Drop Dead Gorgeous
It was the best sex she'd had in months.
The only sex.
Which wouldn't have been such a bad thing except that the elusive O came courtesy of a red fluorescent vibrator called the Big Tamale rather than some hot, buff cowboy with a slow hand and an intoxicating smile.
Margaret Evelyn Sweeney, aka Meg, hit the three different Off buttons—vibrate, swivel and aye carumba—and stashed Big in its matching red case. She drew a deep breath, swung her legs over the side of her bed and got to her feet.
Five minutes later, she stood in her kitchen and leaned over a hot-pink three-ring binder—her own personal Pleasure Manual—to document tonight's results. She flipped to page fifty-eight, which included a quick summation of last Tuesday's class entitled Masturbation Mania and a worksheet for homework. She scribbled in the date and tackled the questions.
Intense sensation? Check.
Spontaneous groaning (the good kind)? Check.
Uncontrollable moaning? Check.
A full-blown scream? Check.
Overall level of satisfaction?
She eyed the scale that ranged from one to ten, zip to zowee, and finally circled seven before moving on to the last question.
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