Oh yes, I saw it as a thrill somehow, even though the word itself had never rung a sex-bell in my innocent and inexperienced young mind. I had spent only a few minutes with the book so far, a hasty run-through followed immediately by a prudent and ever-so-painstaking return to its nylon nest – exasperating but executed with a wisdom beyond my years. Even if the pictures hadn't shocked me, the hiding-place alone was a dead giveaway, a sign that I was meddling in some mysterious province forbidden to inquisitive little girls. My snooping escapades required extra caution now, the prize was too precious for any but the most calculated of risks. And as I shivered and opened the fearful volume again – with one ear cocked for the comforting hum of the vacuum cleaner upstairs – the sensation became almost unbearable. The pages fell open to an illustration in color, three women, all naked, a chaotic but strangely beautiful entanglement of bodies; and in that single instant of insight I learned the difference between a scary thrill and a sexy thrill. Only how could it be sexy if there weren't any men, how could they fit together and make babies?
Fascinated but still somewhat dubious, I settled down to solve the mystery. The book consisted of pictures mostly, reproductions of oil paintings and watercolors. A scattering of photographs, too, real snapshots of women in all kinds of crazy positions. And a few black-and-white ink drawings, simpler than the rest and easier to understand.