The Hot Flash Club

by Nancy Thayer

  “Good idea,” Faye said. “But invite lots of people so Jennifer doesn’t guess it’s a setup.”

  “Lots of people is great,” Shirley added.

  “Jennifer and Alan met when she brought the canapés for the Golden Moments meeting. They hit it off. I’ll have him invite her.” Alice pointed her pen at the other three women. “Each of you contact a few new people and invite them to this meeting.” She made a check on her list. “Now. Marilyn. Let’s look at—”

  “Theodore’s having an affair,” Marilyn blurted. “That’s why I slept with Barton. Well, one reason why. Oh, God, how could I have thought anyone would be attracted to me! I’ve made a fool of myself!”

  “Don’t be silly!” Faye chided. “You look gorgeous now, Marilyn. Or at least you did when you wore the clothes we chose for you. This outfit is, well, a little—”

  “Repulsive,” Shirley mumbled around a spoonful of chocolate.

  Marilyn tugged the corner of the pink cardigan. “Clothes are that important?”

  “Absolutely,” Alice said. “They telegraph your identity.”

  “Cosmetics, too,” Faye added. “That shade of lipstick looks great on you, Marilyn, it brightens your face.”

  Shirley wiped her mouth and turned to Marilyn. “Look at me. If I didn’t have my hair colored red, people wouldn’t have the same kind of trust in me. Gray tells them I’m old. Red means I’m still vital. I’ve been coloring my hair for ten years now, and I think it’s so important, I carry a note card in my purse with my hairdresser’s name and phone number and the formula of the hair product she uses. That way, in case I’m ever hospitalized with my jaw wired shut, people will know what to do to keep me looking good.”

  Alice laughed. “You know those little silver ‘Medic Alert’ bracelets people wear in case of emergencies, saying, ‘I’m a diabetic,’ or ‘I’m allergic to penicillin’? We ought to market a ‘Cosmetic Alert’ bracelet, so if we’re ever hospitalized, someone will know our hair color and makeup preferences.”

  “Good idea,” Shirley said.

  “But we’ll never look young again,” Marilyn pointed out sensibly.

  “And we shouldn’t try to look young,” Alice retorted. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t look like fabulous women of a certain age.”

  “Hats,” Faye mused, helping herself to another slice of cake. “Remember when women wore hats? My mother had this great little hat, I’ve seen photos of her in it, it tilted, and it had a polka dot net veil. She looked so glamorous!”

  “I wore hats when I was younger,” Alice reminisced. “Way younger. When I was a little girl, I wore them to church, especially on Easter.”

  “All the glamorous women wore them when we were young,” Faye said. “Jacqueline Kennedy. Myrna Loy.”

  “Oh, please! Doris Day!” Shirley yelped. “The perpetual virgin! I hated those damned pillboxes. So rigid, so uptight.” She stuck her finger in her mouth and made gagging noises. “We all rebelled and let our hair free, and we aren’t going back.”

  “I’m glad I’m not younger now,” Marilyn volunteered. “Forget hats. Look at what young women are wearing these days! Never in my life did I have the kind of belly I’d expose in public, showcased between low riding pants and cropped tops. What do they do when they’re bloated with their periods? And how do they keep their underpants on?”

  “And what about thongs!” Shirley shrieked.

  “Talk about a hair up your ass,” Alice muttered.

  “I love my stomachs,” Faye said in a meditative voice. “When I think of all the good stuff that’s gone on there. Carrying my baby.” She patted Honey and Bunny fondly. “Eating and drinking. And bad stuff, too, all my painful periods.”

  “Your second chakra is there,” Shirley pointed out.

  “Of course it is.” Alice rolled her eyes.

  “Look,” Shirley continued bravely, “the chakras are energy centers in the body. There are seven, and the one located in your abdomen, lower back, and sexual organs control desire, sensations, movement, emotions, and sexuality. It’s related to water, and it brings the ability to accept change.”

  “God knows we need that,” Alice said.

  “We ought to be proud of that chakra,” Faye said. “If fashion were designed by older women, we’d wear caftans with gorgeous designs right here over the bellies, and women wouldn’t be allowed to wear them until they were fifty.”

