The Roxy Letters

by Mary Pauline Lowry

  “But you WORK there,” I said in mock objection. The champagne and Artemis’s gusto had combined to make me giddy.

  “So what? It’s a stupid fucking soulless store. I know the clothes are crazy flattering (and more durable than the hype implies), but I still think you should make it your mission to TAKE. THAT. STORE. DOWN. You’re always complaining about how it’s a symbol of the death of the spirit of your hometown.”

  I feel strangely as if Annie and Artemis, rather than being my friends, are my divorced lesbian mothers who have never before agreed on anything in their lives and now are agreeing on this one bizarre, ludicrous idea. “Men love protesters,” Artemis added.

  “That’s not the point!” I yelled. Artemis is so sex-crazed it sometimes seems to be a form of mania.

  “I think you should do it. I really do. It might be just the thing to blast you out of this all-around rut you seem to be in.” She pulled up a calendar on her phone. “Let’s set a date. You need plenty of time to make a shit ton of protest signs, organize your strategy, get the word out via social media, blah blah blah.”

  “But we need to ensure the date is auspicious. Can you find a lunar calendar?”

  Artemis navigated to a lunar calendar faster than a blink.

  “I think a full moon would be just the thing—large gatherings are always more energized and successful during a full moon,” I continued. “But we also have to do it on a weekend, so people can come.”

  “September thirtieth? It’s a full moon and a Sunday.”

  “Perfection!” I said. September 30 it is.

  While at the time I was high on Dom Pérignon, now that I am sober, I still have the tingling feeling I get when something really wild is about to happen. It’s always a sign from Venus, my favorite planetary deity. But what is she trying to tell me?

  Tinglingly,

  Roxy

  August 5, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Today Artemis took me to Spider House for a double cappuccino with extra foam—and an espresso milkshake. I noticed when she ordered she told them her name was Larimar. (When I asked her about it she admitted she has a different “handle” for every coffee shop and bar in town. That girl’s quirks are endless and fascinating.) Then when I was so hopped up on caffeine that all I wanted to do was BUY STUFF! and SPEND MONEY! she took me to Asel Art Supply, where I promptly bought $200 worth of sign-making supplies and put them on a credit card. By the time I made it through checkout, I had to pee desperately, so I went in the Asel bathroom, leaving my purse with Artemis.

  She helped me load the sign-making stuff in my car and then hurried off. I was driving home when my phone dinged. I didn’t look at it until the red light. But when I did, my heart lurched with excitement. It was a text from Patrick: SURE. WHAT’S YOUR ADDRESS?

  My eyes scrolled up to read the text right above it. That’s when I realized Artemis had texted him the following from my phone while I was in the bathroom:

  HEY QT! WANT TO COME OVER TONIGHT AT 8? I’M MAKING SOME BOYCOTT SIGNS. YOU COULD HELP ME PAINT. DRINKS ON ME. WEAR SOMETHING SEXY.

  I could kill that girl. I haven’t shaved my legs in a week, my couch is covered in dog hair, I have no booze in the house, and it’s already 6:30 p.m. Argh!

  6:45 p.m.: I’ve vacuumed both sofas and the floor.

  7:15 p.m.: I ran to the liquor store but became trapped in a vicious hell of indecision. What kind of alcohol do you buy for a hip yet immature thirtysomething skateboarder who works in an aisle of exotic beer? I finally decided on Bulleit Bourbon and an ironic six-pack of Tecate in a can with lime. But then I realized they only had lime in a plastic lime-shaped squeeze bottle and not real lime, so I had to put the Tecate back. Finally I decided on an Oakland IPA microbrew. I don’t know why the bottle has a cute drawing of artichokes on it. Hopefully Patrick will like artichoke-flavored beer?

  7:30 p.m.: I’ve showered and shaved my armpits and legs, but despite societal pressures, I’ve left my power triangle wild and ungroomed. I was wavering on my commitment to this wild thatch of hair until I recently read Mario Vargas Llosa’s “In Praise of the Stepmother.” In the novel, Rigoberto is always delighting at having his wife’s full pubis up his nose. I found it very inspiring in a manner utterly lacking in twenty-first-century American literature and film. The mention of pubis is absent in early twenty-first-century literature, while in film women are always pressuring one another to wax or go full Brazilian in the manner of prepubescent girls. Luckily for me, I’m sure the bush will make a comeback. It’s great to be on the forefront of a fashion trend for once. Oops! It’s 7:52 p.m. Where is my hairbrush?

