The Muffia by Ann Royal Nicholas Read Free Book Online Page B

Human Sexuality carefully enough to discover my own—not that I was clear about what to do after that—but had dismissed this choice as too clinical. It might even insulting to the Muffs, since I knew we were all orgasmically aware, or at least claimed to be. Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying was a possibility, despite the fact it was a book my mother might have read. It could be that Ms. Jong’s “zipless fuck” hadn’t held up over the years, though it still sounded tantalizing to this Muff. I nixed two collections of erotic literature I already owned because short stories about sex were really too short for the extended read we craved, like foreplay that doesn’t quite get a girl to the point of no return. None of these choices did I consider worthy of the Cliterati.
    Finding and reading a story that might get my libido going enough to forget my fear of relationships appealed to my dormant prurient, albeit neglected self, but after an hour perusing titles like Princess Desire , Blind Obedience and Hard Candy , at the Powell’s website, I was discouraged. Most of the titles seemed to be about bimbos meeting princes in foreign countries, who either tied them up and spanked them for long periods or rescued them from horrible husbands, but more likely rescued them from themselves. I wanted a story about a normal woman, maybe between thirty and fifty, who just wants to connect with another human being and have great sex without subsequent fallout.
    Perhaps the characters would find love in the process, but that would be of secondary importance. Giving the Muffs a vicarious experience of better living through sex was what the book needed to do—what Lay of the Land might have been if it was by a woman about a woman with people getting laid, minimal driving and a satisfying ending.
    Unfortunately, as I read the excerpts, there just didn’t seem to be anything that spoke to the particular brand of female angst I sought solace for. I took this to mean that either no one had written such a book, or that connection and love were not valued commodities in a novel with a lot of sex scenes. That alone posed an interesting thesis on whether sex and love could coexist in life if they were unable to in art, but that was a topic for Rachel and Vicki, the intellectuals in the group, to argue about, not me.
    So one Tuesday when I had no cases to mediate and no consultations for potential cases to mediate in the future (unfortunately not an unusual circumstance for a Tuesday or any other day, for that matter), I got into my car after sending Lila off to school and headed into Los Angeles—Sunset Boulevard, to be exact, and Book Soup, one of those intimate, personalized-service bookstores that still exist in big cities. Shops like Book Soup were one of the only things I missed since moving to the suburbs—that and the anonymity of being able to do or wear pretty much anything without risk of being spotted by someone I knew. Here I could spend hours reading without being bothered or, if I wanted, seek knowledgeable assistance without so much as a raised eyebrow, searching for just the right book.
    As I entered the Soup, a startlingly good-looking man with dark brown hair, light stubble and the deliberately casual, frumpy style of dress I’ve always liked in a man, passed me on his way out. He just walked right by me, making me feel as inconsequential as FOD, which is airport lingo for “foreign object debris.” You’ve seen the stuff. It’s all the bits of lint and crud that collects around baggage carousels, which can often be seen tumbling over the linoleum but which most people never notice as they hustle their bags to the curb. Were my jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt so last season I didn't even merit a glance?
    I knew my libido was low but my self-esteem was even lower. I felt like I hadn’t even registered to this guy as a person. Was he gay? How could he ignore me so egregiously? If I’d been a guy, I'd probably tell myself