Free Murdering Mr. Monti: A Merry Little Tale of Sex and Violence by Judith Viorst Page A

the Kennedy Center. And again when Jake and I (at Wally’s urging)invited the senior Montis to brunch at our house. Each time I saw him I mentally deplored his intellect and his ethical system, while also mentally tearing off his clothes. He was Catholic, married, and a twin, which covered three of the eight traits I sought in my liaisons, in addition to which he was someone to whom I kept on wanting to moan, “Oh, take me! Now!” So why, I asked Carolyn—shortly before Mr. Monti accepted my offer—shouldn’t he be on my Definite Lovers list?
    “It’s just a gut feeling I have,” she replied. “I think he’s bad news.”
    “And since when has your gut feeling been reliable?” I asked her. “Cast your mind back to Gabriel, Kevin, Jimmy, Owen, George, that entire Argentinean string quartet . . .”
    “No fair bringing up the string quartet,” Carolyn grumbled, blowing strands of blond hair out of her eyes. “That was a scientific experiment. A sexual byway. A momentary lapse.”
    “And,” I reminded her, “a big mistake.”
    Both of us were breathing hard as we spoke—not because of the sexual subject matter but because our discussion was taking place as we briskly pedaled away on Carolyn’s side-by-side stationary bikes.
    According to Carolyn, her relationships with men have been greatly improved since her purchase of that second bike. “It’s a very bonding experience, pumping together for forty-five minutes,” she told me. “In fact, I’d say there are many times when the pumping is much more bonding than the humping.”
    “And definitely better,” I added, “for your calf muscles.”
    It was an unseasonably warm late February day, anda mild breeze blew through the open bedroom window as we pedaled round and round. Carolyn’s Cleveland Park house, just two blocks from mine, had been lavishly renovated, and her bedroom was three rooms combined into one vast suite with walk-in closets, a handsome tiled fireplace, and a bed that could hold all her past husbands at once. There was also plenty of space for the bikes, plus one of those giant-size television screens, plus a cabinet containing a fridge full of pricey champagne and boxes of Godiva chocolates. There was also Carolyn’s favorite toy—her tape recorder—which she used to record all sorts of indiscretions. But she never turned it on when we got together twice a week to improve our bodies and relieve our souls.
    “How much biking time left?” I panted.
    Carolyn checked. “Seventeen more minutes. Then I’ve got to shower and get out of here. I’m having my legs waxed, my nails wrapped, and my hair done. Then I pick up my new Calvin Klein. And this is my after noon to baby-sit Tiffany.”
    If you want to meet the living incarnation of the phrase “contradiction in terms,” meet my friend Carolyn, who spends more on her body than anyone I know, who (thanks to an eight-figure trust fund) indulges her every materialistic whim, but who also engages in all kinds of gritty volunteer work—like baby-sitting Tiffany, a poor black two-and-a-half-year-old with AIDS, so her mom can get out three afternoons a week. Imagine a Big Is Beautiful (size 14–16) version of Grace Kelly and you’ll have a pretty clear picture of Carolyn’s gilded, polished, aristocratic good looks. But from what I’ve learned in our twenty-year exchanges of deep dark secrets, you’d need to be familiar with someof the videos in the Adults Only, section to get a sense of Carolyn’s sexual style.
    I’ve been best friends with Carolyn since ten minutes after we met, which happened soon after I moved to Cleveland Park, when Jeff, beguiled by the host of golden daffodils on her front lawn, addressed himself to picking every last one of them. Carolyn had a warm smile on her face when, hand in hand with Jeff, she showed up at my house and told me the story. “You have an adorable son,” she said, “but he’s got this thing about daffodils. How can we stop him