Spin Cycle: A Novel

By Sue Margolis

Her husband left her for another man.
Her boyfriend may be cheating.
Her mother’s got a secret.
Is everyone having great sex but Rachel?

Lately, stand-up comic Rachel Katz’s life has begun to resemble a not-so-funny comedy routine — the kind where nobody laughs and everybody inches toward the door.

It began when her husband cheated ... with another man. Now she’s raising a ten-year-old son who’s fixated on Barbra Streisand and wondering if her dentist boyfriend — who won’t stop flossing long enough to make love to her — is having an affair.

Enter Matt Clapton, a wickedly sexy washing machine repairman who likes Rachel’s jokes and makes her feel like a woman for the first time in ages — maybe in her entire life.

With her mother busy planning a wedding Rachel isn’t sure she wants, her son dead set on inviting Barbra to the reception, and the groom-to-be in South Africa, working on someone else’s oral hygiene, the question is: What’s she going to do about it? Especially when fame and fortune beckon in a comedy contest that could put her on the map ... and change her life forever.

Spin Cycle tells a wickedly funny, shamelessly erotic story of lovers and liars, exes and children, parents and other strangers. This hip and hilarious new novel by the acclaimed author of Neurotica introduces a heroine who never loses her sense of humor and who discovers, somewhere between the rinse and spin cycles, that love — and laughter — can truly conquer all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
• Release date: Jun 1, 2004
• ISBN: 9780440335030

Sue Margolis

Sue Margolis was a radio reporter for fifteen years, mostly for BBC Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour. She studied politics at Nottingham University, where she met and married Jonathan Margolis, also a journalist and author. Sue is the author of ten romantic comedy novels. Her first, Neurotica, came out in 1998 and was a bestseller in the UK, the US and Germany. Her third novel, Apocalipstick, was bought by NBC television in the US in 2011 as a potential TV series. Sue’s audiobooks are consistently in the fiction top 20 on iTunes. Sue lives with Jonathan and their family in London. For more information, see www.suemargolis.com and www.facebook.com/suemargolis.books.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Rachel Katz lifted the mike off its stand and jerked the lead away from her feet.

So yeah, right, anyway, she began, moving the mike stand to one side, what do you think about this new morning-after pill for men?

She’d hoped for a few expectant chuckles at her opening line, but wasn’t too alarmed when none came.

The male morning-after pill, yeah. The moment the paternity suit’s filed, it changes their blood group.

Silence. OK, she thought. It happens.

You know, she continued, her trademark deadpan voice not faltering, "I’m thirty-four years old and still I don’t get it. Men. And the emotions thing.

"I mean why are they so afraid of feelings, so alienated by the remotest display of sensitivity? Let’s face it—the only time you’ll catch a bloke watching Oprah is when it’s on nymphomaniacs and where they hang out."

She paused. Waited for her laugh. Again, nothing. She was beginning to feel uneasy, and more than a little perplexed. She’d tried out the Oprah gag on a dozen audiences in the last few weeks and people always hooted.

The family of highly strung ferrets that usually inhabited Rachel’s stomach when she was performing went into a psychotic frenzy of somersaults and back flips.

Right, she said breezily, doing her best to ignore the ferrets. Just me on that one then.

She smiled at the audience, hoping she might receive a few titters of encouragement in return. But none were forthcoming.

You see, she continued, starting to feel mildly nauseous now, it’s not only the emotional thing fellas can’t do. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I mean practically all my boyfriends have missed the things that are really important to me—my birthday, the anniversary of when we met . . . my clitoris.

She paused once more. Still not a hint of a hoot. This could not be happening.

She peered at the audience through the smoke and semidarkness. Sitting round the Anarchist Bathmat’s pub tables was the usual mix of pierced and goateed student types, a few yuppies and a smattering of forty-somethings desperate to show the world their humor was still cutting edge while forgetting their sartorial style was more cutting hedge.

Right, er, OK, Rachel battled on, I was lying in bed next to my boyfriend the other night after we’d made love and I found myself thinking that God just has to be a man. I mean if God were a woman, she’d have made sperm taste of chocolate.

Cold silence.

God, I wish you lot had been here yesterday, Rachel said, swallowing hard. I was in Birmingham.

