When I was 12, I really wanted to buy an issue of Barely Legal. I never thought it was a magazine for teenage girls. No, I knew what it was and imagined it would reveal all the secrets of sex to me so that I would never face the humiliation of asking a girl at a bar mitzvah what sixty-nining was ever again. Today you can Wikipedia sixty-nining and find scans of the very issues of Barely Legal I wanted to buy. I never purchased a single porn mag, despite the fact that I bought magazines constantly and desperately wanted to see one. I was too afraid of a clerk carding me, of having it around, of my parents finding it mixed in with my Archie comics. I was convinced nobody would sell it to me because I looked too young. Even when porn started to become more easily available on the Internet, there was something about hard copies that seemed especially seedy; the black barrier protecting you from seeing the full covers of magazines, the curtained-off "adult" section of the video store. Nobody needs a dirty magazine to see nudity now, and there are barely any video stores left. That is how I know I am becoming old, turning into someone who talks about what things used to be like.