She reads the newspaper every morning while drinking her latte, occasionally licking her index and middle finger, hunting through the pages for interesting articles of no particular importance. One article in today’s paper was entitled, “Want To Be More Attractive.” What woman wouldn’t be interested in reading that article judging just from the title, I mean it certainly interests me, and it definitely interested Linda because she stopped flipping the pages. Linda spoke to me about the article while reading parts of it aloud. The first line was, “Make sure the folks around you are having a drink or two.”

Apparently, Scottish scientists and scholars had a real break through and have found that trace amounts of alcohol in the blood will make the opposite sex, or whatever sex you are attracted to according to your sexual preference more attractive. The quote on quote beer goggles phenomena is true. They had to study 150 straight males and females, and 60 gay folks to figure this out?

Linda laughed and said, “I could have saved them all that the time and work if they just asked me. Four beers, or two glasses of wine increases the perceived attractiveness of members of the sex you’re attracted to by approximately 25%—no duh? Imagine how attractive someone looks after five chocolate martinis. Alcohol apparently stimulates a part of the brain called the nucleus accumbens, this I did not know. The nucleus accumbens is linked to our perception of facial attractiveness, now that’s interesting. Why on earth did they write this article? Oh, it says here, the Scottish team conducted this study to see if alcohol consumption could be linked with risky sex. What a bunch of rocket scientists they must have over there.”

I love how she laughs, with that cute little snort of hers when her laugh climaxes, and how the lines of her forehead and ridges on her nose become very pronounced. When she laughs very hard, she cries out, “Don’t look at me, don’t look at me!,” and her face becomes pumpkin red. I love the fact that we live together, and have lived together for four years now; I know all her subtle mannerisms and nuances. For four years now, we’ve must have giggled and kissed just about every day, but we’ve never gone further than that. Why not? I know, tell me about it! She’s attracted to me, and I’m attracted to her. Perhaps we haven’t drunk enough bottles of white wine together at any one given time.

Yes we are both ‘gay,’ but Linda doesn’t want to ruin the relationship that we have by throwing sex into the mix. I used to argue with her all the time, and say if you love me, and I love you, then what is the problem? How could we ruin anything? Making love, having sex, that would just make our relationship all the better. But, she won’t hear it. She won’t have it. She’d never said she loves me back. And usually after a discussion like that, we sleep in separate beds for the night, and we don’t cuddle or talk while falling into our dream worlds. I suppose that’s her way of punishing me.

Lately things have been wonderful, and that’s because once again I’ve laid-off, and stopped pushing the issue. Last time we spoke about three months ago, she told me, “If you continue to pressure me, if you continue to insist on us becoming a sexual couple, a sexual item, then you and I will have nothing at all, and one day you will come home to an empty apartment! Whatever happens, if I am willing to allow something to happen in the future, then it will just happen. I know how you feel. I know how you think of me! I can see it in your eyes everyday. Don’t speak to much sweetheart. I know, and I’m sorry for yelling, but I feel that strongly about this matter.”

When it gets late, around two, or three in the morning, and she hasn’t yet arrived home, I know what’s going on. She slips into bed quickly and quietly, before the door to our room even closes. She is sure to keep her hands and mouth under the covers because even though she probably washed them a few times, a trace amount of another woman’s pussy I can smell from a block away. Sex has a very distinctive smell. And in the morning after showering, she goes back to her latte and paper, and doesn’t say anything other than she had an all right night and didn’t do much of anything.

I don’t push her. I don’t have to. She knows I know; she can see I’m visibly upset, and whether or not she comes out and tells me won’t make the slightest difference. She and I are different like that you know. Linda has had numerous sexual escapades over the past four years—I think all one-night-stands. Where I on the other hand have remained a celibate fool waiting, wanting, praying for her to come around and realize that what she really needs, what she really desires is right here under her own noise. I’ve had opportunities, but I’m really not interested; Linda has my heart.
It is nice of her in a sense to never bring a lover back to our apartment; after all we aren’t a sexual item, and that would be her right. I think it is because she has a certain respect for me, and my feelings—it’s also because I’d probably break down the door and kill the bitch, and she knows that.

