Torque: Necessary Force Used by Wives

I tried out a new book group. They were meeting at a bar, so I said sign me up.

I used the excuse that I was leaving the house to be literary, but really it was all about the Copper Gate’s Manhattan (which featured a fantastic maraschino cherry, nothing like the icky sweet red-dyed kind that I give to the Little Monster if I discover one lurking atop my dessert; that it was soaked in rye whiskey didn’t hurt the taste any).

This book group had a nice blend of folks, with actual males in the mix. I’ve been in a few book groups over the years, and nary a whiff of testosterone has been present at any of them, unless the host had a tomcat. I wouldn’t go so far as to call this group diverse—c’mon, this is Ballard—but it was nice to see a broad age range and mixed genders engaging with each other.

And they all read. Seriously read. None of them write. Wow. I’m lucky to be surrounded by writers, who, yes, do read, but I’m rarely out with the group of folks we are writing for—passionate readers. They discussed the characters in the book as if they were real people who actually existed. I’d like to hang out in a bar with them every night.

The most exotic creatures to me at this book group were the man and the woman who were married to each other. They read the same book. They attended the same book group. They discussed books. I wonder if that’s better than sex? I’ll never know, since I’ll never be able to compare one to the other. Add one more thing to the list of things I want to do before I die: have sex with a man who is reading the same book as I am.

Here’s what the Man I Married is reading:

Yes, the Man I Married is the proud owner of a tractor. An Allis-Chalmers. I’m in a ménage-a-trois with Alice.

Torque can be defined as:

the force that impels a wife to escape a house in which she shares her husband with a tractor, so that she can discuss the book she is reading with a group of total strangers at a bar.

A girl’s gotta get her rocks off somehow when the Man She Married starts dressing like this:

 Hubba hubba.

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 Up next week: It’s All In a Name-Spelling, in which my husband of nearly a quarter-century spells my name wrong.

Now on Kindle

The Erotica Writer’s Husband and Other Stories by Jennifer D. Munro
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