The Roxy Letters

by Mary Pauline Lowry

  “It’s all the tennis I’ve been playing,” she said. “I’m trying to get in shape for our trip to Peru! Oh, how we wish you would come with us.”

  “You made it!” my father called, opening his arms wide for a hug. I stepped into them. My dad does give the greatest hugs.

  “How are you?” I asked. “How’s retirement?”

  “I’m so bored I could gouge out my eyes,” he said. “I mean, it’s perfection.”

  “Oh, Dad. I just know you are going to find your post-retirement calling.”

  “Her date didn’t come,” my mother informed him in her loudest stage whisper.

  “How about something to eat?” my father said, whisking me out of range of my mom. At least two dozen senior citizens packed the house—the place was really lively and happening with everyone drinking beer and margaritas. The snacks were disgustingly meat-centric, of course, but the guests scarfed them down as if they were scrumptious.

  My mother rang a Tibetan bell—where and why she had acquired such a thing I will never know—and the room quieted. “Gather round! Take a seat!” she called gaily. “It’s time for the main event.”

  Main event? What was going on? I was confused and had the deeply intuitive sense that something mortifying was about to occur.

  The now-tipsy guests settled in on the giant sectional couch and chairs. The room was so crowded that the under-seventy set remained standing. A perky-looking senior with a dyed black bob that might have been a wig took the floor. She set a little mini-suitcase on the coffee table. “Now we all know that by the time we hit retirement age, we can lose a bit of our drive. But that’s not to say we can’t get it back!” Oh Goddess, I was both mortified and coming to understand that being stood up for this event was perhaps one of the best things that’s happened to me in months.

  She popped open the case and, to my absolute horror, I saw it was chock-full of a carefully organized row of dildos and vibrators. The guests gasped and giggled with the sort of group titillation that might erupt from a classroom of third graders who’ve heard the word “booby.”

  “With today’s technology, there’s nothing stopping each and every one of us from being a SEXY SENIOR!” The saleslady pumped the air with her fist and several women around the room let out little whoops of encouragement. “Now we all know the pharmaceutical industry has created a miracle cure for men that allows them to stay sexy and active at any age. But after menopause, we women can be, shall we say, a little less JUICY than before. But now there’s a cure.” She pulled a giant squirt tube of lube out of the suitcase. “This SENIORLICIOUS LUBRICATOR will make you feel like a teenager. Take my word for it,” she said with a lascivious wink that made all the men giggle. She popped the cap on the lube and held it out to Barry Lewis, a once silver fox now sagging toward eighty. He reached out his hand and she squirted a bit of lube onto his fingers. He rubbed them together.

  “Slippery!” he said, and everyone laughed raucously.

  “Taste it!” she cried.

  Barry made a show of licking his fingers, as if he was a 1977 Mick Jagger going after a Jerry Hall–flavored ice-cream cone. “Tastes like butterscotch!” he shouted. The room erupted in laughter.

  “We carry a delicious black licorice flavor as well,” the saleswoman said.

  My mother had tricked me! She was going to let me bring a date to this? Horror at the thought of all these seniors lubing up and grinding their bits together sent me into a sort of panic—I had to get out of there! I muttered something to my father about remembering I’d left the stove on. “I agree this is a little much,” he whispered. “I think your mother wanted you to come because she was thinking maybe you could sell this junk yourself.” He grimaced sympathetically. “If you slip out the back, I’ll tell her later.”

  The betrayal! By my own mother! “Thank you,” I mouthed, and made a break for it, donut pillow still under my arm. On the ride home I felt hot with horror and mortification at what I’d witnessed, coupled with the excruciating knowledge that every single member of Sun City probably has a more exciting sex life than I do.

  I’d done full hair and makeup, and sensed that Venus, Goddess of Beauty, wouldn’t want me to waste it all on going straight home. I was a little wilted from the heat, but still, cuter than usual. I’d text Patrick to see if he wanted company at the burlesque show. At a stoplight I looked for my phone but realized I’d left it at home. Perhaps I could just surprise him! He’d be excited to see me and introduce me to his friend Sal. And watching a rollicking burlesque show together—the stage full of women of all shapes and sizes delighting in their own brand of beauty—might prove titillating for both of us. Then afterward we could go back to my house for some hot sex, and I’d prove to myself that those Sun City seniors have got NOTHING on me.

