When my older brother Mark was a pimple-faced, overweight teenage boy with zero prospects of dating a real flesh and blood woman, he pinned iconic posters of sexy female celebrities like Farrah Fawcett and Loni Anderson all over his bedroom walls. These voluptuous babes — their firm breasts threatening to burst out of their bikini tops at any moment — were accompanied by classic beauties like Jane Seymour.

The display essentially surrounded him on all sides by the women who eluded him in real life outside of that room and provided him with an outlet for the adolescent angst he felt by the societal constraints on doing what comes naturally to teenage boys.


I would visit his room to listen to albums he owned and talk about science fiction TV shows we liked – all an excuse for me to marvel at the exceedingly beautiful faces and bodies on display like a Sistine Chapel of the Erotic.
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