SevenDeadlySinsSeries

by Unknown

  But do let me tell you, before you rank me with the heathens, I may be tied to a pole blindfolded, with my naked body screaming to be touched, but at home my oven is set to begin baking four sour cream pound cakes in two hours. As it turns out, I can live an exciting, fulfilled life and bake for the church Bazaar too. Who knew? If you were in my marraige, I bet you’d be standing here ‘nekkid’ too. But it sure didn’t start out this way. When BFF Patty, showed up donning a new Tramp Stamp on a Tuesday morning, I was dead set that she was on a straight path to hell. No passing go and no collecting two hundred dollars.

  So this how my path to the pole began. I remember it well; I was wearing my LL Bean anchor bathing suit with the skirt, the exact same kind that twenty years ago I would have called an old lady suit. She, Patty, shows up, miniscule wrinkles and all, in a string bikini the likes of which I couldn’t knit a coaster out of.

  “What the hell is that?” I laugh as she plops lazily into the lounge chair beside me.

  She rolls over and with her thumb she lowers the ridge of her bikini bottom. Sure as the day is long there is a brand, spanking, new tattoo just above her ass. “What?” she feigns innocence, but the writing is on the wall so to speak.

  “That! On your back,” I say, pointing at her ass accusingly.

  Somewhat taken aback by my condemning outburst, she smiles devilishly all the same, “It’s a tramp stamp. I’ve always wanted one, but Momma said to wait till I’m old enough to make that kind of decision. Guess what? I decided I’m old enough!” But she double crosses her heart and whispers some mumbo jumbo, “For good measure I stopped by the cemetery on the way home and showed it to Momma. I came here so when lightning strikes my house I won’t be there.”

  “No way. There is no way on God’s green earth Steve let you get a tattoo!” And I manage to turn the word no into three syllables.

  “Oh yeah? Well missy, you’d lose that bet. In fact, he approves it with a capital A!”

  “Lemme see,” I plead, struggling to sit up in my pool lounger to get a better view.

  Patty bends over as though I’m a physician inspecting a suspicious mark. It actually looks really sexy in the small of her back just above her bikini bottom, and jealousy shoots through me. My hands are on either side of her ass, turning it from side to side, like I’m going to give it a grade. I even pull my reading glasses from their perch on top of my head to inspect this travesty closer.

  “Tramp Stamp? Is that what it says? Is that like naming your cat Cat?” I giggle but I’m glad I don’t have any close neighbors. The sight of me grabbing her ass might turn heads if I lived in a traditional neighborhood. The only ones with their eyes on us right now are the horses in the pasture and our menagerie of family dogs, and none of them will talk. If they do, well I have a special vet for those scoundrels.

  “What were you, drunk?” I finish, still staring in awe.

  “I was not drunk! And that is my member number! You need to get your damn eyes checked again.” She defends as she makes an issue of pulling her behind from my hands and rolling onto her back.

  “You might want to take it easy on the low-waisted shorts from now on.” My retort to her comment on my slowly fading vision. We all know that’s not the crux of it so I admit; I’m envious of Patty’s slender body. She can eat anything she wants and not gain an ounce. I gain weight breathing.

  “Go ahead and make fun if you want, but I’m proud of it! And Steve treats me like whipped cream with a cherry on top. A far cry from the thirty thousand dollar divorce I was getting ready to write a check for.”

  I lower my reading glasses down to the tip of my nose and look at her, “So the divorce is off?”

  She nods, still arranging herself on the lounger, “Yep! And instead, he bought me a new car and paid for my tattoo. Goodies galore!”

  My mouth hangs dangerously open. It’s never been easy being best friends with the prettiest girl in town, but at least we had the misery of our marriages to talk about. Nevertheless, I’m happy for her. She deserves every ounce of happiness in my book. “Tell me how you did it so I can get started!”

  Patty laughs, “Oh no, hell no.”

  I lean back in my lounger and pout, pretending to ignore her.

  “Come on don’t be that way! It’s the rules of the Club. I can’t screw with the rules. Imagine what would happen if I broke one?” Now she’s just patronizing me. “Why by golly gee whiz, the entire sphere we lovingly call earth will surely tumble into the great abyss!”