  “But we’re back where we started,” Marilyn objected. “Women wouldn’t wear them because then men wouldn’t desire them. They all want young women. They’re biologically programmed that way.”

  Faye wagged her fork at Marilyn. “I disagree. Maybe when they’re young, they want young women. Well, maybe all their lives they want young women, just like all their lives they basically want to fuck every female they see, but that doesn’t mean they act on it. I know Jack wouldn’t have chased young women after he turned fifty-five or so. He was too tired. Like me, he often just wanted a back rub.”

  Shirley hooted. “The last few men I’ve been with? They’ve been younger than fifty, for sure, and here’s what they like: beer, sports, pizza, and blow jobs, in that order. Hell, they spend more time taking a dump than making love.”

  Marilyn snickered. “Yes, and they’re so serious about their bowel movements. So proud of them. Theodore always describes his to me, as if he’s just produced a missile for NASA.”

  “Yeah,” Alice added. “You know why? Because they can’t have babies, and they never have periods, and they have to get excited over something that comes out of their bodies.”

  Shirley snorted. “That’s why they stand in front of us and fart and belch. That’s why they pick their noses like they’re mining for plutonium.”

  Marilyn nodded thoughtfully. “Men are basically very primitive.”

  “Men are lazy and spoiled,” Shirley asserted. “Most of them just want to be serviced. And it doesn’t matter who the woman is. I read that Marilyn Monroe had to give her lovers blow jobs.”

  “But some men have problems getting erections,” Marilyn interjected. “I mean, Theodore always did, even before he turned middle-aged. Oral sex was the only way he could get aroused.”

  “Honey, there’s a bridge I’d like to sell you,” Shirley chortled.

  “It’s true that older guys have a hard time getting erections.” Alice smirked at her own inadvertent humor.

  “Yeah,” Shirley agreed. “Listen, if we’re the Hot Flash Club, hell, older men should form the Limp Dick League.”

  “That’s why there’s Viagra,” Faye said.

  “Hey!” Shirley snapped. “Why haven’t they made a Viagra for women?”

  “They will.” Faye spooned more mousse onto her plate. “I think it balances out. Women have vibrators, but men have no electrical substitute.”

  “That’s true,” Marilyn said. “They must get tired of their hands.”

  “An electric vagina,” Alice said thoughtfully.

  “Sounds scary,” Faye said.

  “They don’t need appliances,” Shirley argued. “There are always plenty of women, eager to please any man.”

  “Maybe women don’t need sex the way men do,” Faye began.

  “I certainly do!” Shirley argued.

  “Let me finish,” said Faye. “My most sexual memories aren’t of the orgasms I’ve had, and I’ve had plenty. But I remember the first kisses, the intimate glances, the early excitement of laughing at the same jokes. And as I grew older, I didn’t stop lusting after Jack, but it wasn’t that I wanted to have an orgasm. Why, there were times when I’d watch him undress, and I’d see the red impression where his belt had been too tight because he’d gained weight around his middle, and the way his calves were bald because over the years the socks had worn off the hair, and how his jawline had become a jowl line, and how his chest was kind of growing breasts and his chest hair and pubic hair were turning gray—why, he’d seem so precious to me, then, so vulnerable and beloved, I’d just pull
him down on the bed and kiss him all over his body and give him whatever kind of sex he wanted, and scratch his back and the top of his head when we were through, and it was lovelier to me then than any orgasm I’d ever had in my life.”

  The other three women stared.

  Marilyn had tears in her eyes. “You’re so lucky.”

  Faye shrugged. “I’m not so sure. My husband’s dead.”

  Marilyn nodded. “And mine’s alive, but I’ve never felt that way about him. That tenderness—I don’t think we ever had it.” She tapped her nail against her coffee cup, took a deep breath, and admitted, “I’m not sure I’ve ever had an orgasm, either.” Blushing crimson, she added softly, “At least not with Theodore. I think I might have, with Barton.”

  “Well, honey,” Faye lifted her coffee cup in a toast, “I’ll drink to that!”

  Alice cleared her throat. “Let’s get back to work.”

