The Muffia (6 page)

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: You guys are funny, but I have to agree, after 9 volts, the old school manual method does take a bit of patience... I always hope for a hotel with a handheld shower attachment, a personal favorite. xxP

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  Could you Muffs leave me off this vibrator thread? I don’t get it. Thanks, K

She doesn’t get it?
Kiki had something up her butt—
that
was the problem. I’m speculating here, but she and Saul must be into a tough patch. I just hoped they’d make the right choice for Troy’s sake. Whether you stay with someone or not is such a personal decision and never one to take lightly when there’s a child involved. Though of course, in my own case, I chose not to stay married even though there was a child involved, thinking it would be better for her not to witness a bad relationship with so little love exchanged. But as I said, this was speculation and I wasn’t going to bring up Kiki’s behavior via mass email.

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: OK, K's off this one. BTW--You can get a handheld shower at home you know.  Also, for environmental reasons, it’s better to use the plug-ins v. the batteries.  Go for green O’s.  xxS

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: I was a little concerned about the loss of power when I moved from the outdoor Jacuzzi, with vibro-jet action, to the less powerful indoor bath Jacuzzi, but none of you need worry about me, it's all good! ~xo JG

Quinn was clearly right about me. I hadn't been exposed. And never having owned a vibrator or used a handheld shower attachment or Jacuzzi jet in this way, I still had nothing to add. And even if I had, there was so much information coming in from everyone else, I wanted to keep reading.

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: My time spent online at all these women’s sex aid sites has been very educational. I suspect that some time in the future, books will come with their own vibrators.  Given all the all female book clubs out there, I see tremendous market potential. Am putting it on the list for Vegas Book Club Convention idea...I have a hand held in my shower and have never used it.  I am such an orgasm virgin.  Off to try...xxL

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I found the jackrabbit at a major discount (reg. $59.95 – sale $18.95).   We can save on shipping if we bulk order. Who's in? You can also go to www.healthyandactive.com and use coupon code Mailer 56 for an extra 10% off. I would love to hear anybody's recommendations.  I collect them.

PS I have to pick a new LA doctor and was hoping some of you might have a doctor (internist, gyne, family doctor, whatever) who you think is great.

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: I'm not sure what the jackrabbit is, same species but different breed is my guess—or faster jacking? The original orgasmic rabbit retails for $120 or so. Go the extra mile girls. The site that Quinn sent may have it discounted but beware of Shanghai knock-offs. Happy trails! xP

PS I use Mr. Rabbit for quickies (exterior only) probably about 75% of the time, but when the mood hits, the whole enchilada is a beautiful thing. But you're talking to a girl who lost her virginity to a self-imposed broom handle... xP

PPS Lauren, if you're strictly interested in exterior work, the Rabbit would be too clumsy for you.

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: Who wants clumsy? For exterior there’s no better than Hitachi magic wand. I know you’re all wary of my book choices, but trust me on this one. HMW!

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: So whoozy, I can’t even think about sticking something called a jackrabbit up my cookie at the moment... :) S

See, in between the last book club at her house and midway to the next at mine, Sarah had announced she was pregnant, which accounted for why she didn’t want anything up her cookie. But it might also explain Nate’s behavior and that sloppy kiss he gave me. They'd been disturbed even before we started reading
Deliciously Disturbed
. 

I considered calling another Muff for more information. One of us had all the details; in fact, they probably all did—as I mentioned at the beginning, I’m usually the one who’s slightly out of the loop. Most of the other Muffs talked on the phone with each other a lot—a fact that I should have remembered, and which will come up again and again as time and this story goes on.  In the end, I decided to hold off. Instead, as the flurry of vibrator-related emails dwindled to nothing, I decided I needed to stop thinking about vibrators and actually buy one, probably the erstwhile Rabbit—jack or regular.

I didn’t want to place an order online fearing that Big Brother, Homeland Security and any number of other savvy data-miners would know what I was doing alone at night. Worse, I might find myself on all sorts of lists, receiving more than the usual amount of unwanted ads for sexual performance-enhancing drugs and paraphernalia. The truth was, since the Griswold case was still the law of the land, I had a legal right to keep my dildo private—which is not to say the authorities respect this privilege one hundred percent of the time. But I would do everything in my power to ensure the information didn't leak out to where it might hurt me, which would begin with shopping for a dildo at a brick & mortar store and paying cash.

Even though I’m no longer practicing law, clearly I still think like a lawyer most of the time. It’s just that when I decided to go back to law after my divorce, I chose to be an “alternative” dispute resolver, rather than spending my days slugging out one side of a battle in court. Only it turns out, most people in our society would
rather
fight—or at least start fighting—until they finally get the message that litigation is an expensive zero-sum game and that it makes more sense to avoid court entirely and come to a mediated settlement that saves everyone time and money.