“Listen, I’ve been flipping through the pages of this newspaper long enough. There is something I must tell you and I’m procrastinating. O.K. are you ready?” ‘Yes Linda, I’m ready—I’m listening.’ “Yesterday…yesterday I lost my job.” ‘You lost your job? What are we going to do, how will we pay the rent? You should be looking in the classified section of the paper, and not some article about how alcohol is linked to risky sex!’

“Can you give me a break? Just give me a fucking break. It happened yesterday, the company was cutting back, and it had nothing to do with my performance. I just was one of those ‘low men on the totem pole.’ I have enough money for my half this month, and for two weeks or so into next month. You see this is why I don’t like to tell you anything, you always over-react.” ‘Oh, now I’m over-reacting. You lost your job, forgive me if I worry about our future; forgive me if I worry about little things like paying for food, water, electricity, and rent.’

Then she told me to shut-up, because ‘she has an idea,’ ‘she isn’t worried,’ and ‘she has everything figured out.’ You see Linda, even though she had a clerical job, she really is an amazing sculptor, and quite a pastry chef. Her real passions are cooking wonderful deserts, and creating amazing bronze and ceramic sculptures. Our apartment is full of her work, and you would be hard pressed not to find some sweet desert of some sorts in our apartment at any given time.

“I need you to help me.” Linda started to prepare some plaster with lukewarm water; the type of plaster she uses to make her molds. Then to my surprise, she took off all of her clothes. “This is what I need you to do for me sweetheart. I am going to lye on the table with my legs spread apart, and I want you to make a perfect mold of my vagina. I know it sounds strange, but just do it—I’ll help you along.”

I was stunned, amazed—I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I didn’t want it to end. This was one mold I was going to take my sweet-ass time making. The lukewarm plaster had the same consistency and texture as thinly sliced prosciutto, and it was very erotic. She said to me, “make sure it’s good and wet before you start to smooth it out over my clit.” Not only was the plaster good and wet, but so was I—I felt myself dripping with excitement unlike ever before; I had beads of my own juice slowly sliding down the insides of my thigh like warm rain from a sun shower on a windshield.

“Take that sea sponge first, the one over there, and get my vagina wet. I don’t want any of this plaster to stick to my sensitive areas when we pull it off sweetheart.” I could hardly move, I was moving in slow motion with a sort of trepidation, and I still had no idea why we were making a mold of her vagina, but I didn’t question it. I just joked because that’s what I do when I’m afraid, and told her this is the best idea she had in four years. She started snorting a little, and I could see her inner thighs tensing up, her lips squeezing tightly together. “If you continue to make me laugh, we’re not going to get a good mold, and we’ll have to do this again.” So joking I said, ‘we wouldn’t want that to happen. You know what Linda, you should loose your job more often.’ While laughing quite hard this time, and her face starting to blush, instead of saying don’t look at me; she motioned for me to move towards her.

“I know this is like a dream for you, and I know you are excited sweetheart. Just as you observe everything, just as you ‘know’ many things—don’t you think I’ve observed your thighs? Come here, come closer. I’m going to make this dream all you imagined it to be. I am ready.”

When I came closer she grabbed the back of my neck with one hand, and the small of my back with another, and gave me a kiss. This kiss was deep, it was wet, and unlike any I had ever experienced with her before. She took my hand and moved it down by her clit. She controlled my fingers, first moving them in between her wet lips, back and forth, side to side, round and round; then she curved them a bit, and let me maneuver around inside of her, with her hand on-top of mine.

“You know, you feel so good. You’ve always been right here sweetheart inside of me, and you never knew it. Oh, you feel so good—go deeper baby, go deeper. Oh, I love you—how I always loved you.” It was the first time I heard Linda tell me she loved me, it was the first time I ever felt her pussy, seen her pussy, and it is so delicate, so beautiful, so amazing, so wet, so sweet, so pink. “Take your fingers out of me, I want you to taste me, I want to feel your mouth on my clit.”

We made love right there on the table, and it was amazing. She effortlessly managed to take off all of my clothes without me ever knowing, and before long, she was on top of me, with her fingers inside taking me to a higher place I’ve never been before. “Let’s come together baby, I want you to orgasm with me.” While rubbing our clits together, kissing as passionately as I dreamed, we were able to climax together and climax again together, and once more.
After, we cuddled for what seemed like an eternity on the kitchen table, and I did not know where my being ended and hers began, as abruptly as everything had begun, Linda said, “The party is over, let’s get down to business. Make up a fresh batch of plaster with lukewarm water for me sweetheart, we must get this mold finished today, I mean tonight. Would you look at the time; it’s already five o’clock!”