  “That damned Barton.” Shirley was licking her spoon. “I want to get revenge on him. For seducing you and using you.”

  Marilyn looked confused. “But I was trying to do the same to him!”

  “I’m not talking death revenge. Just a little mortification.”

  Marilyn smiled. “That sounds appropriate.”

  Alice put down her fork, picked up her pen, and scribbled a note on her list.

  33

  Tuesday night, Barton Baker opened the door to his condo the moment Shirley Gold knocked. For a moment, the two just stood there, taking each other’s measure.

  She saw a handsome man whose tight blue jeans and white T-shirt displayed a stunning physique, better than that of most men in their twenties. Quite impressive. He was barefoot. His tousled black hair was wet and shining. A towel hung around his neck, testimony to a recent shower. Considerate.

  He held out his hand. “Barton Baker.”

  She took it. “Shirley Gold. Hello.” She made her voice brisk, like a German nurse’s. To secure an equally hearty, no-nonsense image, she’d tamed her glorious red hair into two taut braids and fastened them over her head like a crown. She wore no makeup, which made her look drab, and she’d borrowed a gray turtleneck from Marilyn to wear with her white tunic and loose white cotton trousers. Her dangling sun and moon earrings, her crystal pendant, her dolphin bracelets, all those she’d left at home. She looked severe, seasoned, and sexless.

  “Come in.” Barton stepped back from the door. He seemed nervous. “I still haven’t been able to discover who entered my name in the drawing.”

  “It had to be someone at the Chestnut Hill Mall,” Shirley lied reassuringly. That was the posh one; the kinds of people Barton knew would shop there. “Here’s my card. I am an accredited member of the American Massage Therapist Association.”

  As she spoke, Shirley studied the room. An open bottle of wine and two glasses waited on the coffee table. Romantic mood music filtered dreamily from the CD player. Her estimate of the man plummeted. It was obvious what kind of massage this guy hoped he was going to get. Thank heavens she had taken pains to look like a masseuse from the Center for the Chronically Chaste.

  “If you’d rather not have the massage, you can give it to a friend . . .” She could tell he was reevaluating the situation. When she’d gone to the TransWorld offices, Barton had been in a meeting, so Shirley had spoken with Frances, the secretary at the main desk, who passed along Shirley’s “Congratulations! You’ve won a free massage!” card. Barton had called to make an appointment that evening. Now he could see that a massage was all he was going to get, and he relaxed—Shirley could read it in his body language. One of the advantages of being sixty was that she could look great when she wanted to, she could even look sexy, but she’d never ever again be considered a babe, and sometimes that was very restful for herself and her clients.

  Barton cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders. “No. No, I could use a massage. I’ve been tense lately. Just moved here a month ago, getting used to a new location and all.”

  “The massage will last forty minutes. I’ll set up my table here,” Shirley announced bossily. “I’d like to put one of my CDs on. It will help you relax.”

  “Well, fine.” She handed him a disc which he took over to his media center.

  As she unfolded her table, Shirley asked, “Have you ever had a massage before?”

  “Well—” Looking over his shoulder, he flashed a gorgeous naughty-boy grin. “Maybe not this kind.”

  Shirley frowned. No doubt about it, Barton was cute. She could understand how Marilyn would be beguiled by the man. But Shirley resented any sexual innuendoes about her work. She was a health professional, and she wished the rest of the world would get on the same page.

  “I need to wash my hands.”

  “The bathroom’s through the bedroom.”

  “While I’m there, you should undress and lie facedown on the table. Leave your undershorts on,” she added, a little more fiercely than she intended.

  She passed through the bedroom. Bed, bureau, bedside table. CD speakers. Against the wall, a NordicTrack. No photos. No framed pictures. Nothing out of place. The gray duvet was pulled neatly to meet the gray pillowcases. One book on the bedside table: Keeping Fit after Forty.

  Well, well.

  Marilyn hadn’t been optimistic about this little ruse when they first discussed it. “Look,” Shirley had insisted, “I’m not going to harm the man. He’s going to get a free massage! I’m just looking for some kind of weakness, so we can find a way to get revenge on him. You do want revenge, don’t you?” Before Marilyn could reply, Shirley snapped, “Hell, I want revenge, whether you do or not! Alice has been fabulous with me. She’s worked her ass off designing a brochure and talking me through the business process. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some guy ruin her life and humiliate you!”

