by Ines Johnson
I left my sister to her family and turned to the matriarch of our own.
“Ah, there you are, Mary Katherine.”
Pricilla Elizabeth Wallace straightened, pulling a roast out of the oven. She was dressed in a tailored skirt and blouse, looking every bit the Economics Professor she was. My mother was in her early fifties, but she could easily be mistaken for her late thirties. When we were out together, which wasn’t often, we were mistaken for sisters.
“How was your writing club meeting?”
“It was fine, mom. Thanks for asking.” I didn’t bother to correct her. It was fruitless.
Because our mother was a professor, we always had the expectation of getting higher education degrees. My sister studied Art History, so she could be witty at company parties. I’d minored in Literature and majored in Secondary Education my first year in college.
The Education degree wasn’t my idea. It was the only way my mother would pay for such a frivolous minor. She wanted to be sure I had an actual career opportunity on the horizon if my first intention wasn’t to find a husband to support me. That career opportunity was teaching. I’d submitted my sweet romance stories in my sophomore year. By my junior year, I had enough money from my first advance to pay for the extra credits for a double major.
My mother placed the roast on the stovetop. She turned and frowned. “Oh Mary Katherine, I wish you’d dressed for dinner.”
I looked down at myself. My floral sundress was fine for a business meeting. I thought it was all right for a family dinner. That is, if this was just a family dinner.
“Why?” I looked down the hallway to the front door. “It’s just us right?”
Mom didn’t meet my eyes “Where’s your father? I asked him to bring in an extra chair. I swear the man is useless. I even wrote it down for him.”
“Mom? Why would we need an extra chair if it’s just us four at the adult table?”
“And I’m sure you’ll only want one helping of the roast.” My mother glanced at my Spanx-addled midsection, pretending not to hear me.
I knew she was pretending because she had the same crinkle in her eye she got when my father spoke to her.
“Kurt,” she called.
“You don’t have to yell, Priscilla.” My dad entered the kitchen. Unlike my mother, my father looked his age. The years hadn’t been kind to him and he had developed a bit of a beer belly along with a streak of gray in his brown hair. But he was still very handsome.
“I’m right here,” he said.
“You weren’t right here,” insisted my mother. “That’s why I had to yell. You didn’t bring the extra chair.”
“Extra chair for who?” My dad turned and saw me. His face lit up as though he saw a small spot of shade in the glaring sun. “Hello, Mary Katherine.”
Dad leaned in and bussed me on the cheek. Mixed in with his cologne was a floral scent I knew wasn’t my mother’s brand of perfume. Pulling away, I caught a shade of lipstick on his collar that didn’t match my mother’s skin tone.
“Hey, daddy.” I smiled and kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t something we talked about.
My father had been out of work for two years now. Before that my mom had quickly surpassed him as breadwinner. Before I went to college, I’d noticed that the extra set of guest sheets were often missing from the linen closet. I once found them in my sister’s old room. I don’t know the last time my parents slept in the same bedroom. Or the last time they’d shown any affection towards each other. My writing got me out of the house and out from under my mom’s thumb. Dad wasn’t so lucky.
“Kurt, will you please get an extra chair?” My mother’s tone was a pitch perfect match to my sister’s who I could hear scolding one of the boys in the other room.
My father scowled, but turned and did as he was told.
“Who’s coming to dinner, mom?”
“Did I not tell you? The local high school is looking for an English teacher?”
“I met the principal at the school board meeting,” said my sister coming into the kitchen. “He’s young and handsome.”
“And single,” said my mom.
Dad came back into the kitchen with the extra chair.
My mother pointed to indicate where my father should set the chair; right next to my usual spot at the dinner table. “So when he gets here, Mary Katherine, don’t talk about those little romance stories you write. We wouldn’t want him to think you’d be teaching the kids trashy writing.”
I stared at the chair that my father unfolded and placed next to my spot. I looked over at my mother, who was carving a thin slice of roast that had my name on it. I glanced at my sister who rubbed her belly absentmindedly with her left hand until her wedding band snagged the fabric of her dress. I looked back at my father who glared at my mother behind her back as he shoved the guest chair up to the table.
I saw the bars at the back of the chair; the unbendable, cold, steel bars. My feet moved towards the front door of their own accord. “I can’t stay.”
“But it’s family night,” said my dad. His hand reached out toward me as though I were a puffy cloud taking away his moment in the shade.
“I have a deadline for one of those trashy stories,” I said. “It’s on my brain and since Mom doesn’t want me to talk about it in front of your guest…”
I didn’t bother to finish the sentence. I made a beeline for the front door. Then I ran until I got to Lucille. She started on the first try. We tore out of there -speed limit be damned. When I got home, I knew my only choice would be to open up some doors and let out some steam.
Chapter Three
A few days later, my hands still shook from signing the new publishing contract. I stood to make more money for the first steamy book than I made in my last three, sweet books combined. I’d spent the last few days researching the erotic romance industry. A lot of paperback books were tossed across my apartment in disgust. I couldn’t believe that modern, thinking, autonomous women were truly into these things. Billionaires. Stepbrothers. Pseudo-incest. Spanking?