Time seemed to stand still for us; while we made love, while we cuddled, but now reality set in, and it was the early evening, the day just flew by. She knew that I would be better able to perform my task of making this delicate mold now that we’ve experienced each other, now that I tasted her sweet nectar. At least now I could move, I mean I had seen, smelt, touched, and tasted it all.

After smoothing out the thin strips of plaster on all of her intimate parts, blowing on it, and waiting until it was completely dry, I slowly peeled it away, and the mold was complete. It was a perfect replica of her vagina—stubble and all. Then she hopped off the table, and while still naked said, “Now let me show you what we are going to do next.”

We proceeded to make another fifteen molds, having sixteen in total. Then out of her Jansport backpack, the one she always carried with her, she pulled out two zip-lock bags. I asked her what the hell was in them. “Well sweetheart, this bag has magic mushrooms in it, and this one is some excellent pepperheads—you know pot.” ‘What the hell are we going to do with all of these drugs,’ I exclaimed. “All of these drugs, I have six more bags of the mushrooms, and four more bags of the marijuana. You haven’t seen anything yet!”

I knew we had just made the most amazing love of my life; I knew that I had helped make molds of her vagina while standing around naked in the kitchen, and didn’t question anything—but this—illegal drugs in copious amounts scattered around on the kitchen table like a bunch of groceries—in our apartment—this is something else. I asked her, what in God’s name was she going to do with all these drugs? Why did she buy this illegal shit? Why bring this illegal shit into our apartment? We aren’t in college anymore—I’m twenty-five, and she’s twenty-six.

“Don’t worry about it baby.” ‘What the fuck do you mean don’t worry about it? First you lose your job, and on top of that—I’m not stupid, how many thousands of dollars did all of this shit cost?’ “Stop over-reacting. Yes, I spent a bit of money, this is true—but it’s an investment. Besides that mushrooms and weed, it’s not like I bought coke, or some other disgusting drug. You and I both know that they should be legalized; they are both natural, both from the earth. Besides that, there is no way in hell we are going to get caught. Just shut-up and trust me. I figured out a way to solve all of our monetary problems, and you are going to help me, aren’t you?”

‘Making molds, smoking a joint, or a bong hit or two is one thing—I can even rationalize perhaps a mushroom tea on a rainy Saturday; but selling drugs whether they should be legal, or not is irrelevant; I’m not trying to orchestrate some crusade to legalize shrooms and weed; I don’t and won’t condone what you’re doing. We just can’t—the risks greatly outweigh the benefits.’ I rather lose the apartment, I rather move back into my parents’ house for a little while than see her, see us go to jail. ‘Selling drugs, no, I’m not going to help you, I won’t be a part of that.’

“We aren’t going to sell drugs baby. Would you stop over-reacting and just let me finish. We aren’t going to sell drugs. We are going to powder up all of the shrooms, all of the hydro into a very fine dust. Then we are going to measure it out—three grams of shrooms for every one gram of hydro in each chocolate, and we are going to sell ‘Magic Vagina Chocolates.’ Let me show you what else I have.” ‘What, what else can you possibly have?’ “I have two tickets to Madonna, two tickets to Phish, two tickets to Tori, two tickets to just about ever major concert for the rest of this month.”

Linda lost her job and she completely lost her mind. She spent her entire savings in this little investment. “Are you coming with me to these shows? Are we going to have a good time?” I explained to her that this was all a lot for me to handle, and I just wanted to go to sleep.

I woke up some hours later smelling the sweetest aroma I’ve ever smelt, and who was hovering over me with the cutest little smile on her face—Linda with a ‘regular vagina chocolate.’ “Just eat this sweetheart, and tell me if it’s not the creamiest, most wonderful chocolate you’ve ever had. Come on, eat my virgin chocolate pussy.” I couldn’t help but laugh a little, and yes, it was the most delicious, and most attractive looking chocolate I’ve ever had.

A few days went by, and Linda had a few hundred perfectly painted magic vagina chocolates, wrapped in clear cellulose, with pretty little bows. She told me, “each one of these little pussies was going to cost thirty dollars a pop; no discounts whatsoever.” That night was the night of the Madonna concert, and of course I went with her, I mean it was Madonna.

