Breakfast in Stilettos (14 page)

“It all sounds so straightforward and easy.” Well, it
did
. Nobody ever understood what I wanted and I was hard pressed to figure out anybody else’s needs. In bed anyway. Could it really be that easy?

Pixie laughed and reached out to grip my arm. “Oh Emily, it is never easy. Not really. It takes lots of work and negotiation, trial and error. But the bottom line (pardon the pun) is that I get what I want. And that is absolutely worth the effort.”

How could I argue with that? The BDSM world seemed so organized, with publications, online and in-person communities, social clubs properly stratified by roles and responsibilities, a set of predefined etiquette rules, and even a scene negotiation checklist.

Well, I
had a hankering to get what I wanted as well, but I didn’t even know what to ask for. Frank had given me the obvious stuff—flowers, wine, chocolate, and picnics in the park. The sex was good. At least for me. But I wanted more, and clearly so did he.

Perhaps this checklist would clue me in as to what was on the menu, for us both
.

As I drove back to the house, I pondered on everything that Pixie had said during our lunch. One thing was clear: Pixie loved sex. She was happy to talk about it and photograph it. She was also more than happy to have it—whether it was with one, two, three or ten people—male or female, regardless of creed, color or religious persuasion. Sex was Pixie’s hobby, pastime and leisure pursuit. I’d never met anything so comfortable with s-e-x.

Needless to say, I was mesmerized by her insights.

And the sharp contrast to my own.

I liked sex, but it wasn’t something I tended to admit. Not even to my partner
du jour
. There was no yelling, “Hey baby, give it to me. I want it!” at the top of my lungs. In fact, you’ll get little more than heavy breathing and a satisfied moan from me—if all goes well. The way sex stars go at it, you’d think that everyone enjoys giving and receiving all the nasty talk. Does it make sex better? Or does it just provide extra spice over the wanka-wanka sound track?

In fact, there was little at, above or below the equatorial zone of my body that inspired me to wax rhapsodic. I don’t gush about food or drink, hound on about the latest great movie, nor hail the glories of my latest pedicure. How can you authentically go on about bodily, glandular things? Maybe I was stunted as a child. My body appeared to have no voice beyond a quiet “please,” “thank you,” or “have a nice day.”

No one was home when I got there, though the subtropical temperature pointed to my global warming advocate roommate. I lowered the temp and dumped my day’s shopping haul onto the bed—leather jacket, leather skirt and scarlet stilettos. They lay there eerily in place, calling to mind an exhausted prostitute after a cheap trick. The leather jacket smelled of old saddle and musk. The skirt’s previous owner had a penchant for patchouli. I decided to hang them outside to let them air, as though they were squabbling two-year-olds in need of a time out.

I picked up the shoes. It wasn’t really accurate to call them shoes. Shoes were defined as an outer covering for the foot. However, these were more about
uncovering
. While the sole might be sheltered, the s-o-u-l was exposed.

I wasn’t sure I was ready to wear them. Granted, if I didn’t wear them tonight, when else? Halloween? My coffin?

I set them back on the bed, grabbed the leather items and put them on hangers. Then I escorted them outside, hoping that they wouldn’t attract Asshole Bob’s attention and inspire one of his nasty-grams informing me that I had broken some heretofore unproclaimed rule of neighborly conduct.

I was just about ready to run myself a relaxing bath when I heard a knock at the door. I imagined some door-to-door salesman and was tempted to ignore it, but then someone familiar called out “Hey Em. It’s me.”

I peeked out of the room. Sal was carrying an armload of Whole Food bags. “I went grocery shopping.”

Calling them “groceries” was disingenuous. Health food sold under the guise of fake unhealthy foods—as in veggie sausage links—seemed misleading at best. I think it’s cheating when self-proclaimed vegetarians buy things that are chicken-
or
beef-flavored, or
molded
in un-vegetable shapes.

Sal, still harried from her accident the previous evening, was moving too slow. “You look like you hurt.”

She shuddered. “I’m still so pissed at that … that …
ugh
, I can’t even say it. I’m sore. But breathing. Lucky for her.” She made it to the kitchen and plopped the grocery bags on the counter next to Frank’s roses. She took a whiff of them and snorted. “How can something so evil smell so good?”

I wasn’t even going to respond to that. And lucky for me, the doorbell rang. The door opened immediately, and the singsong voice of my mother called out, “It’s just me.”

“Hi, Mom.” I waved her into the kitchen as she shed her coat and then gave a start when I realized that Frank’s roses were still sitting on the kitchen table. I moved them quickly to a back counter, which you couldn’t see well from the table, and turned just as Mom joined us.

She gave me a quick cheek kiss and then swept her concerned gaze over Sal. “Are you
OK
? Emily told me about the accident. I dropped by to check on you.”

Sal held her arms out as though for examination. “That was nice of you, but I’m fine. A little sore, and I have a couple of pretty good bruises, but nothing is broken. Thankfully.” She turned on the burner under her teapot. “Would you like some tea?” She rummaged around in the cupboard and brought out two boxes of herbal tea bags.

Even after all this time, Sal still didn’t get that my mom was a tea snob and would never drink tea from any sort teabag. I leapt up. “Mom, I can make you some. I have some of that Keemun you like and a little Pu-erh that you brought over for me to try.” I liked the former but
the latter
tasted and smelled too much like mulched leaves and dirt. And I was a firm believer that anything beginning with the sound “poo” should not pass one’s lips.

