In the late 60s, when I found those magazines, my first and most obvious shame was that my body didn’t look like those women men apparently idealized. But the deeper shame of being objectified was there under it all. Maybe I accepted that as the way it was. In my early twenties, I ignored the restaurant manager’s whispered sexual advances (I was “let go” from that job after a couple months) and rebelled by buying “Playgirl” magazines which objectified men. I remember the first time I saw a magazine with nude, unedited photos of “real” women. I was so relieved which is sad realizing how much my self-esteem had been tied to the way my body didn’t measure up to the airbrushed models.