There’s a new edition of The Joy of Sex out, and I couldn’t be more happy.

Oh, it’s not because they’ve finally omitted the word “frigid” (which, as we all know, really means a woman who can’t get sexually interested in a man because he acts like such a fucking child).

It’s not even because this version includes a section on “Internet Pornography”, and I’m hoping to find some new sources now that my regular bookmarks are getting to feel as predictable and uninteresting as old boyfriends.

It’s because this version doesn’t have those unsettling drawings of the man and woman who are so freaking hairy they look like beasts. Those pictures emotionally scarred me as a child when I found my folks’ dog-eared copy of the book crammed between their mattress and box springs (along with a couple of other toys I’m not going to mention). There I was, in all my prepubescent hairlessness, staring at the shaggiest beaver I’d ever seen. (Okay, the only beaver I’d ever seen up to that point, which might account for just why it was so freaking traumatic.) And the man? He could’ve been Sasquatch’s brother. Nasty.

Come to think of it, that book might very well account for why I’ve become a devotee of Msrs. Gillette and Nair.

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