  8:03 p.m. Humph. He’s not here yet. Will have a quick shot of bourbon to boost morale. This rushing around makes me feel ridiculous and slightly incompetent, in the manner of feminist anti-hero Bridget Jones.

  8:13 p.m. Sign materials are out. I’m making a boycott sign whether Patrick shows up or not.

  8:27 p.m. Doorbell ringing! Roscoe ecstatic! I think he’s here!

  Hurray!!!

  Roxy

  August 6, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Patrick arrived last night without mentioning he was twenty-seven minutes late. But he pet Roscoe right away and seemed really happy about it. It’s hard enough to date without wondering whether or not a man will fit in well with the furballs. And some guys can be such dicks about Roscoe’s miniature stature. Patrick engaged in some gentle wrestling with Roscoe—one of his hands versus the little guy—then I put Roscoe outside, latching the dog door behind him, and poured drinks for us. I explained my hatred for Lululemon and my ideas for the protest, which will take place on Sunday, September 30. Patrick was very enthusiastic and we ranted together about the general downward trajectory of Austin.

  “I feel like the city is, like, turning on us, man,” Patrick said, “so that we can’t even afford to live here anymore.”

  I did not want to tell him that I haven’t drawn or painted in over six months—Venus gifted me with the insight that carrying on about Brant Bitterbrush, moisturizer, and betrayal would not be aphrodisiacal. So I boldly began to outline words on a sign. The first one read:

  HONK IF YOU LOVE YOUR BODY

  I gave Patrick very detailed instructions on exactly how the words should be filled in with paint. My next sign read: NO $100 TIGHTS, WE WANT OUR RIGHTS—TO BUY LOCAL. With Patrick’s encouragement and the beer and bourbon lowering my inhibitions, I drew curvy girls, dollar signs, and symbols of the Austin we want to live in on our two signs. It felt glorious to put pen to paper. I found that drawing something totally low stakes (i.e., boycott signs that will not bear my signature but will rather be carried in the streets “by the people”) was rather liberating. As Patrick and I passed each other markers and paints, electric sparks of sexual tension jumped between us. I have to admit, Everett, that while I have missed you at times, it was a relief to know you would not be barreling through the front door. Thus I would have no need to explain to Patrick who you are and how you fit into my life.

  We got so drunk that I’m not sure who kissed who first, but he fucked me on the floor of the living room. (We had to pause the proceedings for me to find the donut pillow and properly position it beneath my bruised coccyx.) He was on top and I didn’t come, but I told myself it was because my tailbone hurt a little. It was still hot, especially because of that totally ripped little skater body of his.

  We went for Round Two in my bedroom, doggy-style, and I was SURE he’d give me the reach around, but he didn’t so I rubbed my own clit. However, I’ve been using the merman so regularly that non-battery-powered stimulation was slow going and Patrick came before I could. (There’s a movement among witchy women to use sex toys made out of crystals such as rose quartz and amethyst, thus avoiding the overstimulation trap of the battery-powered sex toy, and while I have no inherent urge to rub myself off on a rock, I’m starting to see their point.) Then Patrick passed out immediately, snoring in a way that would have been cut
e had I not been so hot and bothered.

  I knew I’d never sleep if I didn’t get off, so I pulled out the merman—its buzz didn’t even stir Patrick, that’s how out he was. It was simultaneously fantastic to finally have an adorable man in my bed, and mildly depressing to STILL be revving up the merman in order to orgasm. But when I came, I shuddered so hard it woke Patrick. He panicked, grabbing a pillow and shoving the corner of it between my teeth. When I yanked out the pillow I yelled, “What are you doing?”

  “I was trying to keep you from biting your own tongue while you were seizing,” he yelled back, clearly in a panic.

  “That wasn’t a seizure! I was having an orgasm,” I said. We eventually laughed it off awkwardly and then we both went to sleep.