  Once I parked around the corner from the 29th Street Ballroom, I made an executive decision to leave my donut pillow in the car, tailbone pain be damned. A bouncer at the entrance demanded ten bucks. I handed it over, thinking it a small price to pay for some afternoon delight. Tinsel hung over the dim, crowded room, giving everything a festive air. I felt my spirits lift.

  Onstage, a troupe of three girls shimmied and high kicked and stripped down to pasties. One of them was full-figured, one twig thin, and the third perfectly proportioned with hair dyed a hipster jet black. The dancers were categorically terrible—all their synchronized dance moves were out of time, and their clothing removal was awkward at best—but they looked like they were having so much fun that I cheered rowdily as they pranced off the stage at the end of their number. As I scanned the room for Patrick, the spotlight dimmed. In the darkness two men carried a giant claw-foot bathtub onto the stage. A large emcee in a suit announced the next dancer.

  “Let’s all give a big round of applause to Sin Sation!” he cried.

  I was expecting another pleasingly amateur local girl, but the spotlight illuminated the back of a woman with milky-white skin and long red hair who wore an exact replica of the outfit Marilyn Monroe donned in her iconic “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” number. Dean Martin’s “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” began to play and an offstage bubble machine pumped a stream of bubbles in the direction of the bathtub. The woman turned around. Everett, you can imagine my surprise that this sex vixen was none other than my new best friend Artemis!

  How many alter egos does that girl have?

  As she began to dance, I stood transfixed. She bumped and ground, yanking off first one elbow-length glove, then pretending the other was stuck so that the audience laughed as she “struggled” to remove it. She ripped off her dress in one smooth motion and danced in tiny underwear and pasties, throwing in a mix of shimmies and shakes that even had me feeling funny. At the end of the number, she climbed into the bathtub and pretended to blow pretty bubbles in the air!

  I hurried toward the front of the stage, clapping and whooping. After bowing gracefully, Artemis (a.k.a. Sin Sation) sashayed off into the wings. Where was Patrick? I scanned the crowd, and at a table off to the side I spotted the gorgeous black-haired burlesque dancer with the great figure snuggled up with her boyfriend. I felt a stab of jealousy. She’d certainly never spent an afternoon at a senior sex toy party. Ugh. She and her boyfriend began to kiss passionately, and as he turned his head to avoid bumping noses with her I could see his profile. He looked just like… PATRICK!!!! I moved in more closely. It was Patrick! I stormed over to him, tapping him on the shoulder. He looked up at me, but before his face could even register surprise, I yelled, “WHAT THE FUCK?”

  Totally nonplussed, the raven-haired goddess turned to Patrick and said, almost as if she was bored, “Do you know her?”

  “It’s not like we’re exclusive,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or me.

  “You stood me up for Sun City for this?” I yelled.

  “You were going with HER to an old folks’ home?” the evil siren laughed. “That’s rich.” I started feeling foolish, and before either of the
m could say anything else, I stomped off. Without my phone I couldn’t text Artemis, and the bouncers wouldn’t let anyone backstage (where I’m guessing the burlesque girls were still in various stages of undress), so I waited outside in front of the 29th Street Ballroom for a while, hoping I could spot her. Then I started worrying Patrick and the girl would come out together, so I just gave up and left.

  When I arrived home, the furballs went crazy to see me, but for once it didn’t feel like anywhere near enough. I normally would have cried, but the combined memory of that butterscotch lube and Patrick kissing the sexy burlesque girl literally dried up even my tear ducts. I am destined to spend my naturally juicy years with one dog, one cat, and—now that I’m on strike from the overpowering merman—my own pointer finger.

  Self-pityingly,

  Roxy

  P.S. Everett, why am I complaining to you about my loneliness and celibacy? You are fingerbanging multiple women daily in a meditation designed to raise female sexual energy. There is no way you could possibly relate to my current plight.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  September 5, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Last night, alone, still feeling jilted and in despair, I decided to watch the TED Talk of Nest Life founder and self-proclaimed sexual visionary Nina Sylvester. That woman may be a cult leader and nut, but she is certainly an eloquent, attractive, and convincing one. There she is owning the stage with her silky hair and power-lady sheath dress that would have made Gayle King proud, describing the first time she convinced a guy to stroke her clit to a fifteen-minute timer. Somehow this seminal stroker intuited he should begin the session by telling her that her vagina looked like a rose in bloom, which caused her to have a spiritual experience. “I wept,” she said.

