All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,20

flannel pajamas or if he wants the Jenna Jameson voice and the fantasy wardrobe. I will talk him through any outfit he wants—he’s fully aware I don’t own any of it, of course—and I will talk as long as it takes until he is ready for sleep. (The hilarious times come when he is in Europe or Asia; there have been occasions when I’ve had these conversations in hushed tones at soccer practice or in the parking lot at school.) As I’ve told you, I expect my husband to be completely faithful to me, and I accept that with that demand comes some obligation on my part. When he needs it I give it to him, and in return he never seeks it anywhere else. Seems fair to me.

Anyway, the point is he always asks: “So, what are you wearing?”

And I can’t count the number of times I have told him I was wearing absolutely nothing.

“Just six-inch heels and a smile, sweetie,” I’ve said breathily, time and time again.

So, it struck me as more than a little ironic that this was the first time, the very first time, that I was genuinely wearing nothing at all, but it wasn’t Scott who called me.

It was my babysitter, and that turned out to be an emergency.

Long story.

Or maybe it isn’t that long. It starts in my house, where Pamela and I could not find a single suitable place to take these pictures. Thankfully, Pamela knows me well enough to know when I am becoming discouraged. She could see the moment was going to be lost if we did not act quickly and so she did; we packed up and went to her house. It was fabulous at her house, even if her house isn’t so fabulous. Pamela is an older divorcée with exquisite taste but not a whole lot of money. The best way to describe her style would be “hippie chic”; she is, after all, a child of the sixties and still flashes peace signs every now and again. So her house is about the way you might expect an aging hippie artist’s house to look: lots of psychedelic colors, groovy lighting, tapestries on the walls, a collection of framed rock ’n’ roll album covers in the living room. It was awesome for me, because it was so not me. There was something very appropriate about doing something as unusual as taking nude photos in a place as unusual as Pamela’s house. I even asked her to fire up some tunes for us. I wanted some rock ’n’ roll, and I wanted it loud.

“I think I know just the thing,” Pamela said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

She practically bounced out of the room to hit the music. I started to think this must be what it is like when a model says she clicks with a particular photographer. I always assumed that was just phony Hollywood-speak, but now I could see it is very real. I just knew that Pamela understood exactly what I wanted. I trusted her enough in that moment to put my life in her hands.

Then the music started. Led Zeppelin.

Oh yeah.

I’ll tell you a little secret: I’m sort of a rocker chick. I know I don’t look it. And I know I don’t behave like it anymore. I’m a mother now, a tennis gal, a classroom mom and—hopefully—a hot suburban wife, but inside I’m also still a rocker chick. Aerosmith, Van Halen, Led Zeppelin, Cheap Trick, Pink Floyd, I love it all. And in that instant, when Robert Plant’s voice flooded my ears, the only way I can think of to describe the feeling is orgasmic.

I was rocking out and playing air guitar, and god bless Pamela, who came in banging her head around like we were at Woodstock, and I just don’t know that I’ve had that much fun in years.

“How about a drink?” I asked her loudly, above the music.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “White wine?”

“Hell no!” Pamela shouted. Her eyes were twinkling again. “I think I know just the thing.”

Then she was off to the kitchen and I was left to shred it in the living room. As Led Zeppelin rocked out I went right along with them, singing as loudly as I could, on my knees like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.

“Try this on for size!”

Pamela was carrying a silver tray, upon which there was a sliced lime, a shaker of salt, a shot glass, and