She brought only 100 chocolates in her Jansport, after all this was her first night selling them, and she didn’t know if they would sell. Well they sold, and within the first twenty-five minutes we were at the Garden, before the show even started, Linda was beaming because she had $3,000 dollars in her pocket. She gave me a sensual kiss, grabbed my ass and said, “I told you not to worry; I told you everything would be fine. Let’s enjoy the show.” The funny thing was that a police officer even stopped her to ask what she was doing, and made her open her bag. She giggled and said, “I’m selling little pieces of chocolate—have a look, aren’t they beautiful. I made them special for the concert.” The officer blushed and told her to enjoy the concert. Can you believe that?

The days went by, four months went by, we continued to make love nightly, and go to concerts just about every other night; New York always has something good going on. She met me every afternoon during my lunch break, and we would go out to eat at some upscale mid-town spot, drink mimosas, laugh and kiss.

While I was at work during the day, she would slave over the stove making more and more magic vagina chocolates listening to music by the band whose show we were going to see next. The house always smelt sweet, and I almost forgot what she was selling, I mean she was selling chocolate, that’s what I started to believe. She was never fucked up, she never ate them, and all who ate them surely loved them. She even started to acquire a small following. “Better they buy from me, and get high quality goods that will not make them sick.”

At this point she had 250 vagina molds, 75 molds being my vagina—and was making three to five hundred chocolates a day. The very first month she made the chocolates, she insisted on paying off all of the expenses for both of us, and told me it was the least she could do for all the support I had given her, especially when times got rough. Under our bed was a wine box that I saw her put money into nightly. I asked her how much money she had in the box, and she said, “Not enough yet, but why don’t you take a guess?”

I thought maybe at the very most, $10,000—I mean $10,000 is a lot of money to have saved up in four months. How could she have saved more than that with our lavish lifestyle and all of our expenses? We’ve been going to concerts regularly, bringing our breakfasts in, eating our lunches and dinners out. She said, “You don’t have a clue do you. At the last concert alone I made $15,000 profit. People were buying three and four each. They wanted to save a few for a rainy day. Baby, have you taken a look under the bed. I have four wine boxes, and a little over $200,000. That money is for us. That money is for us to start a life; for me to open a studio—perhaps we’ll get a little house out on the North Fork of Long Island and leave all of this behind. You can quit your job, and do something else. Maybe we’ll open a bed and breakfast, or a little pastry shop.” She had a little over $200,000, and that was clean profit, and that was in cash. I was floored; I couldn’t believe it!

She took two of the wine boxes out from under the bed, spread all the money out all over, and pushed me on top of it. I thought I was in a movie, I mean we had $100 bills sticking to our bodies while we passionately made love. A few hours later and many orgasms, while smoking a cigarette, I asked her—‘Linda, when are you going to stop? When will enough be enough?’ She explained to me that she wanted a half a million cash so neither one of us would have to worry anymore; and she said it is was going to be difficult for her to stop because this is the easiest money she ever made, the most money she ever made, and she was having a lot of fun going to concerts with me, or walking around Central Park. She said, “Sweetheart, if you want me to stop now, to stop now for you I will, but I think we should wait until the end of the year—by then I am certain we will have $500,000.”

I told her I wanted her to stop because she wanted to; isn’t enough enough? I mean we had more money than I could fathom. We had more money saved than my parents had saved, and they’ve each been working for 30 years. I had more than three months salary sticking to my tits and ass after we made love. I just didn’t want her to push her luck because we all know ‘all good things must come to an end,’ and it was just a matter of time before she would sell to an undercover or some shit.

She told me she had thought of this already, and asked me what I thought about her selling the chocolates in quantities of 500 to a few people for $20 a pop. That would mean $10,000 for us a shot, and those people in turn could sell them and make a quick profit of $5,000. She told me she had two people very interested, and they wanted to take 500 each from her every week, but she wanted to discuss it with me first. I liked the idea; that would mean rather than her walking around at the concerts, or the park, now she only had to deal with two people only once a week.

