Mother Nature Used To Be A Whore

 As a young, impressionable boy, the female body, more specifically, “boobies” held an almost mythical status to 95% of my friends. The remaining 5% are now prominent window dressers throughout the GTA, which is both completely fine and, from what I understand, quite profitable.  But back to boobies. It was the mid-eighties search for the elusive nipple that defined a generation. My generation. We started with National Geographic, moved on to a friend’s dad’s stash or, if blessed by the carnal gods, stumbled upon a pile of filth inside a log or under a rock in a forest.

Forest porn.  A phenomenon that I once thought was exclusive to my hometown.  But through careful research, I now know that this treasure hunt for Hustler and Jugs magazines occurred throughout Canada.  For some untold reason, it seems people, at some point, decided that the appropriate place to house their porn was in fact, amongst the trees. Was this a guilty impulse? A kid claiming his father’s collection as his own? Or, more likely, the work of a forest sprite that complemented his rope belt with a hairy palm? In any case, at some Mother Nature became the unofficial muff diving hot spot.  If, of course, you were one of the few lucky eight to  thirteen year olds who bumped into a moss-covered pile of passion. My search continues.