Of course, my self-diagnosis that I was dead from the waist down changed when I attended Genie Howett’s Pleasure Chest home sales party. Genie, who Mama had always called “fast,” had taken up selling various toys and lubes at home parties for pocket money. She announced this after her husband, Duke, cut up her MasterCard.
At the time, none of us were sure whether she did it because she enjoyed the work or because she wanted to embarrass Duke into opening another account for her. Three years later she was the regional sex toy queen managing five saleswomen. But this was her first party, a sort of trial run, before she launched herself on the public. While Duke was away on a duck-hunting trip, she invited about a dozen old friends to her house for “tapas, margaritas, and sex swing demonstrations.”
Mike practically lay across the driveway to keep me from going. He considered the idea of me buying a vibrator a direct insult to his manhood. He seemed to think the other women in the room would know what his “shortcomings” were based on what I bought. He’d almost talked me out of attending - heck, I was almost apologizing for wanting to go - when he said, “You’re not going to go spend my money on that crap.” I don’t know whether it was the tone of his voice or the “my money” part that pissed me off more, but I shoved about two hundred dollars from my mad money jar into my purse and slipped out of the house.
Imagine sitting in a perfectly respectable living room full of giggling women you’ve known since your Tumble Tots days, drinking from obscene margarita glasses and pretending not to be looking at a hot pink catalog chock-full of things you’ve only seen on the internet. You’re expected to maintain eye contact with a saleswoman as she uses words like “clitoral stimulation” and “nipple tingling.”
“Now, if you want to know whether a toy is powerful enough for you, touch it to the tip of your nose,” Genie managed to say without any irony. “It’s the most sensitive non-erogenous part of the body.”
Despite the fact that several women gamely pressed candy-colored small appliances to their faces, I declined. After several seconds of nose-buzzing, Genie laughed and said that putting the toy to the web between your thumb and forefinger worked just as well. Despite their margarita consumption, our embarrassed, red-nosed party compatriots were not amused at Genie’s attempt at breaking the ice, so she started passing stuff around the room to appease the crowd. I was handed something called the Velvet Slide, a small, blue, curved piece of pliable plastic that, frankly, looked like something a naughty dentist might use. I blocked out Genie’s explanation of where exactly I was supposed to use it as the slender body jolted to life. I glanced around, but no one was looking at me. They were fixated on hardware of their own. I pressed the flat tip to the crook of my hand and felt… tingly. A strange, full awareness in my special places. It was primal and powerful and -…
This must be what gun nuts felt like at the firing range.
I wanted this. I wanted to take this home with me right now. The woman sitting next to me practically had to pry it out of my hands to pass it to the next woman. I leaned over to Genie and whispered. “I think I want that one.”
“Good girl!” she squealed, clapping her hands like an over-caffeinated cheerleader. “Your first vibrator! I’m so proud!”
I laughed, sipping my drink as I was handed a large purple latex wand with elaborate prongs and probes coming off the sides. “Dear Lord!”
“I see we’ve moved on to the heavy artillery,” one of the other guests marveled, her eyebrows raised.
“Is it a tuning fork?” I asked, poking a finger at the little probe on the back. I was beginning to suspect it was meant to go where nothing had ever gone before. “Why are there little Greek gods and goddesses molded on the sides?”
Ever helpful, Genie reached over and turned the dial on “high.”
“What the -” I cried as the vibrator started spinning and twirling like a carnival ride.
“We call it Zeus’s Thunderbolt,” Genie said, winking at me. “It’s one of the most powerful vibrators on the market.”
“Why would anyone want a Greek-themed vibrator?”
She was caught between a grin and grimace and nodded at the offending probe. “Well, you know, the ancient Greeks were into -”
“I’m well aware of what the ancient Greeks were into!” I hissed. I passed the angry-sounding device to the next woman and surrendered to an endless parade of things I could never take home. Flavored body gels, fuzzy handcuffs, some sort of rubber ring that looked like gummy candy from hell. Mike would never want to use any of this stuff. For our first married Valentine’s Day, I bought him a cute little gift basket stuffed with naughty dice, a blindfold, some chocolate body paint. He looked at the little dice inscribed with “nibble” and “nuzzle” and various body parts, then rolled his eyes and asked why we would want to bring gaming equipment into the bedroom.
Genie wrapped up the party by demonstrating how the Slip’N’Slide Vibrating Shower Glove pulsated the Luxuriant Evenings massage lotion into our hands, she explained that this was a great way to wrap up a good round of “water play.” I realized I’d never even had a round of water play. Citing the possibility of slipping or throwing his back out, Mike refused my repeated advances in the shower. Come to think of it, he’d also refused to have sex in our kitchen, the hot tub in the fancy hotel suite we booked for our anniversary, the guest room in my parents’ condo. The only place where he seemed interested in me was in our very own bed.
