Free The Muffia by Ann Royal Nicholas Page B

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.”
    “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