Goody Two Shoes (8 page)

I sit silently for what seems like an hour, sipping my drink and contemplating.  Patty and Jonathon are doing the same, not wishing to disturb my consideration of the offer.  Should I do it?  Or should I not?  Damn it, where’s a daisy when you need one?  Vagina is causing a ruckus, but she is so occupied with Jonathon that she’s barely adding her opinions to actual thought.  Finally I take my hands away from my forehead and lay them on the table.  “My life is a miserable mess.  Let’s get started.”

He smiles with understanding and motions over to the bartender, “We’re going to take these upstairs if you don’t mind.  Thanks honey.”

Before I can change my mind he stands up and extends a large hand to help me out of the booth.  Instinctively my hand goes into his.  This must be some magical power he has over women, or maybe they’d put something in my drink?  I’m sure neither is the case, but I’m unwilling to accept the logical answer:  that I want this.  I want it because my marriage is ‘T’ total shit; because my husband doesn’t know I exist.  Am I doing it for revenge?  Out of anger?  There may be a tinge of that happening, I won’t deny it.

Jonathon places his hand in the small of my back and directs me down the barely lit hallway to the stairs.  As we walk he explains that O’Malley’s belongs to the Club, and that I’m to feel welcome here at all times.  The warmth from his fingers shoots through me, both calming the anxiety I’m building and adding to my adrenaline rush.  As I climb the stairs in front of him, I can feel his eyes burning my flesh.  Once again, a feeling I haven’t felt in years; the feeling of being checked out.  I’d forgotten how good it feels.

At this point you’re probably thinking, “Whoa!  She must be a closet tramp to head upstairs with a man she just met.”  I prefer to think of it as an involuntary response to the overall shittiness of my marriage.  Like a mosquito bite, you can’t help yourself from reaching down and scratching the hell out of it.

We walk into a dimly shaded office at the top of the stairs.  It’s complete with a black leather sofa and chairs, and a deeply oiled mahogany desk is perched in its center.  I feel like I’ve walked onto a historical movie set and that at any moment Hugh Jackman will pop out and start singing and waving his hands in the air.  But Jonathon ushers me to one of the chairs in front of the desk with grace and dignity, thus magically managing to keep my awkwardness at bay.  I watch him as he walks around and sits behind the expansive desk.

“I feel like I was just sent to the principal’s office,” I comment.

“I get that a lot,” he says with a twinkle.  “I certainly don’t mean anything by it.  But if you feel like wearing a school uniform, I think you’ll find it appreciated here.”  He leaves the conversation open for me to begin.

“So this is the clubhouse?”

“This is a bar the Club owns.  It finances our parties.  We don’t have a clubhouse per se, though folks tend to hang out at my house a lot.  If you’re wondering where we do our pinky crosses I’m afraid we aren’t that kind of club.  We’re a group of people, like anyone else, who we trust and enjoy being around.”

I grasp his meaning from the things Patty had told me; guys wearing diapers.  And he’s right about that, you can’t just trust anyone with your sexual secrets.  “So you trust me to join because Patty says I’m okay?”

He leans forward in his chair and takes a long sip of bourbon, “Patty said that you need us.”

I grimace at the reality of the situation.  “Okay,” I fidget nervously with my hands, “Tell me all about the Tramp Stamp Club?”  I’m trying to sound much stronger than I feel for the sake of my last sliver of pride.

He’d expected the question, I can see it in his smile as he begins, “The Tramp Stamp Club started many years ago as the women’s portion of a local men’s association,” he chuckles at some long ago memory.  “What we’re going to do is a series of sessions where you’ll learn to enjoy yourself again.  We’ll be guarding your privacy carefully during this time, in case you decide it isn’t for you.  You’ll learn things as we go along, things that’ll give you insight into who you are and what you can be.  At times we’re going to be tough on you; other times we’ll cherish you in ways that you’ve never dreamed of.  One thing you can be sure of, both come from love.”

“It sounds wonderful.”  But I’m thinking he could sell ice cubes to an Eskimo with those eyes.

“I like to think of it as a beautiful transformation, and I’m lucky to have a front row seat.  But we must think of your husband as well.  Are you still in love with him, Tara?”

I’m all too sure of my answer, “Yes, I’m very much in love with my husband.”

