palm leaf the size of an elephant ear. It was the only thing on the island big enough to cover his ‘ten inches of flaming virility.’ I thought it was quite masterful how he avoided setting fire to the whole island. Every time he whipped off his palm leaf, I wasn’t sure if the heroine was about to get ravished or incinerated!”
Gillian crushed her city map into another shape. I pondered the result.
Euw!
Now that was uncalled for.
Gillian regarded Nana. “Marla is much too modest to tell you herself, Marion, but she’s known as the queen of the sensuous love scene. Although…her continued use of the cliché ‘throbbing manhood’ has provided grist for many a romance chatroom. People have actually done surveys, and the consensus is,
it doesn’t throb!”
I clutched my throat, sucking in an astonished breath. It didn’t throb?
“Throbbing is the industry standard,” Marla said offhandedly. “It
always
throbs.”
Gillian’s smile hardened into ice. “It doesn’t.”
“And how would you know that?” Marla challenged.
The ice melted into a smirk. “Because I conducted the survey!”
I cleared my throat and raised a tentative finger in the air. “If you ladies don’t mind my asking, if it doesn’t throb, what does it do?”
“Maybe it quivers,” Nana said thoughtfully. “You know, kind of like a handheld blender. I’m pretty sure your grampa’s quivered.”
“Where’s Sylvia?” Marla bellowed. “Is Sylvia here?”
“I want Philip,” Gillian demanded. “Would somebody
please
get Philip for me?”
I looked from one diva to the other. Oh yeah. These two were the best of friends.
“It says here that construction began on the cathedral in 1296 and continued for over a hundred years.” Jackie was bent over at the waist, sucking in air as she read from her guidebook. “Then in 1420…a guy named Brunelleschi started building the dome and completed the project sixteen years later.” She glanced up at me, gasping. “He must have been on the same time schedule…as the guys supervising Boston’s Big Dig.”
I massaged the stitch in my side and trained a look up ahead at the multitude of stone steps that spiraled blindly to the top of Florence’s famed Duomo. “How many steps…does it say we have to climb?”
She scanned the page. “Four hundred and sixty-three.”
“How many do you think we’ve climbed so far?”
“A thousand. The number in the book must be a mis-print.”
We were pausing for breath on a flight of ancient stone risers that formed a tomblike staircase between the inner and outer shells of the dome. It was 8:55 now, and fairly cool, but later in the day, I suspected this place would heat up like a blast furnace. The passageway was cramped and hardly wide enough for our shoulders. The air was stuffy, the masonry walls cold and implacable, the ceiling a low-arched patchwork of brick and mortar that hung claustrophobically close. A solitary fifteen-watt light, shielded within a mesh cage high on the wall, was our only source of illumination. It was kind of like wandering through a Disney World version of the human ear canal.
Jackie straightened up slowly, retrieved her minirecorder, and spoke haltingly into the unit. “If you want an aerial view of Florence…forget the one from the top of the Duomo. Do yourself a favor. Take the helicopter tour instead.” She shoved the recorder back into her bag. “I don’t get it. How come I’m feeling this climb more than you? Why am I so out of breath?”
“Maybe you’re pregnant.”
She speared me with a narrow look. “I have no uterus. Remember? It’s not standard equipment for transsexuals yet. But speaking of those who have, and those who have not, how would you like to —”
“I am NOT going to act as a surrogate when you and Tom decide to have children, Jack! Forget it. End discussion.”
“My, my. Aren’t
we
testy this morning. Come on, Emily, you can tell me. What’s wrong?” She looked me up and
Gillian crushed her city map into another shape. I pondered the result.
Euw!
Now that was uncalled for.
Gillian regarded Nana. “Marla is much too modest to tell you herself, Marion, but she’s known as the queen of the sensuous love scene. Although…her continued use of the cliché ‘throbbing manhood’ has provided grist for many a romance chatroom. People have actually done surveys, and the consensus is,
it doesn’t throb!”
I clutched my throat, sucking in an astonished breath. It didn’t throb?
“Throbbing is the industry standard,” Marla said offhandedly. “It
always
throbs.”
Gillian’s smile hardened into ice. “It doesn’t.”
“And how would you know that?” Marla challenged.
The ice melted into a smirk. “Because I conducted the survey!”
I cleared my throat and raised a tentative finger in the air. “If you ladies don’t mind my asking, if it doesn’t throb, what does it do?”
“Maybe it quivers,” Nana said thoughtfully. “You know, kind of like a handheld blender. I’m pretty sure your grampa’s quivered.”
“Where’s Sylvia?” Marla bellowed. “Is Sylvia here?”
“I want Philip,” Gillian demanded. “Would somebody
please
get Philip for me?”
I looked from one diva to the other. Oh yeah. These two were the best of friends.
“It says here that construction began on the cathedral in 1296 and continued for over a hundred years.” Jackie was bent over at the waist, sucking in air as she read from her guidebook. “Then in 1420…a guy named Brunelleschi started building the dome and completed the project sixteen years later.” She glanced up at me, gasping. “He must have been on the same time schedule…as the guys supervising Boston’s Big Dig.”
I massaged the stitch in my side and trained a look up ahead at the multitude of stone steps that spiraled blindly to the top of Florence’s famed Duomo. “How many steps…does it say we have to climb?”
She scanned the page. “Four hundred and sixty-three.”
“How many do you think we’ve climbed so far?”
“A thousand. The number in the book must be a mis-print.”
We were pausing for breath on a flight of ancient stone risers that formed a tomblike staircase between the inner and outer shells of the dome. It was 8:55 now, and fairly cool, but later in the day, I suspected this place would heat up like a blast furnace. The passageway was cramped and hardly wide enough for our shoulders. The air was stuffy, the masonry walls cold and implacable, the ceiling a low-arched patchwork of brick and mortar that hung claustrophobically close. A solitary fifteen-watt light, shielded within a mesh cage high on the wall, was our only source of illumination. It was kind of like wandering through a Disney World version of the human ear canal.
Jackie straightened up slowly, retrieved her minirecorder, and spoke haltingly into the unit. “If you want an aerial view of Florence…forget the one from the top of the Duomo. Do yourself a favor. Take the helicopter tour instead.” She shoved the recorder back into her bag. “I don’t get it. How come I’m feeling this climb more than you? Why am I so out of breath?”
“Maybe you’re pregnant.”
She speared me with a narrow look. “I have no uterus. Remember? It’s not standard equipment for transsexuals yet. But speaking of those who have, and those who have not, how would you like to —”
“I am NOT going to act as a surrogate when you and Tom decide to have children, Jack! Forget it. End discussion.”
“My, my. Aren’t
we
testy this morning. Come on, Emily, you can tell me. What’s wrong?” She looked me up and
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