  I peer out the side of my eye at her, “So you’re gonna make fun of me now? All because you got drunk and got a tattoo and I said something about it?”

  “You aren’t my momma, Tara. It isn’t up to you to tell me right from wrong you know,” she humph’s, toddler like, and closes her eyes against the mid-sun.

  “Somebody’s got to,” I finish, making sure to get the last word in.

  But that hit a nerve, Patty sits up furiously and smacks her feet on the concrete between our chairs, “Well it ain’t gonna be you! Fuck you Tara and you’re damned goody shoes too.”

  She stands to leave but I grab her ankle to hold her still, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean anything. What do you expect? You come over here flaunting a new tattoo and telling me about how perfect your marriage is. Mine’s still shit. There’s the update!”

  “You’re jealous?” She questions standing above me blocking the sun with her huge brimmed hat.

  Beyond true, I am green with envy, all shades of it. I haven’t been this jealous since she was elected class president in eighth grade. I could spew fire. Instead I lean back and close my eyes against her.

  “Tara, listen, listen to me. I can help you now. Let me help! Don’t be jealous, be with me!” Patty kneels low beside my chair having her guilt attack.

  “Sit down for God’s sake; you’re blocking the sun with that stupid hat!” I’m still pretending to be mad at her. “Tell me about this cult.”

  “Have you tried dressing up for him?” She whispers, settling back into her lounger.

  “Tried it, no go. Hell at first I thought he needed Viagra or Androgel,” I giggle uncomfortably. “But he gets plenty hard watching porn in his office, so I can’t give him a medical pass. And yes, to answer your question I have worn lingerie, nothing happened.” I giggle again to ease my tension with the conversation as a whole.

  “All Steve wants is for me to be the biggest slut I can possibly be” She mutters inconsiderately, “What exactly is your idea of lingerie?”

  I sigh, “I’m not talking leather here, Patty. I’m over forty, remember? I picked out a few new nightgowns at Belk’s last year, some see through ones.” My comfort level at discussing my sex life, or lack of it, is running on empty. After all, ladies don’t talk of such things, do we?

  “You’re kidding right?” Patty laughs heartily at my expense, “We’re seriously going lingerie shopping next week girlfriend.” And she nods in a way that only women of Gullah decent can get away with.

  I admit I’m getting pretty sensitive to her attack on my lack of sexuality on the whole. After all it isn’t my fault that my middle aged middle and gray hairs have gotten in between me and Simmons. It’s a sad fact of life we get old and broad, hence the name ‘broads.’ Still, I’m not some infant who needs schooling; I’m just not a desirable young woman anymore. Big deal, it happens to all of us sooner or later, and it will to Patty… maybe when she’s eighty. “Listen Patty, I’m real happy that you and Steve are fucking all the time but please don’t make fun of me because my marriage isn’t like that.”

  Patty stares at me as though my outburst is unwarranted, “Ah Tara, honey, I’m not making fun of you. I really do want to help you in bed if I can.”

  Now I can’t help but laugh, “How so?”

  “No, no, no!” She chuckles reading my thoughts, “Maybe you should consider joining the Tramp Stamp Club with me?”

  I burst out laughing, “Seriously? And what, get a tattoo? Do I have to buy a motor
cycle? Wait, do I have to be a Prospect? Because I’ve washed enough damned dishes.”

  “No motorcycle needed and we don’t all wear matching jackets-- just the tattoos,” She says with a smirk of sarcasm.

  “And you think Simmons and I will suddenly fuck like bunnies if I join this club? I just don’t see it.” Of course I don’t see it; to me it sounds like some kind of club the ladies at the beauty parlor came up with after passing around a Harlequin romance. To go to all the trouble of acting like a slut and dressing up for him just to see him roll over and go to sleep… nah… don’t think it’s worth it. Humiliation just isn’t in my schedule this week.

  But my friend stands fast, “Yes, I am absolutely sure you and Simmons will be fucking like bunnies. Wild bunnies, cute white bunnies with pink noses, bunnies running around in circles beating a drum, all kinds of bunnies fucking.”

