Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
No, the characters on Mad Men would never fix gin and tonics, with fresh lime (I insist), but I do.
Meredith throws herself onto the couch theatrically. She lives with gusto. I'll give her that much. Or maybe it's the mix of sexual frustration and how the fuck are we going to double our listenership?
She doesn't refer to the email.
I don't ask.
We sip in silence, trying to find something else to talk about.
And it really is silent. These rooms are soundproof.
"Long week, huh?" She runs her fingers through her sleek black hair. "But we're set now. We've got everything planned for my trip."
Almost everything, yes. We've done the calls. We've recorded the TikToks and Reels and written the blog posts. She's even taken pictures for Instagram.
But it's all listener based.
No stories.
Absolutely nothing.
For two weeks, she's been racking her memory, and I've been attempting my skills as an erotica author. It turns out, I have none. And when I tried repackaging something I read in a book, fifteen listeners noticed.
Which doesn't even make sense. There was nothing unique about the scene. There are a million like it, in a million similar books. A billionaire ties up an innocent virgin (I left that part out) who's new to the world of sex, and BDSM, and asking for what she wants.
He introduces her to everything, including his massive dick.
I get the appeal. If a man has you tied up, and he can do anything to you, and he still chooses to make you come—
Well, there's really no denying it's what he wants, now is it?
I'm not sure how readers could tell I borrowed it. Or that it wasn't mine.
But they could.
They can't with Meredith's.
They could with that.
"How's the Wi-Fi at the retreat?" I ask, because I don't want to ask the other question. Better to talk about the cozy meditation center in upstate New York. She’ll be there for a solid two months. That’s a lot of material to fill
"Good enough we could video chat the entire time."
"Are you coming onto me?" I try to make my voice teasing, but my heart isn't in it. If only a) Meredith and I were both into girls and b) Mer was into sex, right now. That would solve so many of our problems.
"I think you've been listening to too many of Doctor O's stories, honey. Life doesn't work that way," she says.
That makes me laugh, at least. "Do you think we're giving listeners unrealistic expectations?"
She looks at me funny. She doesn't understand the question. Nothing about the stories feels unrealistic to her. They're her real stories. Her honest experiences. And her actual reflections.
She felt magic and fireworks with the bullfighter.
That's just how she is.
But she felt other stuff too. That's why she's taken this vow of celibacy. And we don’t include those details in our tales. "There's a reason you're on a break."
"We agreed we're not talking about that," she says.
Not again, that is. We did a week on celibacy. It was not popular. The week on masturbation wasn't much better. It turns out people are more excited by stories about partnered sex. Threesomes especially. Four sometimes, too. At orgy, you start to lose people. Not relatable.
Not that we have any orgy stories.
That I know about.
I take a long sip and peek out the window. We're across the street from the famous South Coast Plaza mall. Once upon a time, it was the highest grossing mall in the country.
Now, some place in New Jersey wins that contest. Still, it's the perfect microcosm of the county. All day, it's filled with a mix of diverse families, couples, and friends. People of all races and ages all brought together by the same desire to buy the right things, look the right way, fall right into line.
This isn't a place where people talk about things that go unsaid.
We certainly don't talk about sex.
Growing up here, I felt like I wanted to scream most days. The perfectly planned streets, the rows of symmetrical houses in just the right colors, the families dressed in matching athleisure—everyone looks perfect, all the time, and no one ever admits to fear, exhaustion, sadness, or a single original thought.
This is what makes the podcast work, the contrast between the uptight, rule-following county (where HOAs regularly send letters chiding residents for using the wrong shade of beige) and the free-spirit whimsy of the host keeps people listening.
Too bad it's all a lie.
"Have you thought about trying Tinder again, Ives?" Meredith asks.
I went on three Tinder dates. I chickened out of two of them. The third was the worst sex I've ever had. Awkward, cold, uncomfortable. I didn't follow any of my own advice. I pressured myself to have sex, because after all, I'm a single woman now, and isn't that the best way to get over someone?