The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(13)

Leah had shrugged. “Or you’ll filter out the regular guys and be left with those that like seeing women in pain, and then who’s going to be sorry?”

Remembering this conversation now, Nina decided William Reynolds must have had similar advice, because if he’d ever smiled or laughed or actively listened in his life, the photographer never caught it.

It had taken Nina quite some time to investigate the state of Los Angeles book clubs, and after months of study, she’d decided to form one club that discussed a different genre each week, rather than four different clubs that each met once a month.

First Wednesday of each month was Book Bitches (contemporary fiction).

Second Wednesday was Sneaky Spinsters (Golden Age mysteries).

Third Wednesday was District Zero (young adult fiction).

Fourth Wednesday was the Electric Sheep Grazing Club (science fiction).

If there was a fifth Wednesday in the month, she would wing it, because she liked to live dangerously. Book nerds are daredevils, as you know.

Nina would have liked a classic literature club and a romance club as well, but God saw fit to deliver a limited number of hours in the day, and days in the week, and she needed to balance her books, so to speak, with other activities.

Because she advertised her book club widely, membership varied, but it was basically a reliable core team of women who lived for books and were eclectically nerdy enough to want to discuss a different genre every week. She’d met her trivia teammates Leah and Lauren through her book club, and Vanessa, her friend from the café on Larchmont, had joined. The other reliable team member, Daisy, worked at a big chain bookstore, and often brought leftovers from their in-house café, which was a plus. The five of them were completely committed and came every week, taking turns to host and trying to set new standards for snacks. Occasionally, a new member or visitor would show up, and then they would actually have to talk about the book and be completely focused.

That evening’s club was Book Bitches, which was contemporary fiction, and the gang was discussing a worthy tome short-listed for the Man Booker Prize. The ladies had, however, wandered from the topic.

“Really? An actual photo shoot?” Nina was skeptical.

“Yeah, really.” Vanessa was flipping through her phone. “Not just one, but five. From several different angles, different lighting, moody black and white, sun flare filter, the whole nine yards.”

“Yards? I hope you mean inches, because a nine-yard penis would be . . .” Lauren trailed off, and frowned. “How many inches in a yard, again?”

Everyone looked at Nina. They were familiar with her memory.

“Thirty-six. A yard is three feet.” She paused. She wanted to stop, but she couldn’t. “It’s an imperial unit of measure based originally on a physical metal bar in England, which itself was based on the size of a quarter of a cow’s hide.” She took a breath, but Lauren—who could see when a rabbit hole was about to be explored—held up her hand.

“That’s enough. If you keep going, we’ll forget the mental image of a twenty-seven-foot penis, which would indeed be worth looking at.”

Leah snorted. “Although presumably harder to fit all in one frame.”

Nina giggled and sipped her wine, trying to forget the rest of the facts she knew about units of measurement (did you know a “moment” is actually a medieval term for a minute and a half, for example?). She loved being at book club, because although they did talk about books and stories and writers and readers, they also chatted about other interesting things. Dick pics, for example, or the dating life of single women in Los Angeles (the two are sadly related).

“Here’s the thing,” said Daisy, who had brought two dozen cake pops and may have been high as a kite on sugar. “Someone needs to take men aside and whisper in their ear, ‘Dudes, your penis is not the most photogenic thing about you.’ Let’s be honest: The out-of-context penis is not an attractive item. It’s a naked mole rat wearing a beanie.”

“Yeah. If I walked into my kitchen at night and flicked on the light and saw a penis lying on the ground, I would definitely scream and hit it with a broom. At the very least, I would climb on a chair until it rolled away.” Vanessa had clearly given this topic some thought.

Nina objected. “But isn’t that true of any body part? If you flicked on the light and a leg was lying there, you’d also be alarmed.”

“Yes,” agreed Vanessa, “but at least you’d recognize it as a leg. If there was a disembodied penis, you wouldn’t necessarily place it at once.” Vanessa turned up her hands in exasperation. “I’m not sure what it is, but its single eye is staring at me, and it’s too big to squash with a rolled up newspaper . . . Oh, wait, hang on, it’s starting to look familiar . . .”

Nina was still not buying it. “Wouldn’t you be more concerned there was someone walking around missing a penis?”

“Nope,” replied Vanessa. “I don’t think I’d get that far. I think I’d get stuck on the penis, if you’ll excuse the phrase.”

Leah was more practical. “Why don’t men ever send me a picture of them holding a puppy? I’d be so much more interested in that. Or even their smile, or their forearms, or a witty text that doesn’t ask me if I’m wet.”

“Which isn’t a good question to ask, either.” Nina had tackled this one a few times. “Because it offers up too many opportunities for sarcasm: ‘Am I wet? Because you sent me a badly composed picture of your mediocre man meat? No, I’m not wet. I’m not even mildly moist around the edges. I’m a veritable Sahara of repulsion.’ ” She turned to Daisy. “Do lesbians do this?”