I was trying to get away from my family. Not pull them into my bedroom!
By the end of the week, I still had no clue how I would turn my sweet, virginal heroines into wanton, sexpots that shook their naughty booties at their new daddies or brothers by marriage.
I was already on plan D when I pulled up to a storefront on the other side of town. It did not look like a sex shop. It looked like a boutique sandwiched between a beauty supply store and an electronics store. Across the street was a Babies “R” Us.
I’d been sitting in my car watching people go in and out of the front doors of Adonis’ Novelties. They were a mixed crowd. Mostly middle-aged couples or women of an undeterminable age. It couldn’t have been a den of heathens if mature people went in. I just hadn’t seen anyone come back out yet.
The website for Adonis’ Novelties said they held classes and sold educational and sexual health products. That’s why I was here.
I couldn’t get past the first few chapters of the best-selling, steamy romance books. I’d tried watching porn online and never got past the first five minutes of any scene. It was so clear that the women in these grainy videos were ‘working’ and not enjoying the benefits. They kept swiping their hair out of the way of the camera lens. Their heavily made-up faces kept checking for the placement of the camera, paying more attention to it than their coworkers. And their moaning and dirty talking had me hitting the mute button. I didn’t know what an orgasm felt like, having never had one myself, but it was clear that their show of passion was all faked.
So, I was here at this adult boutique shop that promised art porn for women by women. I just needed to go in there and get what I needed in order to do my job and keep my independent lifestyle.
I got out of the comfort of Lucille and crossed the parking lot. No sooner did I step onto the sidewalk did two cars zoom up, motors growling. Wheels screeched in protest and smoke rose from beneath the tires. The driver
s did a turn I’d only seen in the movies and slid perfectly into the parking lines, landing side by side.
Inside the vehicles, two young men laughed as they shouted at each other through open windows. In the car closer to me was a black man with dark shades that hid his eyes. Even with the shades, I could tell he was looking at me. Through to his passenger window, I saw a blonde man. He wore no sunglasses and his smiling, blue eyes pierced my soul. The mischief in them made a giggle bubble in my chest. The heat in them had me pressing my thighs together and ducking my head as my cheeks prepared to blush.
The blonde cut his engine and got out. The dark-skinned man held up his middle finger. The blonde continued laughing as he crossed the street.
The dark-skinned man turned his gaze back to me. His head dipped, allowing me to see his eyes behind the shades. He scanned my body with a curl to his lip that made me gulp. Men rarely looked at me like that. I felt the heat pouring off of him as he sucked in his lower lip. He dipped his shades down lower, so I saw the intention in his eyes. He winked at me before pulling off in a roar of engines.
When I looked up, the blonde was checking me out. His eyes fastened to my breasts. I crossed my arms over my chest. That’s when he met my eyes. His were unapologetic and crystal blue. Fathomless blue, like seeing down into the ocean. Only it went on forever and ever.
“Are you headed in?”
I gasped in a lungful of air as his voice brought me back to the surface. I looked at the storefront door. My cheeks blazed red. My mouth wouldn’t work to deny my intended destination.
He opened the door for me. Then, to my horror, he followed me inside. He was obviously a creep. I turned to confront him, but he moved past me and headed to the back of the store, then down a hall that looked private.
I turned away from his retreating figure to the sounds of moaning on the other side of the wall. There was a small classroom in the corner of the storefront. The door was open.
Inside, I saw couples; men and women, women paired with women, men paired with men. In each pairing, one partner lay on the floor on a set of cushions. The other partner sat next to them. The partners who lay on the floor had beautiful woven blankets covering their midsections. Their legs lay straight out and their arms were above their heads or out in a T.
It reminded me of the Crucifixion though not a single person looked distressed. Everyone’s eyes were closed as they all moaned deeply, gutturally, like a chant. My eye caught the sign on the door. “Orgasmic Mediation,” it read.
My eyes bulged out of my head. I turned back to the people spread out on the pillow-littered floor. They were all fully clothed. No one was touching anyone else.
Was this a way to achieve an orgasm? Just through deep breathing and groaning? They sounded exactly like the women in the online porn videos. But no one was fussing with their hair, or looking around for a camera.
My eyes fell to the person leading the chant. He was older, with a white beard and a gentle smile that reminded me of the preacher at my grandparents’ church. My ears turned back to the chanting which called to mind the hymns we used to sing on Sunday mornings. There had been such a feeling of community and love and devotion sitting in the pews.
With the chanting filling my ears, I felt weightless. My spirit felt lulled to enter the room, to join in on the praise song. But then the partners, who were all kneeling, reached beneath the blankets. I couldn’t see anything but the movements of their hands beneath the covers. Were they touching…? They couldn’t be. Could they?
“Can I help you?”
My body jerked as I turned to see a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of the 60’s flower child movement. She could’ve easily been my mother’s contemporary with her white blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and smooth skin. But this woman’s look was effortless, natural. Not forced and controlled like my mother’s.
