From: Venus, Goddess of Love, 120 Main, Mt. Olympus To: Stacy Temple, lapsed temptress Stacy, Stacy, Stacy. You were so promising at the beginning: Sexy, smart, personable and funny. Great on dates and really great afterward-if you know what I mean. But this is a sad state of affairs; or, in your case, non-affairs! It's been nearly an entire year and you haven't had your way with even ONE eligible male. You've been working so hard concocting sexy lingerie for Thongs.com -- and really, Stacy, if that little pink velvet bustier didn't put you in the mood, I don't know what to say! -- that you haven't even tried to be coaxed out of your own thong.com! Are you listening, Stacy Seven days to find the perfect man -- or else! Happy hunting!
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March 04, 2003
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Excerpt from The Accidental Virgin by Valerie Frankel
Stacy Temple, 32, redheaded and pink of cheek, the very picture of health, if not happiness, lifted the pointed chin of her heart-shaped face and said, "Suicide on a roll."
She'd been waiting on line at the deli for over ten minutes, and had managed to apply full makeup and read up to page six of the New York Post before placing her order.
"Butter, too?" asked the man in the apron behind the chrome counter.
"No, thanks," she said, turning the page of her paper.
"Oh, go ahead," said the deli man. "Two fried eggs with bacon and cheese on a roll? Why not add some butter to lube up your digestion?"
Stacy had been coming to this hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon, crammed between two fifty-story silver towers on Park Avenue, for her weekday breakfasts for over a year. Never once had her conversation with the grill man varied from the usual pattern: her pleasantly issued request, his grunt of acknowledgment, her barely audible appreciation, his forking over the food.
Thrown by the shift from their usual exchange, Stacy looked at the man who prepared her morning meal. He was 24, 25 maybe, with wiry black hair. Greek? Italian? Mediterranean ancestry, but no trace of an accent. His round face rested solidly on a thick bull neck. He showed her his smile now, a wide one that spread across his face like the butter he was pushing. Chiclets for teeth. He vibrated with the nervous edge of a pent-up human animal, forced by financial necessity to flip eggs for strangers over a hot grill in New York City July, seeking a bit of kindness on a Monday morning, a small friendly exchange with a pretty girl to brighten the drudgery of the day.