Jonathon smiles brightly, “Wonderful!  Well I have to tell you that’s a brilliant head start; most women have to take a minute to consider that.  Yet you’ve aimlessly wandered around your marriage for many years without any resolution?  It never ceases to amaze me that two people who love one another can just lose track of each other so easily.”  He sits his glass back onto the desk, “So our job here is to break down the barriers that’ve kept you two from expressing that love.  Unfortunately, we have to break you first.”

“Break me?” I stutter on that last sentence and prepare to defend myself.  Vagina has assumed her ‘cujo’ stance.’

But Jonathon laughs, “Easy now my precious filly, no one in our Club will ever hurt you.  On the contrary, by the end of your training you’ll rule my every thought.  I’ll dream of you day and night, and plead with you to allow me to be in your presence.  I’m afraid it’s a drawback of my job here; absolute heartbreak with every trainee.  But trust me that your husband will step in my path and he’ll feel the exact same way, and it’s his place beside you, not mine.”

“Forgive me for saying so but I seriously doubt that.  I’m fairly sure I’ll be just as alone at the end as I am now.”

“Aww, precious Tara, are you so convinced of that you won’t give us a shot at helping?”

“No, not really.  Patty seems pretty pleased with the results, and I’ve known Steve a long time.  He’s not one easily convinced.”

“But you believe
your
husband isn’t interested enough in what you do to take over for me when the ‘training’ is finished?”

“I’d bet my last dollar on it.”

“What if I tell you that I guarantee he will?”

I’m still staring at him, gawking really, because I can tell you that sitting in front of him is like meeting a move star, or the red headed Prince.  “Guarantee is a strong word to use when talking about my husband, Jonathon.”  I use his name, enjoying the way it feels on my tongue.

“Look Tara, I can’t hand you our secrets all at once.  It doesn’t work that way.  But yes, I guarantee your husband will step up and take his rightful place beside you when we’re finished.  He won’t be able to resist you.”

It’s a pretty promising offer, but I’m not one to rush into buying a timeshare.  “How much does this cost?”

And Jonathon laughs so heartily that I suspect he’s going to bust a gut.  “Oh my dear, dear, Tara.  This isn’t about money.  We all have money.  We certainly don’t need yours.  This is an elite society darling; doctors, lawyers and Indian chiefs.  All of them will be at your disposal.”

“Oh really?  How so?”

“It’s a matter of contributing; within the club we make use of one another’s skills.  If someone needs a physician we have ten, if you need an attorney we have them galore.  Their services are free to anyone of us.”

A light bulb goes on in my head, “Plastic surgeons?”

He laughs again, though this time only a chuckle, “Yes, plastic surgeons, therapists, you name it we have them.  Are you interested in plastic surgery, Tara?  I don’t see the need.”

Typical male response, but this is an added perk and I’m interested.  “I’m considering it.”

He fumbles in his desk for a second and slides a business card towards me, “Call Kellar.  He’ll see you immediately.”

I study the small card; Stephan Kellar is the best plastic surgeon in the country.  Getting in to see him is impossible.  I know this because I called his office and begged.  He has a waiting list so long that his first free appointment is somewhere during the next ice age.  To say I’m stunned at the offer is an understatement.  “Just like that?  Just like that, he’ll see me?”

“Just like that.”

“Do I have to have sex with him?” I whisper because the word, as I’ve mentioned, is uncomfortable to my universal sense of purity.

Jonathon seems to find me hilarious, “Of course not!  His wife Kelly has that man so wrapped around her pretty little fingers that he wouldn’t consider the offer.  That man is blind to other women!”

He continues laughing at me and I feel my face turning red, “So then why would he do this for me?”

“Is it so hard for you to believe that a successful man, happy in his marriage, wouldn’t want you to be happy and successful too?”

I consider his question and realize that I’ve learned to equate wealth with sin.  If you have no morals, then it’s easy to be rich.  Some version of ‘money can’t buy happiness’ I’ve heard in church a gazillion times.  Although when dreaming of winning the lottery I’ve always imagined starting a free spay/neuter clinic, or making my kids lives better somehow.  So why is it that I think the wealthy are sinful?  Why can’t they put their pants on like I do?  “If the goal is to share our talents freely between Club members, then please tell me what I have to offer.  I’m a housewife!”

“I’m sure you have many gifts, Tara.  But you’re husband is an author, isn’t that right?  Imagine how a USA Today bestseller would change your lives?”

