Sticky pages

Whenever I go to pick up a package or buy some stamps at the closest post office to my apartment, located in a magazine store, I am always awed by the sheer number of issues dedicated to the most obscure of topics. Belgian photography magazines, Spanish architecture, Chihuahuas Monthly...
However, what always entertains me the most is the sheer volume of pornographic magazines.

Am I the only one who is surprised that the porno mag is still thriving?

I guess growing up in a small town, with the bulk of our magazine selection taking up a half shelf at 7-Eleven (as a side note, my town's 7-Eleven was not open 24 hours, which is exceedingly lame. It is a sad day when one can't get a burrito at 3am). The only exception was the small selection of plastic covered magazines behind the clerk-- Playboy, Hustler, and perhaps one more specialty magazine-- allowing for very little discretion for the dirty magazine connoisseur.
This also allowed for very little underaged consumption of such magazines, meaning that my teenaged males friends would hang on to their acquired issues with utter fervour. I would then discover these very crinkled and bent magazines stuffed in the corners of my guy friend's rooms, that I might flip through when they weren't looking out of curiosity. Perhaps due to the lack of such readily available material-- and the overtness of the "back room" in the one video store in town with dirty movies-- I busted more than one guy friend staring with consummate focus at the blurry and jumbled screen of the Playboy channel we didn't subscribe to in my basement, hoping perhaps to see a boob somewhere amidst the gray haze.

Of course, then there was the internet, and everything changed. Boobs were no longer the mysterious creatures to be glimpsed on late night television, but were available in full force via the magic of Google. Not only that, but there was selection-- if you had a think for Portuguese women in bear costumes, they were only a click away! And I guess I just kind of imagined that, outside of the few cultural staples, like Playboy, the dirty magazine was soon to be obsolete.

But the magazine store has proven me wrong. There are, in fact, more dirty magazines than I ever dreamed existed. I don't know if this was always the case, and I just led a sheltered small town life, or if they have upped their variety to compete with the internet. There are quite literally more than a hundred of these glossy issues, with glaring slogans, like "Hot Housewives" and (my personal favourite) "A Bear's Life". I feel the need to peruse through the aisle out of morbid curiosity, just to discover what titles have been able to keep a market over the years.

Perhaps also because of the clandestine nature of purchasing these magazines in a small town, I also feel the urge to watch the people browsing the aisles as I wait in line for my parcel. Some walk in with a purpose, grab their glossy of choice, and stride out. Others browse like they are at a museum, slowly pacing, stopping occasionally to fish a magazine from the back, and then contemplate its cover. I giggled like a school girl when a man dressed like a sea captain, in a giant yellow rain slicker with matching hat, held up his potential purchase to the light, and I could see what must have been triple Gs proudly displayed on the back cover from metres away.