  I was hoping Patrick would get me off in the morning, but as soon as he woke up he said he was late to meet his roommate (??) and hurried out with nothing but a quick kiss.

  Now I feel rather dreamy at having lost my post–Brant Bitterbrush born-again-virginity and hope Patrick and I can have another go at doing the do—a go that will surely involve a little more attention paid to my clitoris.

  Dreamily,

  Roxy

  August 7, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Yesterday before my shift started I texted Annie to meet me out back near where I like to have my kombucha break (because frequent work breaks aren’t just for smokers anymore!). I told her about my sign-painting night with Patrick. But she was more excited about the fact that I was doing some sort of art than she was about my sex life.

  So I texted Artemis to meet me for a drink after work. For the rest of my shift I kept cruising Beer Alley on my breaks, but there was no sign of Patrick.

  When I left Whole Foods, I rode my bike home to give Roscoe his insulin shot, then down to the Mean-Eyed Cat. It was so muggy I was covered in sweat by the time I got there, and the bar was so jam-packed that we decided to go to Deep Eddy Cabaret instead. (How clearly I remember the time when I could always find a table at any bar in town. Oh, the pain of enduring the overcrowding of a city that was once perfection!) I think the stress made my tailbone hurt and I’d left my donut pillow at home, so I stood up at the bar as I told Artemis the whole story.

  “Oh no! Not another lazy Austin buster who thinks sleeping with a woman is just about looking good and thrusting!” she cried.

  “But what about when you hook up with cashiers in the parking lot?” I asked. “Do they pay attention to your clit?”

  “Parking lot sex is down and dirty. It’s fast and furious. But you were having sex in your house IN. A. BED! He needs to be paying homage to the princess AND her pea.”

  When I recounted the merman seizure incident she laughed so hard she snorted, but then quickly adopted a serious expression. “But really, you gotta lay off that battery-powered shit. Get to work, girl. Manual labor.” She waggled her pointer finger at me. “You rely on the vibrator, you become its slave.”

  She might have a point.

  Manually,

  Roxy

  August 10, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  In a decisive move, I boxed up the purple merman and put him on a shelf in the garage, then practiced masturbating to literotica.com with only manual stimulation. After forty-five minutes of enjoyable yet ultimately frustrating reading and self-pleasuring, I gave up. I had not realized that during my last celibate year the merman had overstimulated my clitoris to a prohibitive degree. I am now on a mission to recalibrate. Also, I now realize that Patrick cannot be blamed for my failure to orgasm, as currently orgasm via nonbattery-powered means seems to be impossible.

  It’s been four days since Patrick and I did the do and he’s only texted me once! I texted him back immediately, but received no further reply.

  Discouragedly,

  Roxy

  August 12, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  It’s been almost a week since my date with Patrick and I still haven’t even seen him in person—he texted me again yesterday but the missive seemed decidedly lacking in energy and enthusiasm. I had a feeling I would see him today, so I spent extra time getting ready for work and thus made myself late, so I drove instead of riding my bike. I ended up sitting in traffic on Lamar Boulevard for almost half an hour. Oh, my aching tailbone! When I was a kid, it would have taken five minutes to drive the two miles north from my house to Sixth and Lamar. But today I would have made better time on my cruiser! I walked into work ten minutes late, at which point Dirty Steve yelled: “Poxy Roxy! How can you manage to be late for work when you don’t even have to get here until three p.m.?”

  “I was alternately painting protest signs and trying to dial ‘O’ on the pink telephone,” I said.

  “Yeah, right,” he responded, but he seemed pleased at the repartee.

  It was actually true—between the feverish sign painting and the feverish yet ultimately futile attempts at masturbation, I’d lost track of time. I feel frustrated yet determined at this post-merman orgasmic desert I’m in. But I’m sure the Princess and her Pea will overcome!

  On the bright side: my creative juices seem to be flowing on the Lululemon protest-sign-painting project, perhaps not IN SPITE of the fact that it’s not “real art” but because of it. The stakes are low and so my energy is high! This morning’s sign read: HONK IF THEY DON’T SELL YOUR SIZE HERE. (Lululemon’s “EXTRA LARGE” is a size twelve, which is infuriating given that the average American woman IS a size twelve.) I now have three completed signs. It’s slow going, but the Temple of Venus wasn’t built in a day.