Suddenly a woman in the front row began sniffing loudly. Others followed. Then came the sound of somebody crying. By now Rachel’s nausea, panic and overwhelming confusion were turning to astonishment. She couldn’t understand it. Usually when people didn’t like her material, they heckled, went off to the bar or simply ignored her. They didn’t collapse into depression. Her bewilderment was such that she realized she’d forgotten the next part of her routine. She had to come up with an ad lib, fast.

’S funny, she chuckled nervously, right now, I’m having amnesia and déjà vu at the same time. I think I’ve forgotten this before.

Rachel couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The whole place was now filled with the sound of people weeping. For the first time in her career and, Rachel suspected, in the history of stand-up comedy, an entire audience had been reduced to tears.

Through the hazy half-light she could see women hunched over tables racked with noisy sobs. Blokes were biting their bottom lips and gently consoling their girlfriends. A few fellas were even hugging each other. Through her peripheral vision, Rachel caught sight of Lenny, the emcee, who was standing to one side of the stage. He was making violent cutthroat gestures to her. She realized she had no alternative but to come offstage.

Thank you, she shouted above the din of wailing, sniffing and nose blowing, I’m Rachel Katz and you’ve been . . . an audience. Good night.

Rachel bounded over to Lenny. He was a short, thirty-something Sheffield lad with mad-scientist ginger hair and pink tartan flares. They’d worked together dozens of times and he and Rachel were good mates.

Blimey, she gasped. Talk about going down like Sylvester Stallone’s dick at a transvestite convention. Do you mind telling me what was going on? I mean, I’ve died before, but I’ve never been mourned.

It’s OK, Rachel. Calm down, Lenny said, smiling and gently rubbing the top of her arm. It wasn’t your fault. You see, the audience couldn’t help it.

What do you mean, ‘couldn’t help it’? Course they could bloody help it.

"No, they couldn’t, honest. You were in the bar with your bloke when Mori Bund the Jewish Goth hypnotist was on. He’d put the entire audience in a trance, managed to convince the men that England had just lost the Ashes, the Football World Cup and the Rugby World Cup all on the same day and the women that they were watching the final scene in Casablanca. He finished his act positive he’d brought them back. It was only when you went on that he realized they were still under."

Rachel turned to look at the audience. The crying had stopped and everybody was sitting upright in their seats, their eyes closed and heads flopped forward. Onstage a gangly, nervous-looking chap with an Alice Cooper face, wearing a black top hat, matching satin cloak, horizontally striped black-and-white tights and red Doc Martens, was counting loudly backward from ten.

* * * * *

You’re quiet, Rachel said to Adam through a mouthful of Big Mac. You haven’t even told me what you thought of my set tonight, at least what there was of it. I know it all went a bit pear-shaped because of the hypnosis thing—but weeping customers aside, what did you reckon?

Adam took one hand off the steering wheel and leaned across to steal one of her chips. He said nothing. He looked thoughtful and uneasy at the same time. She could tell he was building up to something.

Come on, out with it, she said good-humoredly. You thought I was crap, didn’t you?

He opened his mouth to speak, but she came back at him before he had a chance.

OK, I know what it is, she said. All my bloke-bashing material makes you feel like I’m getting at you. Come on Adam, you know none of my gags are personal. Jokes against men get laughs, that’s all.

She leaned toward him and began stroking his cheek. You’ve never once missed my birthday, she purred. Or my clitoris.

Adam smiled.

Don’t be daft, he told her. It never even occurred to me to take any of your antimen stuff personally. Mind you it is a bit unrelenting. Why don’t you try changing it a bit? I heard this brilliant gag the other day. Now then, how did it go? Hang on . . . OK, yeah . . . What do Japanese men do when they have erections?

I don’t know, she said, her voice a perfect imitation of a music hall comic. What do Japanese men do when they have erections?

Vote.

Right, she said with a weak chuckle.

Oh, well, Adam shrugged, it made me laugh. Still, what do I know, I’m just a dentist.

Yeah. You think loose dentures are funny. She shoved some more chips into her mouth.

I don’t know about that, but I could certainly name you dentists whose bridgework makes me laugh out loud.

Neither of them spoke for a moment or two.

I know what’s bugging you, she said eventually. You still think I should jack in the comedy, don’t you?

