The Muffia Page 7

  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 Hear
ing 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.

  “Actually," I said, "it’s because of my purchases that I'm able to go home alone.”

  From the way he was looking at me, I could tell he had a better idea.

  “Did you really want coffee, Madelyn?”

  We’d reached the front of the line and the barista stared, bored, waiting for our order. “Because there’s a cute little tapas place around the corner on La Brea. Would you let me buy you a glass of wine?”

  On the one hand, there was something sordid about even having a drink with someone you meet at a place like Babeland. It somehow suggested pre-meditation and repeat offenders. On the other hand, it seemed immature and too coy, frankly, to pretend that I wasn’t attracted to this man, nor interested in what he might offer. Could it be possible that he also longed for sex with somebody who could eventually become more than just an in-and-out girl? Most people do want something more than just a sex partner, but they settle because the “something more” is harder to find, to recognize and to maintain.

  What was the danger in a glass of wine? Perhaps I’d been kidding myself. This had to be what women my age do. Maybe every age—I’m just slow. They simply meet a man they’re attracted to and have sex. Isn’t that what I’d been saying I wanted?

  I rationalized that the first interview with the Olympic Committee had gone well and I’d be moving to the next level of interviews and role plays—cause for minor celebration. And I didn’t need to be home for hours—Lila was at a friend’s house.

  “I’m going to have to help the next people if you can’t decide what you want,” barked the ballsy barista girl with the giant golden-rimmed holes in her ears.

  Cullen was still looking at me when I smiled up at him, doing my best to be perceived as “available—not desperate.” He had about three inches on me. He seemed perfect.

  “I’d love a glass of wine,” I said.

  “We don’t have—” the barista began, looking at me oddly.

  “Thank you,” Cullen said, never taking his eyes from me as he tossed a few coins in the tip jar. “And you."

  Chapter 7

  Dark-shaded sconces diffused the ambient lighting and cast a shimmering glow over the ochre-colored faux-marble walls of the Andalucia Tapas and Wine bar. Placed at decorative intervals above plushly upholstered booths, they made the mood one of orchestrated romance. Contemporary paintings I could barely make out in the low light hung in every available spot, all affixed with tasteful labels indicating artist and sales price. A mahogany bar, which might have been rescued from a previous existence in old Hollywood, extended along one side of the restaurant with a chalkboard menu above it featuring wine and sherry tastings of the day. At six PM, the restaurant was almost empty, with only a scattering of the beautiful people who would appear later in droves, laughing, drinking and looking to hook up.

  Cullen took off his sports jacket then raised his wine glass to me in toast, and I found myself wondering if he’d brought other women to the Andalucia. This was the kind of thought I didn’t want to be having, one of those thoughts that create obstacles to experience. It didn’t really matter if he had and I had no reason to think he had, other than, of course, the obvious one. But at that moment, he seemed completely focused on the wine.

  “I wish they’d just call it Bordeaux,” he said, swirling his California Claret. “They’re not doing themselves any favors by calling it Claret unless they think by recycling an old word people these days probably only know from Shakespeare—that’s if they read—that the marketers can pass it off as something new everyone will want. It only fools the sycophants who are always trying to keep up with the next new thing. And like I said, in this case, it’s a new old thing. People are crazy."

  He glanced over at me, appearing more nervous than he had in the Java Joint. “I’m rambling.”

  “No, that’s fine. And people are crazy, I agree. At least we're entertaining.”

  He smiled. “How’s your wine?”

  I was drinking a Santa Barbara County Grenache, which someone had told me once was like Chateauneuf-du-Pape for one-eighth the price, so I ordered it whenever I saw it on the wine list, assured it would make me appear knowledgeable to my companions. "Not bad."

  Cullen explained that he was kind of nervous, which was obvious, but I liked that he could tell me that without somehow feeling like he wasn’t being guy enough or something. I confessed that I was nervous, too, but I didn’t tell him just how nervous I was, which was about a nine on a ten-point scale. I hadn’t been on a date with anyone I liked in almost two years.

  “Babeland is the first sex shop I’ve ever been in,” I volunteered after making sure my hand wasn’t shaking as I lifted my glass.