Now I laugh hysterically.  I didn’t really expect him
not
to know who my husband is.  Busted.  “My husband writes about mysterious strains of long eared coyotes and how erosion is ruining our beaches.  I doubt many people are that interested in the intricacies of the South Carolina coastline.”

“You never know what interests people, Tara.  I’d like to know what interests
you
.”

Vagina has a list and she’s waving her paper in the air frantically.  I ignore her.

I shuffle uncomfortably in my chair, “So I’m to be broken and rebuilt in order to make myself successful and happy?”

Jonathon’s small laugh crackles, “Darling, if you still believe that is it in a nutshell when this is over then I’m a miserable failure.”  His face becomes deadpan serious, “Your previous concepts regarding your body will be transformed; things you believe are taboo will become second nature.  You will become so utterly confident in your every action that everyone around you will sense your power.  They’ll want to emulate your kindness and control.  My job is to start you on this path.  To begin this process with you if you choose?”

“And you believe that the restraints of society keep people from succeeding?  Excuse me for saying so, Jonathon, but the news is full of folks who break free from society and succeed.  It’s not exactly a novel concept!”

“Right, that’s exactly what I mean.  Those people have found the key
they
need to break free of what society tells them they can accomplish.  I’m telling you that I have the key to what is restraining your marriage, and I’d like to give it to you.”

I grin, “I’m sure you would!”

Jonathon grins, tolerating me, “You are quite charming Mrs. Townsend; it’s evil of you truly.  But let’s move to brass tacks.  When
is
the last time you made love to your husband?”

This is fairly personal information and I don’t like to express my failures, yet something in his demeanor eliminates my wall of insecurity.  I sigh, “Almost a year.”

“He isn’t very sexual?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I quickly respond.  “For years he commented about wanting me to be more sexual.  At the time I felt he was being insensitive.  I was raising toddlers, heading to the PTA, and washing snot out of pajama sleeves.  Trust me, it’s hard to feel sexy when you have throw up on your breasts.”

His blue eyes shoot sparks of sincere interest, “And you’ve considered an affair?”

I’m not proud of my answer.  “Yes… I have.”  I’m kind of considering it right now.  “But honestly, I’m a middle aged woman.  Who would want me?  It isn’t like I can go clubbing anymore.  Hell I might run into my kids!”

He smiles indulgently, “You can trust me when I say you are far from unattractive.”  He shifts in his seat so that I can see hardness beneath the pressed khaki of his slacks.  He reaches towards a tray and pours two glasses of what looks like might be Kentucky bourbon, ignoring the fact that I have a Red Bull and Vodka in front of me.

Sliding one towards me on the desk he smiles, “Okay.  If you are interested, I think we can move forward.  However, you need to be aware that once we start the training we don’t want you having sexual relations with your husband.  We find the lessons move faster that way.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

“Alright then, anything else?”

“Okay.  Lemme see if I understand this… Your club is about teaching me to overcome whatever notions I have about what is sexually normal.  I’m going to get in touch with my sexuality, minus guilt?  And you accomplish this by treating me like a slut?”  I knew I was stalling; terror was written on my face.

“See, there you go.  The word slut is another negative connotation promoted by people who don’t know better.  This is about breaking down your inhibitions, allowing you to fully enjoy sexuality without guilt.  This is about pleasure, and finding pleasure in everything you do.  The training is a little more than most women can handle at first.  That’s why your sponsor, in your case Patty, will be nearby to ensure your comfort level.  If at any time you want out, you simply tell her so.  I’ll warn you that you are going to sign a very strict and legally binding contract before we begin.  You have been recommended as a candidate by Patty because she believes and has testified to us that you are trustworthy.” He pushes a thin stack of papers in front of me and carefully places a Cross pen on top of them.

I’m mesmerized by his hands again, and I’m beginning to imagine them touching my breasts.  Vagina is trying to reach for the pen.  But I’m also intrigued.  They have paperwork?  Curiosity is definitely out weighing my reservations.  What do I have to lose?  If I don’t do anything, then my marriage is what I have to lose.  “When do I start?”  I hear the words as they escape my lips, and I can’t believe I’ve uttered them.  The realization that I can sit back and let gravity finish off my marriage or pick myself up, dust off the family rulebook and re-write it strikes home.  I take a polite sip from my drink and scribble my signature on the paperwork in front of me, “What do I have to do?”