It was a warm Sunday afternoon. My friend, Bobby and I where riding our bikes through an alley behind some apartment complexes.  We pedaled nonchalantly without a care in the world. Suddenly, our eyes locked onto a blue milk crate beside a dumpster. Our necks nearly snapped trying to look back. We turned our bikes around to confirm what we just saw. And yes, it was true. Our eyes widened with glee. There it was, surrounded by a golden glow, as angels sang in harmony. It was a milk crate… over flowing with porn magazines.
We reacted like any 12 year-olds would… “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God!”
Primal instincts suddenly kicked in. We crutched down in a warrior stance, looking around, making sure no predators were in our perimeter.
Where are we going to stash all this porn? How are we going to transport it all to a safe place?
We can’t hide them in our homes, mothers can smell a kid’s stash of porn miles away. We can’t hide it all in one place either, if it’s gets discovered, we’ll lose everything. Never put all your porn in one basket.
Logistics. The crate was far to heavy to carry in one trip. You can’t just drag a crate full of porn down the street. We had to be more strategic and inconspicuous.
We curled a magazine in each sock and stuffed several in our pants. Bobby savaged a plastic grocery bag from the dumpster. He filled it and hung it on his handlebars. We had to camouflage the crate. Bobby reached into the dumpster and pulled out a piece of cardboard to cover our “precious”. We rode off on our bikes, pedaling awkwardly stiff, in more ways then one. We were full of porn magazines, searching for places to stash our score.  Traveling down the sideway, Bobby exclaimed, “Oh shit.”
I looked back just in time to witness a dozen filthy magazines spread across the sidewalk. Bobby zoomed off with a torn plastic bag flickering from his handlebars. I wish could have seen the expression on an old lady’s face as she walked her dog to come across the image of a naked woman shooting a golden stream. We had no time to cry over spilled porn. With a mission of this caliber, we were bound to have a few causalities.
We scouted the neighborhood, identifying several safe spots. We went back and forth transporting magazines in our pants, stashing stacks all over town. Under the abandon car, in the crawl space under the condemn house, behind bushes, in the crack of the cinder block wall, under a disposed mattress, etc. We were like little horny squirrels hiding our nuts full of smut.
Once all the mags were safe and secure, we each took a stack and found ourselves in a secluded parking lot. This was before we discovered masturbation. We just flipped through page upon page, with a little bulge in our pants. We were the proud new owners of a vast collection of porn. And the real nasty kind too. None of that Playboy shit. We flipped through pages of some of the raunchiest images I’ve ever seen. The images are embedded in my brain next to the Faces of the Death videos. The pink flaps, the golden streams, the white facials, the orifice obstructions. Our eyes feasted on the debauchery.
Bobby and I went to different schools. But everyday, after school, we met up religiously and proceeded to a different stash location. Boy, were those magazines filthy.
One day, we met up, as usual. We reached under the abandon car. We found nothing.
Then to the crawl space under the condemn house, the bushes, the crack in the cinder block wall, under the disposed mattress.
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