The Muffia (5 page)

“Listen, Steve,” I heard myself say before I could change my mind, “I live way out in the valley and I’m a single mom. I don’t really think—much as I’d like to...”

“Just coffee,” he said.

“It sounds nice, really.”
This was the truth
. “But I have to get home to pick up my daughter and take her to ballet.”
This was only partly true. I actually had hours before I needed to pick Lila up
.

The fact was I was terrified—he was a lot younger than I was. Maybe Justine would be all right with that kind of age difference but I was nervous about his seeing my naked aging body. I’d need to work out every day for a month first. Yes, I realize he was only asking me for coffee and I’d already made the leap to the bedroom, but what
was
he thinking? He must have gotten the wrong impression, surely— that I was a repressed housewife from Sherman Oaks who spent her lonely days and nights reading erotica and therefore be easy pickin’s.

But, oh, those sleepy brown eyes! Did he want something, anything beyond the coffee? Did he imagine wild flights of sexual abandon? I recognize now this is exactly what I needed. I didn’t need any coffee. I needed to fuck this guy. And, after thinking about it, having a fling with Book Soup Steve might have kept me from ever going to Berggren’s dinner party. Steve and I might have been together that Saturday night having fantastic sex while Lila was safe at her dad’s or at a friend’s house. But of course, how could I have known that then, when I stood like an idiot in a bookstore holding a bunch of erotic books—mere surrogates for the real thing— talking to a gorgeous guy who I might have had a good time with if only I hadn’t been such an idiot.

But once again, I get ahead of myself.

Chapter 5

Deliciously Disturbed and Distracted
turned out to be the novel I chose for the next gathering of the Cliterati. Both finalists under consideration were sexy
and
well written so, in the end, unable to decide for myself on the merits, I’d tossed a coin.
Deliciously Disturbed
beat out
The Opposite of Dead
ten tosses to nine.

As far as I could tell, Molly Wanamaker,
Disturbed
’s author, had selected her tasty title as a reference to what was going on inside her protagonist, though her clandestine rendezvous over miscellaneous delectable ethnic meals seemed to carry a plot of their own. The title might also have been a reference to the swath this unnamed thirty-five-year-old married woman, whom I called “Lucky Girl,” cut across New York City as she flitted from one lover to the next with seemingly zero negative repercussions. All that said,
Deliciously Disturbed
was beginning to cause disturbances of its own although, in the big scheme of things, it probably wouldn’t have mattered what book we read. The ices were melting, the seed had been sown, the lava was leaping and that horse was already out of the barn.

I grew hornier with every page, more and more disturbed because I had no immediate way of satisfying the increasing lust I felt, generated by Lucky Girl and her paramours. I mean, duh, yes, there was always masturbation and I could have gone to a bar or a hotel lobby and scored with the first lonely traveling businessman I encountered but that wasn’t going to do it for me. Stupidly, I’d scuttled Book Soup Steve, who after the fact, in my head, I’d turned into a love-God rivaling Michelango’s David come to life.

One chapter into the book, after Lucky Girl had enjoyed unimaginably great sex with a swarthy Italian type she’d noticed noticing her on the lat machine at Club Equinox—someone she referred to as “the Hit Man”—I decided to take action. Returning to Book Soup on another slow Tuesday I hoped to find Steve who might, once again, be hanging around, waiting for women perusing erotic books. I planned on taking him up on his offer this time, belated as it was—possibly making him an offer of my own, one he couldn’t and wouldn’t refuse. In my head I had a very precise idea of what “getting together” would look like. It wouldn’t exactly be zipless because he wasn’t technically a stranger. After all, he’d watched me cream my jeans while reading
Justine in Paradise.
He knew I had a daughter and lived in the Valley. But it would still be sudden, thrilling and… safe? Oh yeah, condoms. Shit. Well, somehow you get the condom on but that wasn’t part of my fantasy. I tried to look busy in Book Soup for three hours, going in and out of the Peet’s Coffee across the street a few times, but Steve didn’t show. I concluded that he must have found a more willing book-clubber to boff.

It didn’t seem fair that Lucky Girl was having sex with three men whom she
wanted
to have sex with, including her husband, and I wasn’t getting any sex at all. Looking in the mirror, I couldn’t figure it out. Objectively speaking, I’m better looking and in better shape than a lot of women my age—women who have husbands who seem to adore them and who claim to share quality lovemaking at least twice a month. Of course I could also be going down that big river in Egypt.

