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I felt like a nervous freak. Here I was, talking with a real! live! whore! and all I could think of was how idiotic I must sound to her, how redneck-y and small. I also worried that invisible skank spores were infecting me through our close proximity, and tried breathing away from her, in case she was extra toxic. I know you can’t get AIDS this way, but I don’t know if it’s the same for being a rundown ho; I just needed to avoid it. I’d make a terrible prostitute.

I was a paperboy growing up, a career path that no longer exists for preteens. I remember having to ride past the bad-kid's house. You know the ones, or maybe were the ones. They had a penchant for flannel and work boots though they never worked or seemed to have any responsibilities. Their face was etched with a permanent snear that only flickered into smiles and laughter and somebody else's expense. Their hair never seemed to be combed or washed for that matter. When pets would go missing, though nobody blatantly accused them, everyone had their suspicions who may have been involved. They had a reputation and it was not undeserved. Now I realize that the mischief makers didn't deserve what created them.

Disclaimer: I've never worn ladies underwear. Sorry, that's a disclaimer for another article. I meant to write, Disclaimer: I’ve never read the magazine, so I can only hazard a guess that it covers vague themes of safe empowerment and empowered safety.