  “Really?” he asked. “At the risk of offending you, today’s my third time. My ex took me twice before. She said she just wanted to look, but I think she was trying to give me a not-too-subtle hint that something was lacking in our sex life and that we needed to consider some ‘aids.’”

  “Did she ever come out and say that?”

  “No. She just left one day. Took the cock, too.”

  "What?"

  "Took the cockatoo. Our bird."

  "Ah."

  He hesitated, as if considering whether to amend what it was she'd taken, but then switched tracks. This was his first time going in alone, he told me, and definitely the first time talking and having wine with a woman he’d met inside the store. He said that today’s visit was actually research for a book he wanted to write—a whole series of books that would break the rules of mainstream detective fiction and create a new genre he called “Cop Erotica.”

  I had no idea if such a thing was possible, but I wanted to take every word he said as the truth; I’d been lied to so often, however, my defenses were on high alert. At some point, I just decided to go with it, to just be with this man who seemed to care what I thought, who spoke about himself not like a typical LA narcissist in need of an audience but as a way to engage me, then listened intently to what I said in return.

  As he spoke, I watched his lips, almost unable to take my eyes from them. They reminded me of the wedges of a perfectly ripe blood orange—plump, red . . . succulent was the word. And as I imagined tasting them, he leaned across the booth and kissed me—quickly, high up on my cheek just below the ear. Then he sat back to watch my reaction.

  A swell of emotion danced the flamenco between my brain and groin. “Well,” I said, hoping something witty would come to me. “That was . . . quick.” Duh.

  He leaned in again, his blood orange lips meeting my own soft pink ones for one . . . two . . . five . . . seconds. The brain/groin connection sped up and intensified, flitting back and forth like a Geiger counter when it’s right on top of radioactivity. I was shocked at how my brain went into lockdown mode, as if I was operating off my throbbing groin alone. It was almost as if it didn’t matter who the guy was once that shift occurred. With my eyes closed, he could be anybody. I could be anywhere. When I pulled away from him, the lust overwhelming, I found him looking back at me with the same ferocity.

  “This is completely nuts,” I said.

  “Do you not want to?”

  “No. I do . . . I mean I do, and I don’t. You know. It’s . . . ”

  He moved to my side of the booth and kissed me again.

  “Nice,” I said breathlessly. Our tongues became disengaged from propriety and engaged with each other, pulling the rest of our unresisting bodies along.

  “Very nice.” His arm came behind me and his left hand, which up to this point had been holding his wine glass, moved around my shoulders, and pressed me closer. My own hand reached behind his back to feel strength and a welcome absence of back fat. Now, if I were really into him, would I have even noticed back fat? Still—we’d have to get a room if this went much further, and I found myself thrilled at the prospect.

&
nbsp; The management, whether by established practice or simply because they were happy to have people to serve in a down economy, thankfully left us alone in our dark corner booth. Everything was going so well, but I wanted to talk more. Though I thought I’d wanted a zipless fuck, when the opportunity presented itself, I realized I didn’t. Or I didn’t want it with Cullen. After all, it had been so long since I’d had a lover, I needed a little more preamble for my first time back in the saddle.

  He knew somehow that I wanted to slow down and gently took my hand in his, caressing it, kissing me only with his eyes. He told me about living in France and Italy, where he’d learned about wine and worked in a few good restaurants; how he’d returned to Oregon, where he’d grown up and started a restaurant of his own; how he’d then sold the restaurant when an offer came along that he couldn’t refuse. He told me how he’d always written stories and how he’d moved to LA a year earlier, at forty-five, with his then-girlfriend to explore the idea of making a living at writing, but how, once he’d been here a couple of months, he’d discovered it was more difficult than he’d thought. Then he told me how his girlfriend, an LA native, had left him a couple of months earlier for an actor who’d landed a T.V. series, telling Cullen he and his writing were going nowhere and that he should move back to Oregon.

  He said it was for the best that she’d left, that they weren’t compatible really. But he missed her anyway, and even missed the bird. LA’s so spread out, he complained, with everyone so busy chasing something not everyone can attain, that it’s hard to connect on anything more than a superficial level. He was lonely and to him, despite how many people lived here, it was the loneliest place he’d ever been. Now he was at that proverbial fork in the road and it was taking him longer than he would have thought to decide which direction to go.