Edna, get my glasses--I can't see the naughty bits.

When I was in sixth grade, Patty Micklehurst, a mousey, pale girl who always brought tuna fish for lunch, asked Sister Agatha if we could add "Princess Daisy" to the summer reading list. Sister Agatha, who was counting the days until retirement and preferred watching "Wheel of Fortune!" and "Love Connection!" to reviewing books for the sixth grade summer reading list, heartily agreed. We all thought Patty was a brown noser and were busily making preparations to make her life a living hell until Michele got a hold of her sister's dog-eared copy of Princess Daisy that had been wedged underneath her mattress. "Check it out!" Michele said, handing me the mangled paperback, the pages folded back with several bookmarks. "Page 42!"

I read a flowery, very detailed account of two women having sex. It's pretty tame compared to today's standards (I think you'd see worse on "Elimidate"), but to my virgin eyes it was a complete mind fuck. I felt dirty, thrilled, rather warm and had the sudden mysterious urge to climb the flag pole in the school playground. We passed the book around, each of us getting our little rocks off until Michele's sister found out and kicked the shit out of us.

Over the years I've read various forms of female erotica, from Nancy Friday's classic "The Secret Garden" ("She did what?!?! With a HORSE?!?") to the Anne Rice vampire-sex-romps. ("Hmmm, I like the part when he's eating her out, but does he have to keep drinking her blood? Ugh!") But I have yet to experience the electric jolt I encountered back in the days of kickball and scratchy school uniforms.

I may be mistaken, but I think "Princess Daisy" still holds the number-one spot on sixth grade summer reading lists throughout the country.