Either I'd never met my perfect mate or I’ve been too particular about what I’m looking for. Or perhaps it was those damned pheromones again—they didn't work. But most likely all three things were true.

I’ve never been much of a bar hopper, even back in the day when a husband was what we were all looking for. At least I think that’s what we were doing. Now it’s as if I'm not sure I really want a husband—only a lover or two or three. I’m too old, at forty-two, to attract the eye of the type of man I have both an intellectual and visceral response to because that guy is usually looking for someone younger. There have been men I could have had—fifty-five and sixty-year-olds with well-established waistlines and an overdeveloped sense of entitlement—but I didn't find those guys attractive. There’d been no one I really wanted and I was getting desperate. My throbbing crotch was even starting to interfere when I conducted my alternate dispute resolutions.

In one of my easier divorce cases, not too long ago, I became aware of an attraction I was feeling toward the man whose divorce I was mediating. He was very kind to his soon-to-be ex-wife, and that probably had something to do with it, but he also had a strong, masculine chin, petulant lips, and his shoulders filled out his beautifully tailored shirts as only a well-muscled, body-conscious male physique can do.

He gave me the impression that he’d be able to toss me onto a bed and ravage me while still retaining enough energetic ardor for twenty more rounds. I felt an attraction issuing from him in return. But obviously, in order to conduct the mediation without the appearance of bias, I had to ignore—or, more specifically, repress—these feelings. It would be highly unethical for me to act on them—at least until the passage of a respectable time period after the marital settlement agreement had been filed.

I was actually happy that I’d met someone other than Book Soup Steve whom I was attracted to because that
had
been a problem before: no one got me going except the shirtless teenage hotties in ads for male underwear and that was sort of frightening for a woman old enough to be the mother of one of them.

In truth, I could only praise myself for acknowledging how I felt and commit myself to dealing with the situation: Madelyn needed to get laid
.
Not just a quick fuck but
laid
—the kind of can't walk, can't think straight, last-through-the-next-dry-spell kind of laid. (Dealing with myself and my problems in the third person always seems to make the situation crystal clear, as if I were dealing with someone else’s).

It was about three weeks after I emailed the group to assign the book that I noticed a relative hush had come over the Clitterati—kind of like the lull in conversation when you’re out to dinner and people start eating, as if they’re too consumed with eating to talk. Was this the usual lull between Muff meetings? Or was something else going on? I wondered if
Delightfully Disturbed and Distracted
mightn’t have been causing disturbances—delicious or otherwise—in the lives of my fellow Clitties. I was about to start an email exchange when Lauren, just returning from her week away, beat me to it:

[email protected]
: Hey all...just back from Jamaica. After being peed on twice and thrown up on one humongous time on the plane, I couldn't be happier to be home. It was brutally hot and there were so many mosquitoes—all of which enjoyed making my family their favorite meal. Can someone please email me the name of the best small pocket battery-less vibrator I should be buying? Must order one online ASAP.  And would possibly consider buying the one that Jelicka raved about with batteries.  Please send brands and website.  Love to all. xxxx - L

PS—Juicy book choice, Maddie

Hmmmm . . . vibrators. . .
Lauren gets back from a sunny Jamaican vacation with her loving husband and two kids and upon her return immediately sends out a request for vibrator info? Seems to me like there’s a minor disturbance going on there
.

Lauren had been married to George Busch for seven years. His given names were actually Sebastian George and when he was growing up, long before the Texas Bushes invaded our consciousness, everyone had called him Georgie. It was unfortunate when Bush II came around, that Lauren, a lifelong Democrat, found herself having to endure the ribbing that came with being George and Lauren Busch—can’t help whom you fall in love with, I guess. She made an all-out effort to get people to call him Sebastian, or ’Bastian, a name she’d loved ever since developing a crush on Anthony Andrews while watching her mother’s stash of
Brideshead Revisited
videos, but just like me trying to get people to call me Madelyn, it didn’t stick.