  As soon as I was behind the deli counter I started obsessing about when and if Patrick would stop by to say hi. Part of me wants an immediate redux of the other night, while part of me wants to hold off until I’ve successfully double-clicked the mouse. I finally broke down on my break and cruised Beer Alley. There he was, stocking the shelves with another IPA with a label featuring a pile of artichokes.

  “Hey,” I said. “When did artichoke-flavored beer get to be all the rage anyway?”

  “Hey, Roxy! You’re hilarious,” he said. “Artichoke beer!” He laughed. “Hey, what are you up to tomorrow night?”

  What was I supposed to say? That I’d be engaging in a ménage à moi in hopes of relearning my Goddess-given ability to climax without the aid of a purple plastic merman? “No plans.”

  “Want to meet at the Redbox at the H-E-B on East Riverside? We could rent a movie and go back to my place.”

  “Um,” I said, feeling a little put off by the lameness of the proposal. I am almost thirty years old, and while I don’t expect to be taken to see Arcade Fire at an “Austin City Limits” taping or anything, a meet-up at the Redbox in a grocery store parking lot locally famous for drug deals seemed to show a considerable lack of effort on his part.

  “I’ll bring the beer,” he said, gesturing around him. “Artichoke!” he said, and chuckled again. What was so funny?

  “Um, no way am I meeting you at the Redbox. Why don’t you pick the movie and I’ll meet you at your place?” I said.

  “All right,” he said. He sounded like I’d hurt his feelings, but I’m not repentant. The East Riverside H-E-B parking lot is sketchy as fuck.

  “Text me your address,” I said. Is it too much to hope that a guy I’ve been on two sort-of-dates with (and screwed twice on the second sort-of-date) would ask me out for a beer and a slice before our next round of sex? Everett, when did men get so damn lazy? I mean, when you and I got together you were broke as fuck, but you at least sprung for the dollar movie at the theater and snuck in some candy and beer for us.

  I sent Artemis and Annie an emergency group text to see if they could meet me for a beer after work. I was surprised they BOTH said yes. Now I’m off to rendezvous with them at the Horseshoe Lounge. The moment has come for them to meet! It can be avoided no longer! Wish me luck.

  Later:

  I arrived at the Horseshoe Lounge to find Annie and Artemis sitting at the bar. Annie was explaining
her job in a self-conscious, stiff voice. Oh no! My worst fears were coming true. My best friend and my new best friend were NOT going to like each other. With three of us it would have been awkward to stay at the bar, so we all sat down at a table, me on my donut pillow to cushion my poor tailbone.

  “What do you do, Artemis?” Annie said, in the formal voice of a reluctant stepparent questioning her new kid’s unruliest friends about their favorite subjects in school.

  “I’m a strategic team sales partner and educator,” Artemis said, in a fake chipper voice.

  Annie looked perplexed.

  “Artemis works at Lululemon,” I explained.

  Annie is earnest. Annie works hard to change the world. Annie doesn’t really do stupid sarcasm about bullshit corporations. I braced myself for fireworks.

  “Do you like it?” Annie asked.

  “I get to tell women they look great all day. Women always look beautiful, and most of them—even rich yuppies—don’t hear it enough. So yeah, I kind of like it.”

  Annie nodded and smiled. And I felt a pang of disappointment that Annie and Artemis weren’t fighting over me. Could it be possible they were going to LIKE each other?

  “Goddess, this donut pillow is a pain,” I said, adjusting it beneath my booty.

  “What did you think was gonna happen when you started getting drunk at a skate park?” Annie said.

  Artemis totally cracked up, and Annie looked pleased. I felt both left out that they were getting along so well, and a little miffed they were making fun of me. Artemis asked Annie if she was dating anyone, and Annie launched into her dilemma about the hottie identical IT twins, which Artemis lapped up. After we finished hashing out Annie’s lust squared, I told them about Patrick’s “date” proposal.

  “Oh. My. God!” Annie shouted. I do love it when she drinks. Her diet is so organic and pure that she’s hammered after two beers. “What have things come to when men get their feelings tragically hurt when called out for being horrible scrubs? It makes no sense.”