The trouble was, having been out of the work force for so long, it was hard getting people to trust me enough to hire me. I was on a list of mediators—kind of like those lists HMOs send out with all the doctors “in your plan.” I had to be pretty close to the bottom because I rarely got called and when I did, it was often neighbors with fights over fence height, or to be the arbiter between a dating service and a guy who hadn’t found his soul mate after paying his sign-up fee. To me, “can’t buy me love” is a rule just like “love hurts” is a rule. But once again, what do I know? It seems that “hope springs eternal” and that hope ensures the continued survival of the dating industry and a mediation job for me from time to time.

I’d been trying to network with everyone I knew, searching for an ombudsman job with a corporation—an international corporation, so I could travel the world. Better yet, though a long shot, was a position with a group—a panel, as mediation jargon would have it—that dealt with international issues like the U.N. or the World Anti-Doping Organization or even the International Criminal Court. The idea was that in four years, when Lila turned eighteen and I lost her child support, I’d have a job that took me to far-off, fascinating places. Travel had been on my “to do” list for the past fourteen years, during which time the farthest I’d ventured from California was Miami for the death of my Grandma Evie.

Around this time, long after I finished reading
Deliciously Disturbed and Distracted
and started in on
Ten Days in the Hills
(which I found sexy but not as ravishing as advertised), it seemed like my networking was about to get me somewhere. After three years of being a sporadic mediator of all manner of disputes, I’d managed to land an interview with the U.S. Olympic Committee. See, things were gearing up for the London games, and at one time, I’d been a short-listed Olympic swimmer. I never got to compete—repetitive-motion shoulder problems can really mess up a girl’s butterfly—but I’d been a
cause celebre
to some extent with my disavowal of steroid shots and drugs to get me to the starting block. At any rate, the Olympic Committee thought my background as a female athlete, lawyer and steroid-shunner might serve their needs, and they called me to come in for a meeting.

On the day I was scheduled to drive downtown for my interview, Quinn and I made a plan to hook up afterward for a little sex-aid shopping, no matter the outcome of my meeting.

“I can meet you at about five-thirty for about half an hour. Then I’m meeting a guy for drinks,” she whispered into the phone, barely audible.

“Who’s the guy?” I asked, slightly wounded that Quinn hadn’t told me she was interested in someone.

“Ugh,” she uttered, less than thrilled. “Actually, he’s another actor but he seems grounded, comparatively.”

“What does grounded comparatively mean?”

“You know. He’s over five-nine and seems less self-absorbed than your average climber.”

This was always Quinn’s rationalization when she resorted to dating a client or wanna-be client. I suppose it was a mutual, almost literal, "I’ll scratch your pussy/career if you scratch my penis/ego." Whatever. The point was Quinn and I made a plan to meet.

Chapter 6

The day was gorgeous—seventy degrees, clear and sunny—the main reason people live in southern California to begin with. I located a parking space, walked a block and a half to Melrose Avenue and was safely within the hot pink, vagina-like confines of Babeland when my cell phone rang.

“Are you there yet?” Quinn asked, in a hushed voice.

“I’m inside,” I said, looking around. “It’s very . . . pink.”

“Good. How’d the interview go?”

“Also good. They said they’ll call me in for some role plays next week.”

“If you move to Geneva, make sure you get an apartment with an extra bedroom.”

“Let me jump through their hoops and not trip before we figure out what country I might be moving to. Besides, I’d need a place big enough for all the Muffs.”

“Valid point. Listen, I wanted to make sure you were in the store before I told you I’m not going to make it.”

I felt my throat tighten. “Quinn, how can you leave me to do this on my own when you know I don’t have any experience in this area.”

“And you think I’m an expert?”

“You’ve done the research.”

“I haven’t made a purchase. I have no actual insertion experience.” She was whispering as loud as she could.

Walking to the least-busy section of the store I whispered back, “But you’ve been window shopping and at least have a working knowledge of the whole vibrator/sexual-aid marketplace. Not to mention, you’ve blown me off for a
guy
—an actor. Isn’t that against Muffia rules?”

A door closed at the other end of the line and Quinn started speaking louder. “I do feel bad about it, Maddie, but I can’t get away from work yet. If it makes you feel better, I’m going to be late for my date, too.” 

I took a deep breath and sighed it out. “At least your actor’s human,” I reasoned aloud in her defense. “If I make a purchase I’ll have a booty call with a chunk of plasticized rubber.”

“You might be better off,” she said. “From what I understand, with the Rabbit you’re
guaranteed
an orgasm. That’s more than I can predict about Frank Lassiter.”

“Who?”

“My date—not his real name. You’ll be happy to know I’m wearing flats.”

