Don't have time to read books? Have one read to you!

Whatcha doing this upcoming Sunday April 10th at 5pm? I'll be reading from my new, sexy, poignant, philosophical book called FLIGHT: 17 syndromes in love, 1 novel. Just sit back, have a drink or two, and I'll do all the reading for you -- me, along with 3 other feisty writer types at THE LIVINGROOM -- here in New York, New York! (It's this cute lounge bar performance space on Stanton/Ludlow, in east village-ish area)! There's no cover charge -- just a two drink minimum -- and the maximum reading enjoyment allowed in New York City in a public place!

FREE SAMPLE FROM THE FREE READING: LOVE IS LIKE A MANGO -- OR WAS THAT A PAPAYA?

Although I was highly curious to get to know Bill sexually…it was not mind-blowing sex I was seeking in my life right now, but mind-blowing love, and I was afraid if we had the first I would never be able to sense if we had the latter.

According to scientists, it’s often hard for us women to tell the difference between mind-blowing sex and mind-blowing love. Unlike men, we get bamboozled by the intoxicating special effects of oxytoxins. Post-sex we then find ourselves confusing sexual exhilaration for emotional connection. Theoretically since I was now the new older Coco, I was now also thereby newly wiser.

Then again…there was that recent Korean Delivery Guy Incident.

A few months ago, I was home sick with stomach troubles. Susan suggested I order up papayas from the local Korean deli.

“These aren’t papayas,” I insisted, when the delivery guy arrived. I handed him back the bag.

“No, no, papayas,” he insisted.

“Those are mangoes,” I said. “I need papayas, for my tummy.” I patted my stomach.

He plucked one of the fruit objects from the bag, re-offered it to me for re-inspection. “No, no, papaya,” he said.

We passed the fruit object back and forth a few more times, until finally I decided to knock on my neighbor’s door.

Pam, of “Barney and Pam” answered, looking about eleven months pregnant, and in no mood for a fruit discussion. But I needed to know.

“Pam,” I said, “Can you help us here. Is this a mango or a papaya?’

“Papaya,” she said, then closed the door.

“Papaya,” the delivery guy repeated.

I couldn’t believe it. How could I have lived thirty-eight years on this planet believing papayas were mangoes?

My point?

If at age thirty-eight I could still believe a papaya is a mango, how could I trust that, although I was indeed thirty-eight, I truly did know the difference between mind-blowing sex and mind-blowing love? Perhaps somewhere along the line, I had learned it all wrong, and age wasn’t bringing me more wisdom, but reinforcing my stupidity.