The Muffia Read online

  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!

  [email protected]: 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

  [email protected]: 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.

  [email protected]: 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

  [email protected]: 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.

  [email protected]: 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

  [email protected]: 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.

  [email protected]: 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.

  [email protected]: 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!


  [email protected]: 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.”

&nbs
p; “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.