What
was
most excellent for Lauren, and what probably made her willing to withstand any marital disturbance, was that Sebastian George Busch was a member of the Busches of Milwaukee, great grandson to the scion August Busch, creator of the hops empire, Budweiser and equine promoter of Clydesdales—a breed of horses once known for plough-work, now lifted from obscurity to Super Bowl status as they parade their feathery fetlocks in the most expensive commercials on television.

This is all to say that Lauren didn’t worry about money. No one wanted to say anything publicly about what might
not
be going on between Lauren and Georgie in private, but I was thankful she’d brought up the subject of outside mechanical stimulation. That’s what I needed—a vibrator. I’d always wanted one, sort of, but had never gotten around to making the actual purchase. A vibrator was the perfect solution to relieve my immediate horniness. This was going to be an email exchange I’d read with great interest. Paige responded first:

[email protected]
: The one I raved about is neither pocket sized nor battery-less. It’s the infamous Rabbit that even Oprah swears by, but not what I’d call travel friendly (embarrassing at x-ray). Don't know any others. Sorry about the mozzies. And V, what’s going on? No seeds in your sac I trust. ~xx P

[email protected]
:
I don’t yet own a vibrator but I’ve been shopping (it’s
what I
do)
. Really a drag not being able to try out the merchandise first. Shit, they let you try on shoes!! So far I like the
Accuvibe
—a carefully disguised mainstream massage instrument sold at stores you wouldn’t be embarrassed being seen in, like Relax-The-Back. And guaranteed not to trigger a bag search at x-ray. The joy (and big “O”) comes when you add the attachments (carefully stowed under the plane for travel) and available at Babeland. BTW: Seeds in the sac? Didn’t we put that book to bed?

Then Rachel weighed in, which kind of surprised me. I suspected she might own a vibrator, but somehow I thought she wouldn’t talk about it. She was younger and, well... younger:

[email protected]
: Hitachi magic wand. I repeat: Hitachi magic wand. If you find a good source let me know. Mine’s old. Fun book, M. Am feeling deliciously disturbed and distracted. So glad no seeds in your sac, V.

Vicki didn’t have a sac and I didn’t think it appropriate to keep going on about it, considering her condition. I was about to shoot off a reply when Jelicka’s email hit. We all believed her to have the most sexual experience in the group. She had to know a lot about vibrators and wouldn’t be shy talking about this kind of thing, so I opened her message with excitement.

[email protected]
: Hitachi magic wand? That’s one I
don’t
know which doesn’t mean anything. There’re a lot of good ones, depends on what you need and like. In fact, I’ve never met one I didn’t like. Vick-- great news being spared Chemo. Though you would have been fab in any number of wigs. What’s the female equivalent of scrotal seeds anyway?

[email protected]
: Hmmm...sac o' seeds? Ovaries? Eggs? Dunno. I still say, Hitachi magic wand, Hitachi magic wand . . . Can’t wait to see you all next BC.

All the talk about sacs and seeds was our way of coping: we were all aware of the tumor Vicki had growing inside of her, as well as the reality that it could have developed in any one of us. We chose to use humor to deal with the situation. I know Vicki appreciated our effort to remain light and optimistic, but it couldn’t have been cheery to be reminded of her condition in our emails, even if it was by way of discussing a fictional character. The truth was, we didn’t really know what to do, short of letting her know we were there for her and asking her if she needed anything, probably too often. Sharing emails about vibrators was probably a welcome distraction, even if she wasn’t in the mood to use one. I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to put a kibosh on the thread.

[email protected]
:
I love
this
book, Maddie. Almost
counteracts the daily zap, which is probably comparable to Frank’s titanium beads. I’m likely to set off airport x-ray machines all by myself. Therefore I will smuggle in any vibrators on said radioactive body for any of you ladies that may need.  But for God's sake, can't you go a week without diddling yourself Lauren?  (Just a soon-to-be-estrogenless woman asking.) Anyway, doing it myself takes longer than I have the energy for these days. Have new idea for film project—this is the one! Will tell all when I see you.

[email protected]:
Thank all you Muffs for all the advice...will order a couple now so I have back up. Anyone got a good website for this kind of thing?

But she wasn’t done.

[email protected]:
  OK, one more question.  Can you use it just as a vibrator for clitoral stimulation or do you have to put the thing in.  Not as into fake penises inside me as others seem to be.  ~Lauren   p.s. what’s the project V? p.p.s…. love our book club!