When I was 14, my mother took my brother and me to see “Risky Business.” Because the movie was targeted at teens and set in the Illinois town where I was growing up, the theater was packed with kids I’d known my entire life. We adored the film, but none of us were prepared for its raciness. The young stars, Tom Cruise and Rebecca De Mornay, were seen in flagrante delicto in every room of a center-hall Colonial. As the credits rolled, we lingered in titillated silence. Then a voice was heard. It was my mother, Brooklyn accent resounding like a bugle at dawn: “I just saw a porno with my sons.”
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