I learned about good sex in my grandmother’s bookshelves. The summer of 2004 was spent reading on the sun-drenched, living room floor of her house in the suburbs of Chicago. At twelve years old, I read as easily as I breathed. Though the content was questionable, I could tear through a YA novel in a few hours and be bored again by lunchtime. What that often meant, was my selection of books considered to be “age appropriate,” ran out pretty quickly.

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