The two people turned to four, the four turned to eight, and she was working day and night trying to make enough of these fucking chocolates to meet the demand. By now every room in the house except our bedroom was full of vagina molds with solidifying chocolate. I can’t even tell you how many there were; all I know is the smell was making me sick. All I ever smelt was chocolate, chocolate, chocolate; our apartment was a fucking factory; I lived in Hershey Park. And when she asked me what I thought about quitting my job to help her make them, I exclaimed, ‘Have you lost your God damn mind?! Linda, enough is enough. Before you said to me, if I wanted you to stop, you would stop for me. We have boxes and boxes of these chocolates in our fucking living room; we have vagina molds everywhere—so many we can’t even walk around in here, except for a few hours on Saturday and Sunday when you unload all of the boxes and collect all of the molds. Will you stop already, stop now!’

I picked up one of the molds and threw it to the ground as hard as I could, then walked into our room and slammed the door. We were spending less and less time together. Some nights, most nights, she wasn’t even coming to bed, and when I woke up for work, with an exhausted look on her face, she would still be in the same place I last saw her—behind the stove in the kitchen stirring, grinding, and pouring away. She was a one-man assembly line. She was losing weight. Her hygiene was going to shit. Black bags adorned her sunken eyes. This was not the Linda I fell in love with. This was not Linda at all. The money was consuming her. All she would do is save it, and save it, and pack it away. By now, under the bed, I don’t even know how many wine boxes there were, but I do know we had a newly acquired wine rack, with some of the finest bottles of red and white wine one could purchase. And I had a gut feeling that it was just a matter of time before she got caught, someone ratted her out, or we were fucking robbed.

Now I’ve known Linda for a number of years, and I know she doesn’t like to be pressured. Perhaps me smashing one of her molds wasn’t the right thing to do, but how was I going to get through to her. With tears in my eyes, I grabbed her by the hands while she was slaving away, and she told me she couldn’t stop now, but I strongly insisted and made her stop for a few moments.

‘Linda, you are my everything baby. You are all I wanted in a life partner, in a lover, in a friend, and infinitely more. I love you more than life itself. I knew we were meant to be from the first moment I saw you, and dreamed about you every night. You told me you would stop when you hit a half million. I’m not an idiot. I know every night I fall asleep above more money than I will ever have in a lifetime. That money is yours. I want no part of it. All I want is you sweetheart. All I want is you. Last week I quit my job, I’ve tried to tell you, but you were always to busy, or just not around. For the past week, you haven’t even noticed me leaving the house much later than usual. And for more weeks than that, every time I said goodbye or tried to talk to you, you haven’t even looked at me or acknowledged my existence.

I even told you I quit my job and was looking for another apartment and you said, ‘that’s nice baby, I’m sorry I must keep working.’ We haven’t slept together, ate together, or even spoken. Some mornings I find you asleep at the kitchen table, and I put blankets on you. How do you think those blankets got there?

I’ve been exploring the North Fork. Although I’d love to live out on Orient Point, it’s too expensive for just me and I must be realistic. I found a beautiful apartment in Greenport, a beautiful town in the North Fork. I already put down the security deposit, and paid the first and last month’s rent. I already got a job with a real estate company, given they’re all a bunch of pompous prejudiced bastards, it’s a starting point, and they are going to sponsor me so I’ll be able to get my agents license. I hope I will see you there. I will wait for you; we can still make our dreams come true, you have an unimaginable amount of money.

Here is my new address, and a key to what I hope will be our apartment. I must go now—I cannot bear to see you like this anymore—just a shell of my beautiful Linda. It has been nine months since I saw that sparkle in your eyes, and nine months is too much. I want you to do what you want, and I will not over-react I will not pressure you. For now I’m saying goodbye my love. Linda, go look at yourself in the mirror! Are you hearing me? Don’t you feel anything anymore? I’m not going to get mad, I’m sorry. Goodbye my love, my baby. See you every time I close my eyes.’
I gave her a kiss, and turned away.

Before leaving the apartment, before leaving my life in New York City, before closing the door—I glanced at her once more, and instead of seeing the woman I love, instead of seeing someone run after me—she turned the gas back on, started to stir away, saying under her breath, “I knew we shouldn’t have become intimate; I knew that would ruin everything.” Now I understand the article about risky sex. Perhaps this will be her last batch of Magic Vagina Chocolates. Perhaps she will see the sweetest thing she ever had in her life is gone. But who knows, money sure is a crazy thing.