Aphrodisiac Read Online Free

themselves orgasms. Necessity is the mother of invention, right? Of course, I’m a woman who never has to fly solo.” She winked at Eldridge.
    I forced a smile. The kind you flash people before running them over in your truck.
    “Well, gotta hurry. My weekly Clitoral Culture Group meets at eight in SoHo.” Perfect exit line.
    Not so fast. Tara was on a roll. “Saylor also gives workshops for couples who need help with their sex life.” A breathy laugh. “Guess you could say, ‘Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach’.”
    Please Universe, may a pigeon with a rare disease leave its droppings in her hair.
    As Tara rambled on, Eldridge remained poker-faced. Couldn’t figure if he was concealing a case of advanced nausea, as I was, or if he was just another sexy looking asshole.
    Why was I wasting my time here, anyway? There could be a response from Gwen’s brother sitting in my e-mail right now.

TWO

    Wednesday. Four weeks since I’d moved to DUMBO, and I was finally starting to feel at home. My bedroom here in my aunt’s loft was larger than the one I’d had in our Williamsburg apartment. I could actually fit in a queen-sized bed plus a small oak dresser, mini-desk and night table without turning the space into a rush-hour subway car. And the windows were enormous.
    With the vertical blinds opened for maximum sunlight, I sat on the cool hardwood floor unpacking a few leftover boxes. After arranging my collection of plastic dinosaurs on one of the bookshelves freshly constructed by my orderly do-it-yourself fanatic roommate, I sorted through some CDs — Dave Brubeck’s Classic hits, Brahams cello and piano sonatas, Alicia Keys — and set them in a pile next to the stacks of books I hadn’t yet shelved. Every ten minutes I checked the e-mail on my new laptop.
    Aha, there it was. An e-mail with an attachment from Darryl Applebee, Gwen’s twin brother. He was only twelve minutes older than Gwen, but that had never stopped him from acting the part of officious older brother. Including with me.
    Like the time back in seventh grade when I was brushing up for a big speech contest by practicing in front of Gwen at her house. In walked Darryl, the man with all the advice. He told me he knew a trick used by all great public speakers: “Whenever you get nervous, nod your head.” The nodding would supposedly relax my neck, while making me look intelligent to the audience. The second I got on stage and saw all those faces, I found myself in a panic. I went into a very serious nodding spree, which made my fellow students snicker and murmur things to the person sitting next to them. More nerves, more nodding, more laughter. Finally, I scrapped the rest of my speech and bolted from the auditorium.
    Thanks, Darryl. I went from munchkin to bobblehead for the rest of the week.
    In Darryl’s e-mail he dismissed my theory about the fanny pack as nonsense, but at least he sent an attachment with a scanned copy of the suicide note. It only took him six weeks. I’d been asking to see the note since the day he notified me of his sister’s death. With all respect to Darryl’s grieving over the loss of his twin, I knew there was another reason behind his lack of responsiveness. Us. Mr. Conservative tended to look down on Binnie and me as a pair of weirdos who encouraged Gwen’s off-the-wall behavior. Truth was, we had to work to keep up with the strange mind of his sister.
    I opened the attachment. The fancy loops and curves of the writing were unmistakably Gwen’s. Darryl had told me her suicide note was “another one of those corny poems.” He was referring to the absolutely over-the-top lyrical poetry Gwen used to write. She’d been published in several journals. I skimmed the page and smiled. Tears came to my eyes. He was right. It was undeniably one of her gloppiest.
    Reading it again, I got stuck on the first line: “This is my farewell, golden priestess of the sa-zi-ga.”
    Golden priestess of the sa-zi-ga ? Wait