Look, he said, bringing his brand-new Audi A6 to a stop at a red light, with the exception of maybe your mother, nobody would be more delighted than me if you gave it up and went back to journalism. Bloody hell, Rache, two years ago you were a broadsheet features editor earning a really decent salary. You had an expense account, a company BMW. Then you just walk away. For what? To spend night after night in seedy smoke-filled pub back rooms getting heckled by drunks.

Er, excuse me, she said. For your information, I haven’t had a heckler in ages. Adam, we’ve been through this a thousand times. You know how much I love doing the comedy. You know the buzz I get from standing up there, making an audience laugh at material I’ve written.

I can’t imagine what it must feel like performing in front of all those people, Adam said. I’d be petrified.

I am petrified, she said eagerly. But in a way I love that too. Even before I get up on stage, the adrenaline starts pumping because I know I’m about to take this enormous risk. The audience may not laugh. And that’s scary. Then when they do, I get this wonderful sense of triumph. It’s like I’ve climbed a mountain or run a marathon. Journalism could be satisfying occasionally—you know, blowing the whistle on some bent MP or whatever—but it never gave me the rush the comedy does. It didn’t come close. In the end it just bored me.

As she took another bite of burger, mayonnaise started to dribble down her chin. She wiped it with the back of her hand. When she realized all she’d succeeded in doing was transfer the mayo rather than get rid of it, she began sucking her hand.

Adam winced, and opened the glove compartment. Next to the box of tissues that he always kept in the car in case he had one of his frequent, stress-related nosebleeds was a container of Wet Ones. He handed it to her. But by now she’d already wiped her hand on her combats. She put the box down next to her feet.

Thing is, she went on, I must give it a proper go. I can’t give up just because once in a while I get heckled. That’s how comics learn. It’s part of finding out what material works and what doesn’t.

She stopped chewing and watched Adam take a neatly folded yellow duster from the driver’s door compartment, open it and wrap one corner round his index finger.

But you’re earning no money, he said, rubbing at a spot of nonexistent dirt on the dashboard.

I am, she said brightly. I made 150 quid tonight.

I mean real money. Rache, you have to clean people’s houses to make ends meet. And you’ve got a child to support.

Satisfied that the imaginary speck was gone, he refolded the duster down the original crease marks and put it back in the driver’s door compartment.

C’mon, Ad, she said, playfully punching the top of his arm, I get by. And you know I’d never let Sam go without . . . Anyway, it’s only till I get famous. D’you want the rest of these chips?

He shook his head.

She screwed up the burger paper and rammed it down on top of the half-full chip box. Plus I’ve worked it out, I’ve got all the money I need . . . so long as I die before Monday.

Adam turned to her and smiled, despite himself.

Look, she went on, please try and understand. I’m doing something I really want to do and that means so much more to me than having piles of cash in the bank.

By way of response, Adam took the McDonald’s rubbish from her lap, twisted round and placed it neatly in the Car Tidy hanging from the back of the passenger seat.

Floss? he said a moment later, taking his hand out of his jacket pocket and offering her the tiny white container.

Rachel was used to Adam’s flossing obsession. No matter how many times she begged him not to, he still offered it round at dinner parties.

She shook her head.

Fine, but I tell you, Rache, you neglect oral hygiene at your peril. Don’t come crying to me when your teeth start to turn yellow.

I won’t, she giggled, I’ll just wear brown to compensate.

The traffic lights changed and Adam pulled away.

So, she purred, moving toward him and trailing her finger over the small bald patch on the back of his head, talking of making ends meet, when will ours meet next? It’s been ages since you told me to open wide.

I’m sorry, he said. Thing is, I’m just so busy at the moment. I’ve got bloody admin coming at me from all sides.

Yeah, I know, she said sympathetically. She rubbed his arm affectionately and felt the softness of the expensive navy woolen jacket. Underneath he was wearing an immaculately pressed denim shirt. She looked down at her combats and scruffy Nikes. How the supposedly witty, alternative likes of her, who always looked like she’d thrown something on and missed, had managed to fall in love with a Jewish dentist with a thing about dental floss and shoe trees, she had little idea—beyond a firm belief that opposites really did attract.