“Good for you," I said, knowing this was a huge concession for Quinn, who is 5’10” and loves heels. Her height is a condition that has been known to emasculate a guy or two, so she was hedging her bets.

“Listen, I’m sorry. I owe you. Just ask the owners for some direction. They're lesbians and know all there is to know about pleasuring women.”

“I guess they would be since,
post hoc ergo propter hoc
, they don’t have a real cock between ’em.”

I felt it vibrate against me before I heard it—a low
purrr
set to a frequency designed
not
to blend with street noise. I must have taken a funny step as I left the store and hit the “on” switch somehow. What had possessed me to buy a wearable pulsating pussy pleasurer?
Not to panic
. I just needed to be able to work the thing, and remember never to wear it during a mediation session where I might send it humming at an inappropriate moment. It did feel nice—stimulating, yet soothing—just like the package promised.

What did the salesgirl say? “Hold on with your labial lips and then cock your hips to return your brand new vibrating genital massager to the ‘off’ position.” I’d probably made an error in judgment letting her convince me to wear it out of the store, though she was the sexiest lesbian I’d ever seen and I’m pretty sure she was flirting with me. I kind of liked it, and spent a couple of minutes imagining the life shared by Ellen DeGeneres and Portia De Rossi in ritzy Montecito, languishing at their villa with their view of the ocean, their dogs and sex toys. But the idea didn't get me there. I still preferred guys.

So there I was on the sidewalk wearing my brand-new
Aphroditty—the woman’s constant friend
—an amoeba-shaped gizmo that was buzzing between my panties and pussy. I considered turning around and heading back into the store, where I would not be able to return the item, but as I hadn’t drawn attention with my mildly vibrating pelvis, nor with what must have been my peculiar expression, I swiveled my hips from left to right, squeezed my twat together in a Hollywood sidewalk version of a kegel and voila—Aphroditty purred no more. Now all I could hear was the incessant whoosh of cars, busses and the collective whine of the second most over-populated motion picture capital of the world.

Just to test my abilities with my new toy, I squeezed hard again, shifted my hips back in the other direction and the stimulating, pulsing buzz began again. It seemed I would soon become mistress of my own bi-labially-dexterous destiny, ensuring silence or vibrating vaginal transcendence, depending on the mood. No one was watching and I felt confident no one suspected that anything unusual was going on
down there
.

“I heard you,” said the attractive dark-haired, dark-eyed man in line ahead of me at the cup o’ joe joint four doors down from where I’d been doing my retail therapy—the mature woman’s kind, when a new pair of shoes just won’t cut it.

“Excuse me?” I responded, immediately flustered by the intensity of his gaze and, just like Book Soup Steve, dark pink lips that were fuller than what should be legal for a man. He wore a crinkled rust-colored linen shirt and, I noticed, no jewelry. “Oh, you mean my phone,” I said, scrambling. “I really have to change the ring tone.”

His teeth were perfect and his tongue danced in his mouth as he let out a laugh. Then he leaned in toward me. “I mean, I
heard
you . . .
You know
. . .”

I could smell him.
All man
, yet no unappealing body odor. I found myself more turned-on than embarrassed by this tall, artist-handsome ruffian of indeterminate age and racial makeup, but I wasn’t sure I wanted
him
to know that.
Who am I kidding? I’d probably give it up to this guy if he blinks at me right.

“I thought you’d noticed me, too,” he continued, his laugh gone now. “But maybe not. I was in there about ten minutes ago and I saw you looking around. In . . . Babeland?”

“Are you following me?” I asked with mock defensiveness. “You better watch that. I’m a lawyer—mediator, actually.”

“You don't look like a lawyer. Besides, I’m the one who might need one. You came in here after I did. So who’s stalking whom?”

He’d caught me up in a number of ways already and we hadn’t officially met. I considered summoning up some legitimate-sounding shock at all his presumption—something that gave the impression of control. But my resolve left me as I became aware of the moistening between my legs. The creamery that had kicked into production while shopping in Babeland was now operating full tilt and the product began to slip silently by my new tiny twat titillator, moving down to the flesh throbbing wildly at the top of my thighs without any mechanical assistance.

What was I thinking going into that place for coffee? Did I really need
more
stimulation? I should have gone home, pulled out the other purchase I'd made—my very own purple
Rabbit
in translucently-cast elastomer with twirling dildo and built-on simultaneous vibrator-plastic “G” spot jiggler—and gotten to work. Going anywhere I might meet a real human man after gazing at all the many-fibered, multi-textured penile substitutes had been risky to say the least.

I was so wet I almost swooned when he leaned in again and whispered, “My ex used to walk around with hers buzzing all the time, and not just when she was some place loud, either. I prefer your modesty.”