So when Genie started rubbing the lotion into my hand with the textured buzzing mitten, I burst into tears and ran out of the house. When I came home from Genie’s without so much as edible panties, Mike considered this a confirmation of his skills. He smirked and snarked so much for the next few weeks that I went to Aphrodite’s Palace over in Dalton just to reclaim some dignity. Scary as it was, I bought the less “intrusive” version of Zeus’s Thunderbolt, a scepter-themed gold number called Cleopatra’s Asp, and a pack of D batteries.
The good news was that having regular, albeit solo, orgasms made it much easier to fake them for Mike. Unfortunately, it also meant I knew what I was missing. It was a double-edged sword.
I faked it. A lot. I deserved an Oscar for the performances I put on. Meryl Streep had nothing on my ass. I didn’t know if Mike bought into the theory that I suddenly, without special effort on his part, pushed through my frigidity. I think he was content not to be bothered. I gave the appearance of being satisfied and that meant he didn’t have to try harder.
The thing that really chaps my ass is that now that I’d read the e-mails, I knew that Mike was at least willing to try the new and different with Beebee. On the copy machine. On the couch in the office. In cheap motels. Why could he break his precious sex rules for Beebee and not me? Because I was his wife?
Because he couldn’t think of me that way? Or was I really that bad in bed? I tried to respond in ways that made me feel good, but whenever I asked Mike what he wanted me to do, he’d just say, “That’s fine.” It felt like I was being criticized for not knowing what I was doing, but refused adequate instruction. It was like high school algebra.
Now he had to search for his own suits. And I was alone.
What would I do now? What could I do? I had no work experience. I wasn’t trained for much besides journalism. And at this point, my skills were a little rusty. Besides, newspaper editors probably preferred writing about me than hiring me to write for them. The idea that I might not be able to support myself was depressing and terrifying. I’d never had to worry about money before. And the idea of going to my parents to ask for help made my stomach turn. It was bad enough driving my mother’s car.
I leaned back, fluttering my feet through the cool water. At least this way I could figure out what I wanted, what could make me happy, without worrying how it would affect everybody else in my life.
Behind me, I heard the door to my neighbor’s cabin open and Wolverine stepped out. (I refused to call him Lefty, even in my head.) Beer bottle in hand, he tipped his face up to watch bright blue and green light from the fireworks splashing across the sky. It took him a few minutes to realize I was there. He nodded, not a friendly gesture, really, just acknowledgment of my presence. I nodded back, then turned my face back to the light show.
Independence. Making the choice to be alone. I only hoped it didn’t make me into a vaguely threatening, brooding psycho.
A few days later, I stood at the end of that same dock, considering my mother’s cautionary tale about Natalie Wood.
I didn’t usually swim after dark, or for that matter, in water not surrounded by concrete. But swimming the lake had been a tradition since we were kids. Also, it was mid-July, the humidity level was somewhere around “sauna,” and I had a window air-conditioning unit from 1978.
I sighed. Screw it. I wasn’t drunk. Christopher Walken was nowhere in sight. I would be fine.
I ran off the end of the dock and slid into the black water headfirst. I sliced the mirror-smooth water soundlessly, with sure strokes. I’d always been a strong swimmer. Despite the fact that Emmett was three years older, I always beat him in our races from the dock. I propelled forward, the water streaming over my skin. My body remembered the distance from the dock to the buoy that marked the boat channel. My hand stretched out and touched the familiar rusted metal. The buoy bell, our traditional victory signal, echoed off the shore.
I laughed and kicked off the buoy, stroking back toward the shore. The night was clear, sending little fire-bursts of reflected stars off the surface of the water. The last time I’d swum here at night was about three years before. I was still trying to improve our sex life and got Mike up to the cabin for a weekend alone. It was Indian summer and still warm. The neighbors had all abandoned their cabins for the season on Labor Day. I thought it would be romantic and spontaneous to swim under the stars.
Of course, when Mike told his friends the story later, I was the one who had to be persuaded to skinny-dip. I was the one who whined about the water being cold. I was the one who objected to having sex on the dock because of the possibility of splinters. I remembered walking onto the Dixons’ back deck at a barbecue the next weekend and overhearing Mike bragging to his buddies, “She couldn’t get enough. I had to do some fasttalking to get Lacey out there, but once I got her in the water, she was begging for it.”