I don’t mean to put pressure on you, she said. Honest. But I just hate you being in Manchester. I only get to see you at weekends and sometimes not even then because you’re so busy. And when you disappear to South Africa for a month, I won’t see you at all.

The following week, Adam was off to Durban to work in his uncle Stan’s dental practice. Adam’s father had died of a heart attack when Adam was twelve, leaving no life insurance and very little capital. When Stan, his father’s brother, discovered this, he started paying Adam’s school fees and put him through university. Despite the geographical distance, they’d always been close and Adam felt he owed Stan a great deal. When he phoned to say he was going into the hospital for a hip replacement and was there any chance Adam could take over the office for a few weeks, Adam had felt he was in no position to refuse.

We’ll speak on the phone every day. Believe me, Rachel, I’ll be busy, you’re busy. Four weeks will go in a flash.

Yeah, I s’pose. But why you had to go to Manchester in the first place, I’ve no idea.

Come on, you know precisely why. I went because, unlike you, I recognize a sound job opportunity when I see one.

A year ago, Adam’s best friend from dental school had offered him a partnership in his cosmetic dentistry practice in Alderley Edge with a million-pound-a-year turnover and he’d grabbed it like a shot.

She grunted. I know. I just miss you, that’s all. Look, don’t go back tonight. Please stay. It’s already past eleven. Tomorrow’s Saturday. What’s to go rushing back for?

A mountain of VAT returns, that’s what. I’ve been putting it off for weeks. I’d love to stay, Rache, you know that, but I really do need to get back. Anyway, your mother and father are at your flat. I can’t bear doing it with them a few feet away on the sofa bed.

Rachel’s regular baby-sitter had let her down and her parents had offered to look after Sam, her ten-year-old son. Her father tired easily these days and didn’t like driving home from Crouch End to Chingford late at night, so when they baby-sat they invariably stayed over.

Plus I’m convinced your mother stays awake listening.

Don’t be daft. Why would she listen?

Rachel, your father is over seventy. He wears trousers with elasticized waists and shoes that do up with Velcro. His idea of excitement is allowing himself an extra Pepto-Bismol after dinner. If you lived with a man like that, wouldn’t you listen?

Maybe, she said. For a fleeting moment she could see Adam at seventy, soaking his loose change in biological detergent overnight and washing the rubbish before throwing it in the bin.

She put out her arm and squeezed the inside of his thigh. He smiled back at her. A moment later she was trailing her fingers over the outline of his penis.

That’s nice, he said softly.

She felt his penis begin to stiffen.

I do love you, you know, he said, stroking her head.

Yeah, me too. And listen, thanks for driving down to see my gig tonight. I really appreciate it.

My pleasure . . . Rache, I know I seem a bit tough on you, but it’s only because I worry. I hate to think of you struggling like this. Why won’t you at least let me give you some money?

I’ve told you before. Because I want to make a go of the comedy on my own. I refuse to live like some kept woman indulging a fantasy.

He shrugged. OK. But when we’re married . . . which reminds me. We really ought to sit down and sort out a wedding date.

We will. Soon. I promise.

Rache, you’ve been saying that for months.

I know. It’s just that I’ve been so taken up with the comedy, I haven’t had a moment to think about it. Look, we’ll talk about it when you get back from South Africa, OK?

He turned to look at her. Rache, you do love me, don’t you?

Of course I do, she said, leaning across and kissing his ear.

Then we’re just wasting time not setting a date. And getting married makes sound practical sense for both of us. I’m nearly thirty-six and I want to get my life sorted. It feels like it’s time. I want to settle down. I want us to have a couple of kids, a nice house round the corner from the practice . . .

. . . membership in the synagogue burial society, she piped up.

I’m trying to have a serious conversation here. Why won’t you listen? Adam said, starting to get irritated.

I will listen. She smiled a sexy smile. But later. There’s something I want to do first.

With that she began unzipping his fly.

Christ almighty, Rache, he gasped. What if somebody sees?

Shh, she whispered as she moved her head down toward his lap. A moment later she was running her tongue over the top of his erection.

Adam whimpered softly and slipped fractionally lower in his seat. Then almost at once she sensed him clenching his buttocks in panic.

