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them, though, realizing that they might not appreciate knowing she’d sent orgasmic messages into the astral network for them. The point was magic of the sexual kind often worked.
    She also came to understand that when she placed a large amount of positive energy into something, it stood a very good chance of coming into being. Sexual energy, mental energy, physical energy—the key was to remember that just one kind of energy wasn’t always enough. Sex magic alone wasn’t always enough, just as praying on its own wasn’t always enough. She learned that it is the follow-up that counts, the action you take in the real world.
    With this understanding, she’d realized several desires for herself: a grant for her book of illustrations, a dinner ring of pink crystal, a Betsey Johnson dress of cream and violet silk.
    As for her most ardent wish, an abundance of lovers was tossed her way. Alphonse was the first she’d had since the construction worker. A shiatsu therapist with an office in a shabby east-end building, he always shouted “Lexus!” when he came. The night he yelled “With leather seats,” Constance knew it was over. Long afterward, she still saw him putting around town in his beat-up Volkswagen. No magic there.
    Next she bedded Brian, an accountant who liked to walk around the “sacred bed” in robes and turbans and little bells, which Con felt was fine, so long as it facilitated the magic. But then he named his penis Randall. “Randy for short—although there’s nothing short about Randy, right, baby?” It was true, Randy wasn’t short, but their affair was. Two weeks was all she could handle of “Take Randy in your mouth, baby.”
    Then came Connor—she had no idea why she seemed to be working her way through the alphabet with these potentially magical lovers—but the C entry on the list got a big kick out of the resemblance of their names to one another. It inspired in him poetry of the worst kind—doggerel and ditties weaving a panoply of cons: Comic Con and Con Ed, Genghis Khan and
The Chronicles of Narnia
, and every other con this side of Sing Sing.
    After Connor she packed the book and the robes and the gongs away and went back to sex with herself purely for sex’s sake, a reconnection to the big blank space she travelled to when climaxing. No ulterior motives, no symbols, no pet pussy names. A month into that and she found she’d skipped the bulk of the alphabet and gone straight to T.
    And this new lover, this delightful musician named Tyler, couldn’t help but think he’d met her somewhere before. It wasn’t until she disrobed in front of him for the first time (or so they thought) that he recognized her: the woman in the window, the gorgelicious lady across the way from his old apartment.

CON
    Money cannot buy health, but I’d settle for a diamond-studded wheelchair.
    â€”Dorothy Parker

    I have been called a sparkle diva and a glitter critter and a magpie. The fashion world’s current preoccupation with all things sparkly is only just catching up to me. Bejewelled shoes, rhinestone pins, twinkling earrings—I’ve been wearing them for ages, darling. Glass, rhinestone, crystal, diamond, zircon, ruby, emerald—I’ve donned the faux and the real, the precious and the semi.
    But three days ago I was given the most beautiful bit of dazzle for my finger that I have ever seen: an engagement ring of diamonds and a single sapphire. Yes! Tyler asked me to marry him!
    So began my search for my inner bride, my search to uncover the true meaning of holy matrimony. It has always made me feel slightly nauseous to read about the latest teenaged celebrity sporting a huge diamond engagement ring that cost as much as a small mansion. And I can’t stand shallow chicks who flash their rocks at the grocery store as if proud to be owned by someone who can afford such a thing. I was