Looking around for rescue, for diversion, I realized the two of us were still a few customers away from ordering, and the caffeine junkies were engaged in antics of their own, unaware of the mating game being played out in front of them.

His right hand—beautiful elegant fingers and skin the color of mocha—came up to sweep the brush of dark hair (with a few perfectly placed strands of gray) off his brow and suddenly I remembered him. His were the hands I’d seen holding the
Fleshlight
—a toy I would have wanted if I’d had a cock
.
The Fleshlight, like its illuminating brother, the flashlight, is a metal encased cylinder—only in the case of the three-and-one-half-inch-diameter Fleshlight, it's filled with silicone gel parted by a vulva-like slit down its center, long enough to accommodate any man’s member, and topped with smiley, welcoming pink lips. I couldn’t fault him for wanting it. After all, I’d been shopping for toys in Babeland, too.~

“I’m looking for the
Darling Pink Penetrator
,” I had said
sotto voce
to the cute gay salesgirl who was Babeland’s part owner. “I read about it online and I’ve been looking for something hands-free.”

“Of course,” she replied, a bit too loudly, as she walked me toward the back of the store. “The
Darling Pink
has super savvy suction. It grabs onto a shower wall or mirror so a girl can just back her booty right up to it, allowing for total, hands-free satisfaction. We also have several others,” she said, gesturing toward the wide selection of different shaped and colored self-satisfying dildos, their suction cups affixed to a glass shelf. “I’ll leave you to play with them,” she continued, with a voice so specific to natives of the San Fernando Valley she might have been born inside the Sherman Oaks Galleria. Then she winked and dashed off to help a young couple that was having a bit of difficulty with a strap-on assemblage.

Shy at first, I began grabbing each of the suction cup dongs in turn, pulling and pushing on the pretend penises in an attempt to simulate what I might do to it with my pussy once I got it home and stuck it on the shower wall. I was mildly traumatized to find that none remained fixed to the glass shelf, with even the tiniest of touches. Did this mean my brand of sex had too much movement for suction cup dildos? I’d always considered myself relatively tame, yet it was obvious the suction just wasn’t there. In fact, the
Darling Pink Penetrator
showed particularly poor performance, despite its attractive and enticing (and triple-patented) cocoa-colored cyberskin exterior. The anticipated disruption of my self-induced sexual bliss was enough to make me give up on the whole hands-free idea and seek another way to indulge my hypo-active libido.

In an effort to avoid drawing attention to myself, I quietly began to examine
Mr. Bendy
, with his sumptuously soft, bendable core, which his promoters assured would-be purchasers was “ firm, not floppy,” but decided that, unfortunately for me, Mr. Bendy bent the wrong way.

As I continued to look around the very pink store, noticeably void of Hitachi Magic Wands, I had a thought that cheered me in a sort of melancholy way: If I never met another guy who I want to have sex with, I could go the rest of my life with the variety provided by the ever-increasing number of sex toys. The sadness came when I admitted to myself that what I really craved was a variety of sexy boys. I’d even settle for one kind-of sexy one and that long-lost feeling of connection —however fleeting, however delusional—with the
real thing
.

“I could tell you weren’t finding what you were looking for,” said the man who’d heard my Aphroditty, snapping me back to the Java Joint. I freaked at the thought of him seeing me push and pull on
Doc Johnson’s Girthquake Vibrating Dong
-
Along
and I inhaled, trying to blunt the sharpness of the intake.

“Is this what you do?” I asked him. “Watch the women going in and out of Babeland, then try to score when they’re at their most vulnerable?”

Across his face, a small hurt appeared. “If that was my style, I don’t think I would have bought this,” he said with a wry smile, holding up the bag that presumably held his new Fleshlight.

He actually was sort of charming. He had a cultured, cosmopolitan air about him—sex toy in bag notwithstanding. No university sweatshirts for this guy. He wore a linen shirt and sports jacket.  I’d already sabotaged Book Soup Steve. Did I need to do it again? After all, this man and I had something in common.

“I made a purchase, so I couldn’t have been
that
disappointed.” I held up my own Babeland bag containing not only my new Rabbit but an assortment of Japanese Kimono ultra-thin micro-fiber condoms as well. Some part of me must have felt enough optimism to wager that by buying them, I might actually find someone with whom to use them.

“I’m glad. I wouldn’t have wanted you to go home alone.” He flashed his eyes and I let my own glitter back.

“I’m Cullen,” he said, offering his hand.

“Hello, Cullen. I’m Madelyn,” I said, after a fleeting second’s thought about giving him a different name. I mean, what if I got offered the international mediation job? I didn’t like the headline:
Women’s World Cup Figure Skating Hearing Delayed by Mediator’s Tricks Off the Ice
. His fingers felt both warm and cool in my hand—smooth, not sweaty—with a heat that extended from his heart.