“What are you looking for, my dear?” she asked. “Wait, let me guess?”
My throat seized as I watched and waited for her to make up her mind about me and my proclivities. What if she took me to the dildos on the opposite side of the store? Or over to the lesbian video collection in the corner?
“You’re here for the Candida movies,” she said after a brief pause. “Am I right? I pulled them aside for you.”
“Thank you,” I breathed in relief.
Candida Royalle was the maker of women-centered, art porn that promised authentic portrayals of love-making and sensuality.
“You should also check out her book, How to Tell a Naked Man What to Do. It teaches women to take control of their own sex life. It’s perfect if you’re having trouble getting your partner to please you.”
“Oh, no. It’s not for me. I mean it is, but not in that way. You see, I’m a writer.”
“Ah, for research then?” She guided me to the cash register and began the process of ringing me up. “Is your new book fiction or nonfiction?”
I hesitated. But this woman was not my mother. She seemed interested in what I was doing for a living. Definitely not my mother. “Fiction. I’ve been writing sweet romance novels, but my publisher wants me to add steam and open doors to the love scenes.”
The woman nodded sagely as she handed back my credit card. “Writing sex is not as easy as insert tab A into slot B. It’s about emotion and feeling and communication.”
Emotion and feeling, I understood. It was the tabs into slots I was utterly clueless about. Not utterly. I knew what went where. I just didn’t know how to describe them with the emotion and feeling of the act. Everything I’d seen had been faked. But these videos I was purchasing were supposed to be the real deal, full of emotion and feeling. The closest thing to voyeurism without being in physical attendance.
She handed the package to me and leaned over the counter as though our business dealing was not yet over. “You know, I was just having this conversation with my -Christopher, come here for a second.”
I turned and saw the blonde speedster carrying a box of what looked like large pacifiers. He got closer, his eyes lighting on me. When he came up beside me, I saw that the box read ‘Anal Plugs.’
Chapter Four
“Christopher,” said the older woman. “This is… I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t get your name?”
I hadn’t left my name when I’d called in earlier. I’d just said I’d be by to pick up the items. Staring into Christopher’s fathomless, blue eyes again, I lost my sense. Something inside told me to tell him everything. And so I did.
“Mary Katherine. Mary Katherine Wallace.”
“That’s a lovely name. I’m Holly and this is Christopher. Christopher, Ms. Wallace here is an author. She’s doing research for her novel.”
I expected the guy to blanch at the idea of talking about books. Instead, his blue eyes lit up. I had to brace myself by leaning into the counter from the impact. I was an absolute sucker for handsome men. It didn’t cause me much trouble. I so rarely spoke to drop dead gorgeous model types.
Christopher gave me his full attention. And then he spoke to me. “Anything I would know?” he asked.
I wrestled to untie my tongue. “I doubt it. Unless you read romance novels?”
“Read them? I inhaled Harlequins as a teenaged boy. The chance to get inside a girl’s head. Why would I pass up that opportunity?”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not? His tone was serious, but mischief clouded those blue of his eyes. Then his face sobered. The mischief fled his gaze and an intelligent front moved in.
“But I have complaints,” he said. “A lot of those books set women up for unrealistic expectations.”
He sat the box of anal plugs on the counter. Then he motioned me towards a table with chairs. He preceded me and pulled out a chair, looking up at me expectantly.
I was too shocked to do anything but follow.
“Take for example the grand gesture,” he continued once we both were seated. “It’s the guy that’s always in the wrong and has to make an apology speech. But both
the guy and the girl have a part in the problem, or the misunderstanding. Then there’s the happily-ever-after. The book ends just when everything’s getting started, when we all know for a fact that every couple has their ups and downs, and many relationships don’t last the first year. My parents have been together for thirty years. They fuss and they fight, but my dad says he wakes up every morning and reaches for my mother, even when he’s mad at her.”
My toes curled up into the clouds. My ovaries had heart palpitations. On the other side of the wall, I heard the Orgasmic Meditation group. Their chants were no longer in synch. They were also no longer in harmony. Some cries rang higher, others lower.
“But my biggest gripe,” Christopher continued his sermon over the chorus of guttural praises in the next room, “is the simultaneous orgasm. Do you know how hard that is to achieve? And not all women are multi-orgasmic. But they expect the guy to do all the work, and all she has to do is lay there. That’s what romance novels teach women.”
The bell ringing over the entry door broke up the chanting and his speech. Two women entered the shop.
They were both tall with legs for days. The first was pancake thin in a low-cut blouse and hip-hugging skirt. The second was shaped like a soda bottle with a slim torso and then a flaring backside that couldn’t be real. But as I looked closer at their faces, I realized that they had to be twins.
“Hi, Ms. Holly,” they said in unison.
“Hello, girls,” said Holly with a welcoming smile. “Your order came in this morning. I’ll grab it for you.” She disappeared down the private hall.
“Hey, Crow,” purred Soda Bottle. “I hear your crew is having a party tonight.”
“We’re coming over,” said Pancake. “You wanna come to our place for some pre-party fun?”