  “But there’s nothing in his apartment to see,” Marilyn had protested. “I was there. It’s scarcely furnished! He’s just moved in. I can’t imagine what you could find.”

  “Did you look in his medicine cabinet?”

  Marilyn had recoiled. “Of course not!”

  Now Shirley shut the bathroom door and locked it. On the counter next to the sink stood a bottle of Barbasol and a Gillette razor, a tube of whitening toothpaste and an electric toothbrush. Marilyn said Barton was forty-five; he looked to be in pretty good physical condition. Most men had begun to sag a little, especially guys who spent their time behind desks. Most older men had bellies, or doughnuts around their waists. Yet Barton Baker, however old he really was, obviously understood the importance of looking young, and it was hard to keep up that appearance without cosmetic and often pharmaceutical assistance.

  She knew all about pharmaceutical assistance. She opened the medicine cabinet above the sink. She spotted a box of Band-Aids, a tube of first-aid cream. Aspirin. Ben-Gay. A couple of Ace bandages.

  And several rows of bottles.

  Shirley grinned.

  Mega-Man Vitamins with additives promising to reduce fat and increase muscle.

  Mega-Man Testosterone Enhancement Capsules. Mega-Man Arginine to increase sexual satisfaction. Mega-Man Power Penis Builder, guaranteed to increase both length and width of penis. Funny how the smartest men fell for that scam. Freud had gotten it wrong. It was men who had penis envy. An expensive bottle of Armani aftershave next to one of Adonis aftershave, “containing odorless pheromones, guaranteed to attract women and cause them to demand sex.”

  She shut the cabinet door, flushed the toilet, and turned on the hot water. This was all very interesting, and slightly amusing, but also, Shirley thought, rather endearing. Heaven knew she’d tried a few sexual enhancement capsules in her lifetime, and what were hair coloring, nail polish, and makeup? Some of these pseudo-medications might indicate a naïveté on Barton’s part—to think that a pill could enlarge a penis! On the other hand, she had to give him credit for trying.

  Back in the living room, she found Barton stretched out on the massage table, his face down in the w
ell, his long body stretched out like a sunbather’s. Soothing classical music drifted through the air, a mixture of Brahms, Schumann, and Bach played with a slightly religious air, which Shirley found helpful for setting the mood with a new client, especially a male.

  She lit a candle—vanilla—inhaled deeply, and set to work, taking her time, not bothering to go too deep; after all, this was a freebie, and she didn’t plan to see him again, even if he called to schedule appointments. She was there on Marilyn’s behalf. As the man relaxed beneath her hands, she thought how easy it would be to inflict physical harm on him—but she shuddered. She didn’t like having that sort of thought anywhere near her head. She didn’t want to hurt him. He was a weasel, not a fiend. She only wanted to embarrass him as he’d embarrassed Marilyn.

  When he turned over for the second half of the massage, she discovered her weapon.

  Many men who worked with weights shaved their chest hair, but Barton didn’t, which was the first clue. Pressing the heels of her palms deep into his pectoral muscles, she encountered an unusually firm resistance. At the same time his eyes flickered, his whole body tensed. He was wary; she was getting close to a secret.

  Smoothly she moved her ministrations to his arms, compressing the long triceps, massaging his palms and each finger. With fluid strokes, she moved back to the top of her table, stood behind his head, and pulled both his arms up, extending them in a long stretch that opened up his rib cage and made him breathe deeply.

  “That feels great,” he murmured.

  “Good.” She kept the triumph from her voice. No casual observer would notice what she saw, you had to know what you were looking for, really, you had to be an expert to spot the white scars hiding beneath the armpit hair that proved what Shirley’s hands told her.

  Barton had had silicone implanted in his chest.

  That explained why this forty-five-year-old man had the delineated pectoral muscles of a twenty-year-old. It was why Barton’s physique was of a vigorous, youthful, powerful male.