  At that point I was like “Ack! Bitch, please. This isn’t ‘The Color Purple.’ I don’t want to hear you weeping about your damn labia. Celie earned it. You haven’t earned shit.”

  Then Nina described how the guy went on to lube up his finger and slowly stroke her clit. She said he did it with a touch no firmer than one you would use to stroke the “tender skin of a ball sack.” Gross! Clearly she’d thought through that description and used it like a hundred thousand times. She was really pleased with herself and I was really not on board. But then she said: “Nothing much happened at first. I was just envisioning past and imaginary erotic scenarios, trying to get myself in the mood. I wasn’t really there.”

  Everett, that’s when I perked up. I’ve read so much literotica.com that sometimes when I have sex I just play those stories through my head instead of really being present with what’s actually happening.

  This is where things took a turn.

  Nina honed in on what was going on in her mind during that seminal fingerbang. “I was replaying a sexual fantasy I have where I’m The Bachelorette and any guy I give the rose to has to do whatever I want. I was a thousand miles away.”

  The audience was laughing hard and I was too. Then she went in for the kill.

  “But suddenly that story, that fantasy dropped away completely,” she said. “I was absolutely and completely in my body. I was present for what was happening to me. I was completely open to each and every sensation. And for the first time ever in my adult life I was totally tuned in to the wavelength of another human being. I was no longer lonely and isolated and ravenous for connection. For once I knew that I was exactly where I needed to be.”

  I felt my eyes well up.

  I want that connection.

  After a year of celibacy followed by some fun (but certainly NOT clit-centric sex) with Patrick, I want to feel what it’s supposed to feel like to be sexually connected to another human being. I had that connection with Brant Bitterbrush. As much as I resent him for leaving me, and for making a killing off Duckie & Lambie at the expense of actual ducks and lambs, I also miss our incredible sexual chemistry. Will I ever have that with anyone else again? (No offense, Everett. While our sex life was certainly more than passable, I think we both know we didn’t have Chemistry with a capital C.)

  Nina Sylvester claims partnered female orgasm is essential to creating human connection. She talks about being with another person as both of you meditate on the same (very intense) point of contact—the finger meets the clitoris!—and how it creates a healing link between you.

  After a brief fling with Patrick, I’m back to being connected only to a merman. It’s true, last night I relapsed. ARGH! It seems like too much to bear.

  You probably remember how, at the end of the TED Talk, Nina says, “I never imagined that having someone intently rub my clitoris for fifteen minutes on a regular basis would so profoundly change my life. So I encourage you to give it a try. What do you have to lose? Loneliness? Sexual frustration? A profound sense of isolation? What do you have to gain? Peace. Connection. An orgasm so intense it will shatter your limitations, heal your soul, and touch that place deep inside that’s always been unreachable.” Despite Nina’s horrid and unintended pun, I hear what she’s saying.

  Everett, I’ve made my decision. I’m going to swallow my pride, call you, and ask you if you can refer me to a good Nest Life meeting. I hope you will be able to keep your gloating to a minimum.

  Intrigued and a little sheepish,

  Roxy

  September 9, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Thank you for sharing the address and time of an Everett-approved OM meeting. There was no need for you to get huffy in confirming you would not be in attendance at the next few meetings of that particular group. I now must inquire (at least rhetorically) what a girl is supposed to wear to lose her OM cherry. I have looked online at the Nest Life website and I see they do sell OM legwarmers ($29.95) so a grrrl can keep cozy and still expose her vagina to a room full of strangers. However, that seems like fashion for the advanced OMer (and a way for Nina Sylvester to turn an extra buck), and also impractical in a town as hot and muggy as this one. I hate to rely on the same flowery sundress I wore to Sun City, yet it seems more dignified somehow to lift up one’s skirt than to try to peel off a pair of skinny jeans in front of an audience. Also, underwear selection will be of utmost importance. I assume there is a trendy type of panties for OMers—just as all the women at barre class wear Lululemon tights and open-backed “Flashdance”-style shirts, or everyone at the skate park wears baggy cargo shorts. I’m imagining lacy, black, classic panties. A thong seems unsanitary.

