marty is part of a book club, or two. in these book clubs the one thing the participants have in common is not that they've all just read the assigned book, it is that they all have children and are desperate for a evening away. it's a guilty pleasure for marty but i'm in full support of her attending them. and not because i feel for her or want to support her interest or even because i feel it would be restorative to her psyche, it is because she always, always, always comes home with great and dirty and unbelievable stories about the woman at the gathering. entertaining stories. stories far more whimsical, slutty and enticing than one would find in some tired, formulaic overly edited tome.

my favorite morsel from the last outing was about this hyper cool woman/chic/mom from the neighborhood. when she lived in new york she was part of a book club and it was her turn to name the next book the group would read. running late, she dashed into a book store to grab the title she planned on suggesting but the store was sold out. desperately behind, she grabbed the neighboring text by the same author and presented it as one she vaguely recalled but liked and recommended the author.

over the next week as she read her last minute selection, she learned that this was an experimental work by the author and completely unlike her other works. and not only was it an experiment, but it was an experiment in erotic literature and one that seemed bent on testing the bounds of both sensual quantity and depravity. the woman was mortified. but she was also rapt by the pages and plowed through the epic, each libidinous tale of debauchery mortifying her more and more.

when she timidly arrived at the next book club ready to both explain and apologize, she was interrupted the group who insisted, unanimously, she pick the next book as well.