I practically dropped the tray of drinks in Mike’s lap. I slunk back into the house until the blush drained out of my cheeks. I was the one who had to sweet-talk Mike out of those stupid plaid swim trunks. I was the one had to beg and plead for him to do anything different, but he was taking credit for it.
I gritted my teeth at the memory, at the way Mike’s friends smirked at me for weeks afterward. I stripped off my suit and slung it toward the dock. “Screw you, Mike.”
I could do this. I could be unpredictable and bold. I could be naked outside. I was my own woman, my own completely nude woman. I floated on my back, enjoying the way my bare breasts puckered against the soft night air. I raised my hand, blocking out the full moon. I watched the water sluice down my skin. I looked down at the contours and curves of my body, marble white against the moonlight. I’d always had an above-average figure. That was one thing Mike couldn’t blame his wandering for, my letting myself go.
I wasn’t big on mirror time, but Mama had instilled in me a healthy esteem for my looks and the time and attention it took to maintain them. I had slim lines, good cheekbones, and, if Gammy Muldoon’s complexion was any indicator, skin that would remain soft and unlined until I was well into my seventies. I dutifully went to my stylist for a trim and an eyebrow wax every three weeks whether I thought I needed it or not. I slathered on the Oil of Olay before bedtime. The results spoke for themselves. I knew the way Mike’s friends and clients looked at me. And I’d always assumed that was part of my job, to be one half of the smiling all-American blond couple. How was I supposed to know that Mike found that boring?
If I wanted to, I didn’t doubt that I could find another man. Heck, I’d had several offers, also from Mike’s friends and clients - even an uncle of Mike’s that Wynnie considered a saint - but since I’d assumed that my “unspoken agreement” with Mike included not sleeping with other people, I declined. The question was whether I wanted another man. They were such a sackload of trouble, and really, what had I gotten for it? Psychological issues that would require years of therapy and/or vodka-related self-medication.
I backstroked and slid under the surface, swimming underwater until I reached the dock. My breath stretched my lungs, a comfortable cushion against drowning prolonged by years of yoga classes. I plunged to the bottom, remembering the game Emmett and I used to play, sitting on the bottom of the lake and trying to talk underwater, relaying secret messages. Mostly they came out as “burbleburbleburble.”
I was enjoying the quiet, muted world below when a pair escaped mental patients and hockey mask-wearing serial killers, I struck out blind at my attacker, kicking and flailing. He grunted behind me as I glanced my foot off of his chest, grabbing my arms to keep me from swinging back at him. I broke the surface, spluttering and curling my fingers into claws and swinging at nothing. I couldn’t see! A bubble of panic rising in my chest, I sank again, fighting against the instinct to draw water into my lungs.
Terror stretched those moments into an eternity, giving me time to berate myself. How could I have been so stupid? Swimming alone at night in a secluded area? Why didn’t I just send up a “naked unchaperoned woman” flare for every sex predator in the county? Hadn’t I been through enough? Hadn’t my dignity already been smacked all to hell? Now I was going to die in some sort of horrible John Carpenter-esque slaughter. The headlines would read “Divorceés Mistaken for Co-ed by Horny Psychopath.” My father would probably skip my funeral for the annual Phi Rho CM Horseshoe Tournament. Mike would get widower’s sympathy and get everything I owned since I hadn’t changed my will yet.
I would not allow that to happen.
Grunting, I pushed up from the squishy mud bottom with all the strength in my legs. I was not going to die this way. I would survive. I would make it to the cabin and call 911. Okay, it was highly likely I was going to die this way because I could not fight off a full-grown man in a naked underwater wrestling match. But I was going to at least put up a fight. As I rocketed up toward the surface, my head bumped against my attacker’s chin. I gave in to my instinct to curse and swallowed a mouthful of water. As I broke through to air, I swung at where I thought the guy’s eyes were, but I hit his forehead instead.
“Ow!” Wolverine yelled. “Stop! Stop struggling and just let me help you!”
“Help me?!” I wheezed, coughing up water as he wrapped an arm around my chest and towed me toward the dock. “You’re drowning me. What is wrong with you?”
My neighbor clapped a hand on the wood stairs and anchored us there. He was not dressed for a night swim, wearing jeans and an old navy blue T-shirt. I could feel his sneakers bumping against my legs as he treaded water. “Me? What’s wrong with you? What are you doing out here?”
“Swimming! Now would you mind getting your hands off me?” I said, slapping at the protective arm slung around my breasts. He winced and let go, letting me slip under the water again. I considered staying there for a moment, just to prevent the conversation that would follow. But ultimately I bobbed up and got my own grip on the staircase.