  I laugh, but somewhere deep in my frigid vagina something calls to me. It’s an actual twitch, as though my genitals are telling me to listen; perk up girl, pay attention! Now this isn’t the first time my privates have spoken to me. The first time was on my wedding night, and the result was my eldest daughter Jennifer. But she, Vagina, had been quiet for a while now. I often wondered if she hadn’t packed up and left entirely. “Alright already, tell me how this club is gonna fix my marriage!” I’m imagining some kind of sex pyramid promises here. You know the deal, “You too can have sexual relations with this many (points to visual) people by just recruiting two of your closest friends. As seen on TV.

  Patty’s face drops serious, I can’t tell if it’s an act for affect or not. “I’m not joking Tara, the Club saved my marriage. Yeah things get a little kinky, but I bet there’s a sliver of naughty left in you too?” she looks at me as though I’m one of the race horses she bought for studding, like it’s the first time she’s really seen me in forty four years.

  “I don’t know if naughty is a word that can ever describe me!” I say, too reluctant to admit that I dream of being a little wicked every once in a while. Of course that was before Vagina stopped talking to me. But just because Patty’s turned into a wanton hussy doesn’t mean I’m going to furnish my house with throw pillows, buy some pot and host orgies.

  “Honey, I was raised to keep my knees together too you know! What I’m talking about here is exactly what we were taught. You know, all those times your Momma would whack the shit out of us when we made fun of some poor fool? And she’d say ‘God just made them a little different, that’s all. It’s not Christian to laugh!’” Patty grins as if she has the Holy Grail in her pocket, “But that was never really how it was, now was it? I mean, why did they go on to preach about the dangers of going over the tracks then? If all of us are equal, then we should know that those kids who lived over there were just like us, only poor. How did being poor equate with danger?”

  I nod, following her train, waiting on the caboose.

  “I’m just using that as an example, an example of stupid rules that we all think are real. You’d be surprised at how many there are. There’s a term, pansexual, have you ever heard of it?”

  “Nope.”

  She straightens, peering at me beneath her umbrella sized straw hat, and “It means someone who enjoys all kinds of sex. Different stuff.”

  “Good Lord, what do you mean by different?” I say not able to pretend I’m not shocked.

  But Patty is talking now as if she’s explaining the complexities of life, “Oh there’s no telling. Once there was a man in diapers walking around, he got off on that shit…probably literally now that I think about it…” She seems momentarily distracted by her own thoughts.

  “Gross!” I retort with my nose crinkled to show disgust.

  “Yeah, maybe so but still, I had to respect that. Because I damn sure wouldn’t have believed I’d ever do crazy stuff either. If you’d have told me Steve and I would be back together after only six weeks I’d tell you to talk to your doctor about some new meds. Once we gave it a try we found out we have all kinds of weirdness in common! And that’s what I’m talking about. You may join and go through the training only to find out you’re a closet lesbian.”

  I laugh.

  “Don’t laugh it happened to that woman from Family Ties. Woke up one day and said, ‘I think I like pussy now.’ And so it was. But seriously, I don’t think anything weird is going to pop out of you if you let go and enjoy yourself. Ninety-nine point nine, nine of us just rediscover sex, and our husbands. It’s a leap Tara, but it’s how I saved my marriage. I just woke up one day and said, ‘I’m sick and tired of this shit.’”

  Her point strikes home for me. Unless we’re a famous Savannah chef (who can of course say anything as long as we’re given the benne wafer recipe,) we curtail our comments and prance around claiming to be equals. We defend each other with bombs and weapons on the pretense that we’re brothers and sisters. If you’ve ever oooh and awed over a new Mercedes and wondered what it would feel like to be the flashy harlot driving it, then you have imaginary lines. Of course I’d never consider driving a Mercedes; my imaginary boundaries are set somewhere between trashy and flashy. Trashy being a fifty year old in a bikini on Facebook and flashy meaning someone who has more money than good sense. Being trashy is a sin and being flashy is a sin; do let me reassure you that I’m not a sinful woman! Holy hell do I have imaginary lines!

