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in front of other males, about not showing weakness. Follow
a male dog home, however, and you’ll see him curl up in his
mistress’s lap, tongue hanging out, begging her to tickle his
tummy in that special spot that makes his leg go nuts.”
Grabbing another issue of Fabrique, I checked the table
of contents and found the same thing: “Martine on Men.”
Beneath the title, the caption read, “Musings from New
York’s Goddess of Love.”
My aunt was New York’s Goddess of Love?!
“Few things are more attractive to a man than a woman
who couldn’t care less about him,” Aunt Marty wrote in her
column.
“You want him to be interested in you?” she wrote in
another. “Lead an interesting life.”
I couldn’t believe it! Then, I could. Of course my aunt
was a Goddess of Love! It was obvious. Why wouldn’t she
write a column about men? She knew everything! Even as a
kid, I knew I’d stumbled on to the key that would unlock
my pathetic life.
“Oh my God,” I said out loud. My aunt, my only living
relative, is an expert on the one thing I’ll never know anything
about: the male species. How could I know about
boys when my mother is practically a nun and my only male
role model—Mr. Arthur—has curled toes, hairy ears, and a
mind full of useless trivia?
Though I tried to stay awake, I fell asleep reading one of
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