Breakfast in Stilettos Read Online Free PDF Page A

searching for my leftover lasagna amidst Sal’s veggie-meat substitutes—including several chalky looking blocks of tofu, tan chunks of faux chicken-flavored wheat gluten and several packages of reddish slabs called Fakin’ Bacon. No wonder she was so thin. I found my lasagna and some frozen peas to nuke.
    “He says it’s a place literary people go to get a little thrill. Supposedly harmless, artistic stuff.”
    “Well, you’d better be careful.” She began reading the home page of the website.
    “As to the research, what do you know about BDSM?” I didn’t have any idea what Sal knew about the subject. I didn’t talk about that sort of thing with anyone, so her surprised look wasn’t, well, a big surprise.
    “BDSM? As in the whole sex/fetish thing? It’s that kind of place?” She stared back at the computer with a little trepidation.
    “Oh, I don’t think so, but someone at work said that I should do background research on it before I went. I got some links to check out, but I was wondering what you knew.” I scooped lasagna and frozen peas into a bowl, put it in the microwave, and punched the Beverage button twice. That was typically enough. Then I pulled out a chair and sat down across from Sal.
    She shrugged. “Not much, I guess. I always think that stuff is creepy. People dressed up in leather, doing all sorts of weird things to each other, right?”
    “Well, that is the stereotype. I just don’t know if it is true. Do you know anyone who has a fetish? Or self proclaims to be part of the BDSM community?”
    Sal thought a minute and then shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone. Though I guess if they were, they wouldn’t tell me. It isn’t something my friends at school talk about.”
    No , I thought, not unless nanobyte took on a new meaning and spelling . “You never dated anyone with a fetish?”
    “Well, what classifies as a fetish? Most guys seem to fixate on certain things more than others—big breasts, long legs—of which I have neither.” She gestured to each feature while making a face. “You at least have some cleavage.”
    I looked down at my well-camouflaged chest. Yes, there were breasts of adequate size under my sweater. Not extreme, but enough.
    I tugged at the hem of my sweater, Jean - Luc Picard-style. “I guess that would count as a fetish, but I think it’s just part and parcel of being male. As in all straight males like vaginas, which doesn’t mean they have vagina fetishes.”
    She waved me away as though I had farted. “Quit using that word. I hate that word.”
    “Is there a better word?” When she waved me off again, I wondered, was there a better word? Mostly there were “dirty” words for that particular area on a woman’s body. And strangely enough, thesaurus.com didn’t even recognize the word vagina , much less offer up any synonyms. Granted there were no words for penis there either. Our sexual organs were academically synonym-free.
    My lasagna dinged. I grabbed a dishtowel and pulled out the hot bowl and blew on the steaming mix.
    Sal was still reading. “What are you going to wear?”
    If clothing was like restaurants, Sal could be a five-star gourmet with an ocean view. I, on the other hand, was usually fast food. Today it was jeans, a white dress tee and a black jacket. I looked down and gestured. “What about this?”
    She shook her head. “No way. It says here to ‘wear something you might not wear anyplace else.’ And you wear that every place.”
    I wasn’t going to argue. She was right. This was as good a time as any to try something different. Even daring. “ OK . I’ll wear something appropriate. I’m open to suggestions.”
    She jumped out of her chair faster than a cat off a hot stove. “I know just the thing.”
    After making me set down my dinner, she dragged me into her room.
    By the time Sal left for her evening, I had five pieces of clothing on my bed, all of which could have had “nano” as a prefix. Lucky for me, Sal