The summer I turned fourteen, I thought I had found her. She was gorgeous. A real bombshell, as we used to say. Don’t ask me why, in those days, we used heavy artillery terms to describe girls. It was, I imagine, a way to dampen the explosive effect they had on our male anatomy. In the minds of some of my friends, girls served no function other than to turn us on. I had assigned them a much more important mission: my salvation. Somewhere out there was a magical girl, a good witch who would know how to save me from my curse. Ideally, she’d be a babe.