  While I’d like to blame my imaginary lines on centuries of Southern genetic prosperity, that isn’t the case. No matter the airs my family puts on, we’re all still easily traced back to poor Irish potato farmers. My family was persecuted and tortured long before anyone knew there were other skin colors, long before Pilgrims met Indians and long before I met my best friend Patty. I imagine my Great, Great, Great, Great Grandmamma decided one day, “This is absolutely enough of this crap!” And taught her children manners of the elite, she puffed us all up and civilized us. Thank God because where would we all be today without her? (Said with strong sarcasm!) And they were important life lessons like putting your folded, linen napkin in your lap and under no circumstances shall you wear white after Labor Day. It surprises me that those rules ever sounded sensible to anyone. Give me a real reason why can’t I use paper napkins if I’m not entertaining? Winter white exists as a well known color; the name lends to something that can be worn during cold months. My mother would tell you that Winter White is in fact not a real color. It’s a thinly veiled excuse for not having a reliable pair of sensible black pumps and quite intolerable. But my mother never had an ounce of fun in her life.

  The whole scenario with GG evolved into what my family is today: a bunch of holier than thou’er’s with a firm set of commandments that you’d better follow or else be doomed to life in purgatory. I’d always found it enlightening that they’d added purgatory as a loophole; they insisted that no matter what evil thing you did, you’d get a chance to right your wrongs there, in the land of nothing. That’s the way I grew up; Mass on Wednesdays and without excuse on Sunday mornings. It wasn’t until I spent the night at Patty’s in the fourth grade that I discovered the single perk to my stringent Catholic upbringing: at least I wasn’t Baptist. When Patty said we were going to her church, I expected to be back for lunch by noon at the latest. Oh, how naïve I was. We prayed until noon, fellowshipped, then prayed and sang again until dinner time. That following Wednesday I’d gone along happily to Mass with my mother, with full knowledge that forty five minutes later I’d be on my way home.

  I sit up now that the mid-day sun has moved and rearrange myself on the lounger, “Well, as long as I don’t wake up one morning and find out I’m a man living in a female body, because that would really screw up my wardrobe. Things can’t get much worse around here.”

  “Wait!” She sits up and stares at me with disbelief, “Did you just say you’d consider joining the club?”

  I nod, lowering my sunglasses over my eyes, “Yes, I’ll consider it.”

  And Patty rejoices, “For the record, that shit you call a wardro
be ain’t nothing to write home about.”

  I flip her off.

  She probably thinks I told her that just to placate her, but the truth is that my friend Vagina had begun talking to me again suddenly during the conversation. Maybe she and Patty are right. Maybe it’s time for me to let go and enjoy life; something beyond dreaming of traveling to locations in Travel and Leisure. Something bold and brash that will absolutely and forever change my life. She goes on to explain details of cock sucking, blindfolds, sex in odd locations, and even restraint. And as she talks Vagina gathers her dusty pom-poms and does a cheer that begins with chic-a-chica-boom boom.

  Later that night I decide a test is in order. At first I thought of setting a plate full of horse shit on his placemat and watching to see if he’d even notice, but revenge isn’t as good served cold as everyone says. The few times I’d done anything spiteful to him (I kicked over his computer while vacuuming… five times) he didn’t even consider that I’d do such a thing, thus it had no actual impact. My revenge was unhinged by his faith in my all around good will. But fuck yes I’m pissed at him. Still I try a more direct method, I head for my bedroom; certainly there’s something in those dusty lingerie drawers that will catch his attention.

  Rummaging around I finally find a pair of string thongs that’d come with a babydoll night gown that I’d never worn. I don’t want to seem too overdone; I just want to remind him that he’s married. Sliding them on I immediately notice that they completely disappear beneath the twenty eight year postpartum chub that remains on my thighs. Maybe I don’t have them on right? I wriggle around and turn them from side to side, no, they seem to be on the only way possible. With a sudden grip of anger I yank them off and study my naked form in the mirror. Sometimes less is more, my mother used to say. So I grab two fluffy towels and head towards the hot tub on our back deck. I stop at the door to Simmons’s office, leaning against it in what I consider a provocative pose, “I’m headed for a soak. Want to come?”