But what if I get so carried away that I crash the car and you end up biting off my knob? Look . . . oh God that feels incredible. . . . Look Rache, just in case this all goes wrong and I end up hemorrhaging, for Chrissake remember to tell the ambulance men I have thin blood. You know how hard it is to stop my nosebleeds ’cause I have trouble clotting . . . fuck you’re good . . . I’ll need FFP, right? And possibly platelets. Have you got that? Fresh. Frozen. Plasma.

But Rachel wasn’t listening. She took virtually his entire penis in her mouth—just as the Audi entered the Rotherhithe Tunnel.

CHAPTER 2

"No, Coral, listen to me. Listen. I know it seems unbearable now, but you have to calm down and believe this is just a temporary setback. All of you is beautiful and valuable . . . of course I mean it. Coral, this is me, Faye, your best friend. Would I lie?"

Rachel dropped her shoulder bag on the floor next to the hall coat stand and shook her head. Not only was her mother up past midnight, she was yakking on the phone. She swore that one day the woman’s larynx would seize up. She walked toward the kitchen and the sound of Faye’s voice.

She opened the door. Her mother, mobile phone between her shoulder and chin, was kneeling on the kitchen counter in her lilac candlewick housecoat and a pair of brand-new rubber gloves. A plastic bucket stood beside her. Although she had her back toward her daughter, Rachel could see quite clearly that her mother was cleaning the venetian blind above the sink. A few feet away Rachel’s father, Jack, was standing in his dressing gown stirring hot chocolate mix into mugs of boiling milk.

Dad, she said, without taking her eyes off her mother, do you mind telling me what on earth she’s up to at this time of night?

Jack gave his daughter a you know your mother shrug. So how’d it go tonight? he asked, giving Rachel a peck on the forehead.

Not bad, she told him, taking a Rich Tea out of the biscuit tin and biting into it.

Sam OK?

Good as gold, bless him. Jack smiled. Not a peep since he went to bed. You want some hot chocolate?

Rachel shook her head.

At that moment her father stopped in midstir, clutched his chest and grimaced.

Before Rachel had a chance to react to the clutching and grimacing, Jack let out an enormous belch. Hearing this, Faye immediately swung round. Covering up the mouthpiece, she took the phone off her ear and cocked her head toward her husband.

He had wheat tonight, she said to Rachel. Now he’s paying the price. She uncovered the mouthpiece and said, Look, Coral, I’ve got to go, Rachel’s back. I’ll speak to you in the morning. Meanwhile, cheer up and try to get some sleep. Bye. Love to Ivan.

Three hours your mother’s been on that mobile, Jack said as Faye stabbed the off button and maneuvered herself into a sitting position on the counter. I tell you her head is so full of microwaves, I could use it as a hot water bottle.

Faye snorted. Jack, she said brusquely, just be quiet and help me down.

He padded over to the sink, took the bucket of Flash from her and held out his hand.

That was Coral, she said to Rachel once she was back on her feet. Poor soul, her manicurist took one look at the state of her cuticles and told her there was nothing more she could do for her . . . so how did it go tonight? Channel 6 discover you yet? Wait . . . don’t tell me. I already know the answer. Rachel, I beg you. Give up this comedy nonsense. Look, I know you’re funny, Daddy knows you’re funny, so what’s wrong with just making us laugh and going back to a proper job? Show business is a tough world. So few people make it and I worry about you having no money.

Mum, Rachel said, going over to her mother and wrapping an arm round her shoulders, you have to stop worrying. I admit things get a bit tight occasionally, but I’m doing fine. Honest. She gave Faye a reassuring peck on the cheek.

Her mother shrugged and turned to Jack for moral support, but he’d disappeared into the living room with the mugs of hot chocolate and half a dozen Rich Tea biscuits in his dressing gown pocket.

"So where is Adam? Faye asked, wiping her forearm across her brow. I thought he was going to stay over."

He’s driving straight back to Manchester, Rachel replied, swallowing the last of her biscuit.

But he won’t get home till three in the morning.

He’s got to do the VAT tomorrow.

And to think I’ve spent hours slaving over a hot Flash bucket. I know how high his standards are.

Rachel looked round. The pile of washing up she’d left in the sink was gone, the previously overflowing swing bin was empty, her counters were clear and the J-Cloth that had been on the drainer at least two months had been replaced with a new one.

