My smut collection

Don’t tell my wife, but I keep an impressive collection of hard-core magazines under my bed.

A few times a week, when I think the coast is clear, I’ll pull out one of the magazines and drool over the pictures. Then I’ll look at the classifieds. Maybe I’ll read some of the letters and advice columns.

I often feel myself getting faint with desire.

If I hear footsteps, I’ll snap out of it, and fling the magazine back under my bed.

But sometimes I’m not quick enough. A few times a year, Mrs. Trail Boy will catch me red-handed.

“Oh God, are you reading that smut again?” she’ll ask me.

There’s no use denying it. The evidence is right there in my hands — the latest issue of Trail Runner or Ultrarunning or Marathon & Beyond.

They are filled with glossy photos of runners jumping across creeks or trotting down mountain trails or running a 100-mile ultra through Alaska.

Sometimes the runners have the coolest GPS watches or backpack hydration systems or $200 trail shoes. I drool over that, too.

But I have to pull myself together in a hurry when Mrs. Trail Boy catches me in the act.

“I, I, I was just reading the articles,” I stammer.

“Would you please get rid of those magazines,” she says. “I don’t like that filth in my house.”

I know it’s no use, but I blurt out a defense.

“It’s not filth. It’s good, clean innocent fun.”

“Yeah, right,” Mrs. Trail Boy says. “Magazines about people who run 100-mile races in the mud. Don’t even think about doing that. I’d never see you. I need your help around the house. When are you going to refinish the floors or fix the porch?”

“I’m not hurting anyone,” I say. “I’m just just reading a magazine. I could be watching football all weekend.”

Mrs. Trail Boy rolls her eyes.

“You should know better at your age, drooling over those photos like a kid,” she says. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“But look at that scenery!” I say. “Look at those mountain peaks. Look at those ravines. Look at that finish line. Those people look so happy.”

“Stop filling your mind with that,” she says. “Those are just fantasies. Those people don’t really exist.”

“Yes, they do,” I say. “I know some of these people. I’ve met them. I talk to them.”

“You mean you send e-mails to people you’ve never met and talk about trails and races.”

“No! It’s nothing like that. You make it sound so creepy.”

“Well, what am I supposed to think when I catch you reading this stuff in private, and throwing it under the bed when you hear me coming down the hall?”

That Mrs. Trail Boy. She always thinks the worst of my hobbies.

There’s no use arguing with her. There’s only one way to win one of these discussions, but I feel so dishonest whenever I do it. It goes like this.

Mrs. Trail Boy: “What are you reading?

Me: “Um, uh, nothing, just Playboy.”

Mrs. Trail Boy: “Well, all right, then. Just keep away from that running smut.”

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2 Responses to “My smut collection”

  1. OK, now I’m SURE you’re writing headlines to lure people into your blog. :) Funny post!

  2. you are so good with words~so funny!

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