Four stories accepted in two days is pretty good, I think. Today I’ve broken 80 acceptances, and I feel certain that I will hit 100 stories by the end of the year.
Alice and Scott slept together last night. I’m not supposed to know. Alice said Scott made her promise not to tell me – “I don’t want to pick up a book someday and read about it” – but of course I guessed.
Shelli said she married Jerry to get out of her parents’ house: “It was never a great love story anyway,” “But you were crazy about each other!” I said, remembering how much they hurt me in the fall of 1971. “Were we?” she asked. “I don’t remember.”
David recorded our singing of “Silent Night” and we passed a cookie around, eating it from mouth to mouth; I bit deep into the chocolate chip so my lips could touch Angelina’s, and then Libby and I kissed under the mistletoe.
After an hour of lovemaking, Ronna said, “I feel strange.” “No, you don’t,” I told her. “You’re right,” she said. “I feel good.”
I opened up to her about my work, my feelings, my goals – and we were sharing things again. I did feel close to her, so close that at one point I stopped her in the middle of saying something and leaned over and kissed her.
Yesterday when I called up Seventeen to tell Alice all about the National Arts Club shindig, June told me that Alice had already left for Houston to cover the National Women’s Conference.
I was exceedingly polite and tried to be as genteel as possible. I had never been exposed to so many old-line Protestant people from “good families” before: the men in their woolly grey suits and the elderly women in their print dresses with the inevitable pin and string of pearls.
The two cute guys from next door, Lance and Ari, were so sweet: they offered to do the dishes after we ate as Teresa, Jan and I raced out to Broadway to catch a movie at the 83rd Street Triplex.
Given a reasonably attractive partner of either sex, I would have had sex at least twice a day this past week.