On the one hand, Rachel couldn’t help taking offense that each time Faye came to the flat the first thing she did was sniff the fridge, wince and then reach into her handbag from which she would take a pair of rubber gloves. On the other hand, since Rachel didn’t get much time for housework these days, she was genuinely grateful. She decided there was nothing to gain from pointing out how much Faye’s cleaning irritated her. Her mother would only get upset.

Oh Mum, I’m sorry, she said kindly, I really am. You’ve worked really hard and—

Rachel broke off in midsentence.

Mum, she said with faux casualness, eyeing Faye’s rubber-gloved hand, from which there hung a short white string. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you appear to be holding a water-logged tampon.

Yes, I know, her mother said excitedly. It’s my own invention. I always use them to clean venetians. You take a Tampax out of its cardboard, damp it and run it along the plastic. Works a treat.

* * * * *

Faye looked round the kitchen, smiled a satisfied smile and took off her rubber gloves. Almost at once she put them back on. She’d spied a significant buildup of green gloop round Rachel’s washing-up bottle nozzle. Having rinsed it to her satisfaction and taken off the rubber gloves once more, she suggested they join Jack in the living room. As they walked in he was sitting up in the sofa bed reading You and the Continental Drift.

I tell you, Jack said, looking at them over Faye’s reading glasses, which had gold filigree arms and which he always borrowed because he could never find his own, it says here the whole of Europe is on the move. The entire continent. Believe me, it won’t be long before Chingford ends up in the Caribbean.

So what are you saying? Faye said, picking up her hot chocolate from the coffee table and sitting down at the end of the sofa bed. That I shouldn’t bother buying a winter coat this year?

The two women burst out laughing.

By way of reply Jack gave an involuntary belch, put Faye’s glasses back on the end of his nose and returned to his book.

Rachel perched herself on the end of the bed next to her mother. It was then that she noticed the large mock-leather wedding invitation catalog lying on the floor next to the bed.

Mum, she said, doing her best to keep her tone light. What’s this? She picked up the catalog and opened it.

You can see what it is, Faye said quietly. The chap at the printers said I could hang on to it overnight. I thought maybe we could look through it together tomorrow. . . .

I dunno, Rachel said, shaking her head and giving a half laugh. What am I going to do with you?

But, Rachel, Adam won’t wait forever, you know. Please, darling, why can’t you set a date?

Faye then launched into her usual ten-minute lecture about what a lovely boy Adam was, how much he loved Rachel and how thirty-four-year-old divorced mothers didn’t get too many offers of marriage.

Plus he’s well-off. You and Sam would want for nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I know, Rachel said gently. But I’ve just been so busy trying to get my career off the ground. I just haven’t had time to think about weddings.

But you had a career. A wonderful career. You were earning good money.

"Oh Mum, the money thing

Reviews for Spin Cycle

[sararomancelove · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

For me it was extremely difficult to get into this book, or even finish it! There was no suspense, the story wasn’t there, and there was no development. In the end I had to skip some pages because it was just too boring. The author tries to include some mysteries to add something to the non-existent story, involving the parents of the protagonist and the designers she works for, but in the end they are not very plausible and somewhat irritating.
This book is predictable and not in a good way, it is not just the end the whole book has a flat line from start to finish.

DO NOT GO FUTHER IF YOU STILL WANT TO READ THE BOOK


An elderly respectable couple doing a sex-help video??? Interior designers that hate modern design and only like traditional (and tacky) décor??? These lame explanations truly annoyed me.
Plus when the main part of a story is a person cheating in a couple it really annoys me when the author makes the other party cheat as well so that everything is solved!! Not realistic… too easy… in this book the end of a two years relationships and engagement takes place in a few pages of respective pleasantries. Boring.
(Also not a “clean” Chick-Lit)

[mellonhead_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book! It was funny and silly and sexy. The characters were wacky enough to be unpredictably fun, although the plot was predictable. The were lots of silly, tongue-in-cheek puns and bad jokes (some good jokes). Lots of guy-bashing humor, although it had lots of decent guy characters (what I mean is that it's not a guy-bashing book). I especially loved the Jewish-girl angle. It wasn't very strong, so I think most women can relate to it, but it was fun to see and poke fun at the Jewish mom issues and Jewish dating issues.

I have to say that the sex was pretty graphic (to me) and pretty sexy.