Read Online The Art of Men (I Prefer Mine Al Dente) by Kirstie Alley - Free Book Online

“do it” on my period, arts and crafts, gotta get up at five o’clock to get to the beach, back pains, deaths of pets, sad news of the uncle I’d never met passing away, it’s too hot in here, I electrocuted myself, I fell off my horse, the raccoon bit me, you hurt my feelings, I’m gonna throw up, I can’t get over Ms. NYC, we have guests, the dog fell off the roof, the chinchilla is eating the wrong food, I have to mow the yard, I can’t find the goose, my stomach is going to explode, I think my IUD is lodged in my uterus, we have no electricity, the shower is leaking, and “Hey, how ’bout that Halley’s comet?”
    I kept thinking about the second time I had sex with Bob when we were in my mom and dad’s room after they had left town to attend my cousin’s funeral. What happened to the girl who was dying to have sex with Bob, even when Jesus was warning her not to?
    There was this gilded oval–framed photo of Jesus Christ above their bed glaring at us. I was trying to be sexy and cool, but I seriously couldn’t fornicate in front of Jesus. I grabbed the portrait of the Savior, walked it into the bathroom, and turned it facedown on the counter, freaking out because the tile was cold and it seemed a horrible way to treat Jesus. I spread out a bath towel, nestling Jesus on the terry cloth, then covered the frame with another towel. Then I started worrying I was smothering Jesus, so I removed it. I turned off the bathroom light, and pondered whether Jesus hated the dark. No, these were not the calculations of a seasoned vixen, these were the thoughts of a 17-year-old girl who wanted to be a woman.
    So there I was in 1974, being the woman I’d always dreamed of being, with full permission to bang my brains out . . . but I didn’t wanna.
    Bob and I were living in California. My mind was still like a 14-year-old, my body was like, well, not a 14-year-old . . . I had curly, flowing hair to my boobs, with an athlete’s ass that had finally molded into the tiniest, tightest pair of Fiorucci jeans made. My once-embarrassing swimmer’s six-pack had now smoothed out to a concave slice of heaven—I thought the California boys were day-trippin’ at the sight of me sauntering down Hermosa Beach. There was no doubt in their minds—or mine—that I was “the shit.”
    I had resisted all advances, and by resisting I mean I’d flirted with every beach boy in my path but never acted on it.
    Bob and I had bought our first house, overlooking the ocean in Redondo Beach. We had a sleek, new white BMW. He was a partner in his veterinary practice, and he was breathtakingly handsome in his Dr. McSteamy sort of way. He was instantly an excellent veterinarian, and he was working really hard and assuming tons of responsibility.
    I, on the other hand, was restless, useless, jobless, sexless, lifeless, bored, with no direction. I was a great cook, funny, highly creative, with a fine ass that I didn’t want my husband to touch. I was worthless, actually. I’d become worthless.
    One day, while looking for a new cat in the LA Times classifieds, I noticed an artist advertising for a model. His name was Putt. I interviewed with him and got the gig of posing for his latest oil painting.
    He was a fine artist, he really was, but I made a bad decision to pose for his painting. If I recall correctly, Putt painted Western scenes; thus I was in some stunning dance hall gown, one shoulder up, the other draped down to expose one nude breast, a sultry painting. I guess we could say this painting was the modern-day version of a sex tape floating around in someone’s living room or gallery now. But I quickly learned that husbands don’t like their wives posing nude, even for accomplished artists. Of course I already knew that, didn’t I? To this day, I think I did it as some covert revenge for Bob cheating on me with that NYC beauty queen my junior year.
    My husband was furious when I told him, and rightfully so. He thought I was at