week between the windows. A pile of comics also rest on the windowsill on the opposite side, so it's easy to accidentally kick one between the windows and realise it's a boys' comic. Naturally, I'm going to pick that one up.

I thumb through this cheap, cheap publication. The whole city sees girls in next to nothing, advertising cheap alcohol and showing off their bodies at every available opportunity. I'm certainly not a prude, but a few less pictures of girls in micro-bikinis and a little more coverage at least would be a nice change of pace.

Instead I find a few photographs of girls in their underwear and a few in bikinis. The small covers showing a few men in their underwear actually catch my eye, although I can't quite understand why. Maybe it's the juxtaposition of a bunch of cloth-wearing men with a bunch of men going on about how they'd be happy to see a few more women in a little less. Not a bad idea, I suppose. Typical though.

Then on a double page spread, a few pictures of a model on a beach pull me in. She's a little taller than me with a tan that shines even on the page. She looks absolutely wonderful, as if she were some kind of Hollywood musician or actor. I imagine that the next page will reveal that she is entitled some sort of VIP or celebrity, entitled by her mere appearance. I open the magazine to the next page and the truth comes through.

The celebrity in question it turns out is in the next six pages of the boys' comic. Except she's not really a celebrity. She's just a "girl" who has "model figure". A girl who has no name, but happens to be out in the sun. A girl that the boys of this city may get to know personally. A girl that the boys of the city may get to get to know up close and personal. The girls of the city don't need to worry about this girl.

Then there's an article on the children of the city, who apparently grow up to win Nobel prizes. Apparently, it's all because this particular boy's comic is read by nine out of ten of them. This isn't a boys' comic, I realise, it's a girls' comic. Some of my biases fall away, and I have to adjust my thinking. This isn't a trashy, poorly written boys' comic. This isn't a trashy, poorly written girls' comic. This is a superior, well written boys' comic.

Little does I know, though, that the copy I had salvaged from the pile of commuters had been owned by a particular boy named Aaron Henderson. That boy had always wanted to become the editor of the comic. He had spent many hours playing with pens and paper and pencils and such. He spent many hours trying to step into characters characters. He had tried to become the editor. Now, here he sat with his own copy of this issue of the comic.

I spend an hour that night going through the pages, silently going through the pages, going through the pages.

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