Honey Bunnies, you can make it happen. In return I promise you a page turning, sassy, Hollywood insider’s view of pillow talk, industry politics, and a particular church I call “Clientology” — so as not to incur the wrath directed at a wonderful documentary-maker who currently has a project airing on HBO…
Wait, I was saying something about pillow talk…we all know the best parts of the book are the sexy ones, yes?
Well, here’s a preview:
…an excerpt of…
Anne turned in at quarter to ten. It had been a very long day. Her room was decorated, like the rest of the house, with an elegance intended to inspire awe. The sheets were Frette, the lighting flattering and subdued; the view of the pool and the snowcapped mountains beyond through the sliding glass doors were surpassingly lovely. Anne drew the curtains automatically and was half-questioning why, considering that spectacular vista, when she heard a tapping at the window. Startled, she opened the curtains to see Cliff standing on the other side of the glass. Bathed in moonlight, face etched in silver, his white oxford shirt seemed to pulse with light and his navy jeans dropped off into black. He was beckoning to her to step outside.
Anne felt a sudden rush of heat from the tips of her toes to the top of her scalp and thought, Oh, get a grip! He’s exactly the kind of man who never takes me seriously, too good-looking, way too good-looking, too glib, too connected; I’m always the girl you confide in but never sleep with, and if you do sleep with me then it’s because you know I’ll sit there hour after hour listening to your relationship issues, offering chipper advice until you find somebody else who, you’re happy to tell me, just clicks—like magic! Gee, thanks, Anne! If it weren’t for you I never would have fallen in love.
Well, that exact scenario had only happened once, with a visiting professor from Montreal, who last she heard had married his Quebecois goddess and spawned several munchkins. Then there was the triumvirate that had sent her into celibacy: the lawyer that could only climax if he was restrained, the broker who kept up a running commentary through the sex act as if he were broadcasting a sporting event, and the poet from Bennington who, after pontificating on the merits of single malt scotch and an inebriated night in snowbound Vermont, treated her to a sticky, spongy, flaccid nudging that didn’t actually qualify as intercourse but did leave her feeling completely slimed. Never again, she resolved.
She slid the door open and walked into the cool, sparkling night. Immediately she regretted the impulse as it occurred to her that her pajamas consisted of a nearly see-through clinging T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with something unseemly inscribed in bold over her bottom, like, jama, or worse yet, juicy. She folded her arms over her bustline and resolved not to turn around while Cliff could still see her.
“Hello, you.” Three syllables uttered by Cliff and Anne felt light-headed…