One day she was juggling a family life, giving in to the bloating of age and the exhaustion that hit the minute the kids were in bed. The next, she was sizing up every man between the ages of twenty and sixty, looking them over as meticulously as she did the fruit and vegetables at the market: men in cars waiting at stoplights, grocery store clerks, fellow PTA parents, the carpet cleaner and plumber. Sure, she’d always admired a handsome man. But now it wasn’t just looking; it was sweaty, heart-pounding visions of his naked body thrusting away at hers. Sometimes it didn’t even take the sight of a man to turn her on. She could be washing a carrot, hurrying to finish a casserole before meeting the school bus, and her hand would linger along the length of its unusually wide girth. Suddenly she’d be on the kitchen floor, thrusting that carrot into her G-spot. Fantasies whipped through her mind unbidden, sending her to the bedroom at all hours of the day—sometimes when her children were in the next room—overwhelmed with the urge to fondle and fuck herself into oblivion.
