“So what do you do out here?” Kitty asked one afternoon.
“Well, I write,” I said.
“But what do you do at night?”
“I’m on a schedule. I exercise and take the poodles to the beach and then I have dinner early. Sometimes at four.”
“At four?”
“I mean six,” I said.
“By yourself?”
“Sometimes with Sassy and Marilyn. And Queenie.”
“Dinner at six?” Kitty snorted. “That’s no life.”
She was right, of course.
And finally, Tilda Tia, who had been one of Kitty’s married friends, magically appeared from the South of France. She’d just ended a twelve-year relationship with a Frenchman and was trying to start her life over again in the States.
And so we did what we’d done years ago, before there were husbands and children, demanding careers and all kinds of heartbreak: We gathered together to figure it out.
Specifically in the kitchen at Kitty’s house.
And almost immediately, the way it had years ago when we were all single, the topic turned once again to sex.
“Where’s the fun? Where’s the excitement?” Kitty demanded.
“Where are the men?” Tilda Tia said.
And as I looked around at their eager little faces, I realized now might be a good time to find out.
And so, four years after I’d left, I returned to my old stomping grounds. As I crossed the bridge into Manhattan, now a middle-aged, single white woman driving a sensible SUV with two large standard poodles in the back, I had to ask the obvious question. Is there still sex in the city?
chapter two
The Mona Lisa Treatment
If there were any sex, I wouldn’t be having it. Not according to my gynecologist anyway.
She was my first appointment upon my return to the city. This yearly visit is always terrifying, but it’s something women like me have been trained to do: show your vagina to at least one person a year. Or else.
After the standard exam, she slid back on her stool and shook her head mournfully.
“Did you get that info I sent you about the Mona Lisa?” she asked.
“The Mona Lisa?” I felt the familiar trickle of fear. Had I missed something? Had I done something wrong? Was I now doomed?
I got dressed and headed into her office, bracing for the worst.
“Listen, sweetie,” she said kindly. “The hormone ring isn’t working. Your vagina is not flexible enough.”
I made a garbled noise.
“When was the last time you had sex?” she asked.
Another garbled reply.