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Twenty-nine-year-old Annie Albright has been downsized, cheated on, and mistaken
for a goody-two-shoes--all in one day. Now, to top things off, she's gotten a
vibrator as a gift, which wouldn't be so bad...if it wasn't from her grandmother. She actually likes B.O.B.
(battery-operated boyfriend), although there's just one thing she wishes it
would do: tell her al the sweet nothings she longs to hear. You know the kind
of thing: Oh baby...I want you and Hey, have you lost weight?
And so Mr.
Vibrator is born. In no time, Annie's talking invention is a smash hit, and
she's making the rounds on all the hot talk shows. But something is missing.
So she embarks on a search to find the seductive voice behind her new sex toy,
knowing that sometimes the real thing can be way better than the fantasy--and
sometimes it's the other way around...
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CHAPTER
ONE
Annie Albright
thought of herself as an ordinary girl-with an asterisk.
She was definitely good -
the kind of person who helped little old ladies across lower Market Street and
dug for change in the bottom of her faux leather hobo bag when a bum on Haight
stuck out a hand.
She tried to be
kind. She would never, for example, tell
her best friend Michelle Garibaldi (who was brilliant, hysterically funny, and
unfortunately built) that she looked like an armored personnel carrier in her new
Marc Jacobs camouflage-print sheath.
Instead, Annie found a darling Chloe jacket on super sale at a boutique
on Fillmore Street and gave
it to her friend as an "un-birthday" present. When Michelle donned the jacket over
the camouflage sheath-instant streamlined.
Annie came from
hardworking, intellectual stock. Her
parents were math professors, and she definitely inherited the hardworking
part, even if she sucked at math. Though
her job as assistant art director at HottieGirl magazine was achingly
dull - doing layout on "Back to School Fashion Musts" was not really her idea
of a good use of a B.F.A. from Syracuse--she
still tried to do it well. She'd held
her position for four years and hoped that someday she'd be promoted. However, her boss was forever taking credit
for her ideas, which Annie was sure contributed heavily to her lateral career
trajectory. Though she often pictured
herself marching into the editor-in-chief's office and sticking up for herself,
she couldn't gather the nerve.
Assertiveness was not her strong suit.
Annie tried to be
respectful. For example, the
thirty-something muscular Greek guy at the Beanery on 9th
Avenue who sold her the occasional coffee and
bagel-to-go? She didn't look down on him
because he spent his life filling cardboard cups. She might, however, fantasize
going down on him, after which he would ravish her on the counter,
plastic coffee lids flying like miniature Frisbees.
That had to do
with the asterisk. Her whole life, she'd
had a fertile-Fertile-Crescent-level fertile-imagination. The things she imagined almost always had to
do with sex. She never knew when it was
going to happen, either; it was something she couldn't control. Annie Albright had the Tourette's syndrome of
sexual imagination.
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