  Oh, wait! I can wear my pink pleather python panties! Perhaps I’ll set a fashion trend for vegan OMers!

  I can’t believe I’m really doing this.

  Oh, shit. I need to leave in ten minutes and I still have to feed the furballs and put on a little makeup.

  Uh-oh. I just sniffed my armpits and it seems like OM nerves have given me anxiety B.O. Now I need to shower, too! Shit!

  Hurriedly,

  Roxy

  September 10, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Yesterday I arrived at the cute blue craftsman-style two-story off Duval Street. I sat in my car listening to my FAIL BETTER! CD for two whole songs. It’s become a soothing habit to play their sweet sounds before any major occasion, but it didn’t have its usual calming effect. I still could hear blood pounding in my ears, so I reached over and rifled through my glove compartment until I found an old expired bottle of Klonopin. I took one.

  A woman named Beatrice answered the door wearing an adorable flowered baby doll dress with Mary Jane shoes, looking so cute and normal that it was disarming. I thought maybe OMing wasn’t as weird and fringe as I’d made it out to be. (And I was glad I’d chosen well in the outfit department.) She welcomed me into her living room, where about eight people were hanging out—it looked like an almost even mix of men and women, and no one seemed repulsive or crazed.

  Beatrice chatted me up rather enthusiastically, asking me how long I’d been OMing. I told her I’d never OMed before. “Oh, I’m jealous! I’d give anything to go back to my first time; I mean, especially kno
wing what I know now. It will CHANGE. YOUR. LIFE,” she exclaimed, with such excitement I didn’t know if I should be convinced or worried. “It’s literally transformed me—I mean, I was lonely and seeking, and now I just feel happy!”

  For a moment I pondered that some variation of that same monologue was likely being recited at that exact same moment in various church basement AA meetings, Mormon potlucks, and Buddhist meditation meet-ups. It fascinates me what we fragile humans find and cling to and convince ourselves is our salvation. I felt a sudden sense of waffling. Sure, Patrick wasn’t great in bed, but now that I’d gotten over the hurdle of sleeping with someone who wasn’t Brant Bitterbrush, couldn’t I find someone who wasn’t totally lazy in the sack and ask him to rub my clit for fifteen minutes or so? Did I really need to be in a room with this group of friendly zealots?

  But before I could make a break for it, Beatrice clapped her hands lightly and called for everyone to gather in a circle. Some people sat in chairs, some on the floor, and for a horrified moment I thought I might be called on to lie on the ground in the center of the gathering and pull up my skirt. But no, this seemed to be some sort of intimacy building warm-up exercise. We all went around the circle and introduced ourselves, and then Beatrice said, “Now, let’s share what we’re most afraid of.”

  Shit! Shit! Shit! I had not signed up for some sort of group therapy session. I regretted not asking Artemis and Annie their opinions about whether or not I should attend an OM meeting. But I hadn’t done so because (while Artemis was a wild card) I knew—more or less—what Annie would say, which was “Are you fucking crazy? Don’t do that.” Advice I would have felt compelled to heed and thus I wouldn’t be here, forced to confess my deepest fears to a roomful of strangers.

  As we went around the circle, I did appreciate the opportunity to check out each person closely without seeming like I had a staring problem. There was Lisa, a sultry thirtysomething who was scared of dying alone; Kevin, a muscular thespian who was scared of never having his artistic talent recognized (“You stole my fear!” I wanted to shout); Sharon, a striking woman with hair dyed so platinum blond it looked like it might be possible to break the strands like matchsticks, who was afraid of never finding true love; Samantha, who in her early forties would have been pretty if she hadn’t paid to have her face shot full of Botox and fillers (“Let me guess,” I wanted to say, “you are afraid of aging and losing your sexual power!”), who said she was scared she and her daughter would never get along. An Australian guy named Mike who was in his mid-fifties and wore coke-bottle glasses confessed his fear that he wouldn’t get a green card. Beatrice said she had to “second the emotion” of Kevin’s fear of never receiving recognition as an artist. Then everyone giggled, making it impossible for me to “third that emotion.”