Mom shook her head. “Thanks, but I just had a couple of cups. I’m quite fine.” She sat down at the table. “I want to hear more about the accident. Emily gave me the essentials over breakfast, but I was so worried.”

I tuned out as Sal recapped the details, still as full of rage at the driver who hit her as she had been last night. I couldn’t stay raging angry for even a minute, much less overnight and then some. Mom shared Sal’s passion, so the two of them kept it up for a while, with Mom raging about the woman as well by the time they were finished.

On the other hand, I had an overwhelming impulse to alleviate the situation, to explain how the woman clearly hadn’t intended to hit her, that it wasn’t personal. But I knew better than to open my mouth in their midst.

Instead I cast made surreptitious glances at the roses, thinking of Frank and wondering what the evening’s activities would bring. I jumped a little when the doorbell rang again.

Sal and Mom both looked at me as if to say, “Who could that be?”

I shrugged and walked over to peek through the peephole. It was Kenner. I opened the door, a little stunned. He had been here before, but only once. “Hey boss, come on i
n
.”

He scuffed his boots on the mat and stepped inside. Sal and Mom were standing at the kitchen door.

Sal waved, “Hey Mr. Kenner,” and then stepped back into the kitchen. Mom stood and watched.

Kenner had met my mom a few times when she had come to the office to take me to lunch. He stretched out a hand. “Good afternoon, Catherine.”

Mom shook his hand, “Hello, Lawrence. Are you here about Sal’s accident as well?” She helped him shed his coat and laid it on the couch next to hers.

Kenner looked into the kitchen after Sal. “She was in an accident? I hadn’t heard. Actually, I came by for work.” Kenner pulled a thin, white invitation-style envelope from his coat. “This came in after you left on Friday, and it is marked
Re:
The Salon
on the front, so I figured you might need it for your story. I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by.” He handed it to me.

“Oh, thanks.” I gave it a quick scan. There was no return address, and given the company I had been keeping recently, it didn’t seem wise to open it on the spot. I had no idea what might be inside, or worse yet, what body parts might be exposed. “It’s nothing important, but thanks for bringing it by anyway.” I set it down careless
ly
, as though it contained a loaf of white bread instead of the decadent morsel I was sure was inside. When I returned my attention back to the group, I noticed the look of disappointment on everyone’s face.

It lasted for only a moment before Kenner asked for the whole story of the accident.

Again the recital of Sal’s ordeal, told by Mom with slightly different emphasis, but with the same rage against the other driver. Mom led Kenner into the kitchen as she spoke and soon we were all sitting around the kitchen table.

When Mom queried Sal about school, the onslaught of nano-conversation made me tune out again. My nerves were definitely on edge, so I started to clean up the kitchen. I set the secret unknown envelope discreetly next to the roses—my growing pile of contraband—and went about doing Sal’s breakfast dishes.

I had set to drying the doorbell rang again. This was ridiculous. “I’ll get it.” There was barely a pause in the conversation about Sal’s latest scholastic sagas to acknowledge me.

I made my way to the door, wiping my hands on the “clean” dishtowel. We had two at all times, the clean one for things that had had been washed and the “dirty” one for things that hadn’t, such as spots on the floor. It occurred to me that boyfriends
could
come in
similar
designations
—clean for presenting to family and dirty for everything else.

As I crossed the room, I speculated who could be there. We never had this much company, even Saturdays. I figured it had to be Asshole Bob come to complain about my Vader-wear, but a quick peek made my whole body freeze.

It was Frank. Talk about the “dirty” boyfriend. He was smiling at the peephole as he knew I was on the other end. I always answered the door. “Shit.” My first instinct was to run. Well, that was really my second. My first was to jump outside and kiss him. He looked delicious. But this was quickly overshadowed by the impending threat of
execution
,
should any of
my three guests
catch
sight of him.

I opened the door, slid through and closed it as quietly as I could. His old black
Karmann Ghia
was parked right out front. “What are you doing here?” I was whispering, even though a nuclear bomb could go off outside the door and you would never hear it inside; craftsman-built walls were
that
well insulated.

Frank’s smile only dimmed slightly. “I thought roses would at least get me in the door.”

“My mom and Kenner and Sal are all here. I even hid the roses. They would freak if they saw you here. Remember, they aren’t keen on my even
thinking
about dating you again.”

His smiled brightened. “Are you thinking about dating me?”

A bus drove by, its great engine roar sending vibrations through the porch and up my legs, which were already buzzing.

But no answer came, for right then the door swung open and my mother was standing there, looking first surprised and then more and more angry. Mom’s moods had a crank, you could actually see her ratchet them up from calm to full-scale hurricane. She was working up to tempest now. Her words rang out strong and distinct. “What is
he
doing here?”

Frank smiled, “Hello Mrs. Em.” He always called her that, he said as a tribute to how much we looked alike. “No worries, your daughter just asked me the same question.”

Apparently the sound of my mother’s voice had caught the attention of Sal and Kenner, who appeared in the doorway. Now I was shrinking under the weight of three angry gazes.

Frank, on the other hand, was his unruffled self. “Hello Mr. Kenner. Sally.”

No one was focused on Frank. Had I been smarter, I would have stood alongside my mom, boss and roommate, and given Frank a united “Why are you here?” stance, but indecision got the best of me. I just stood there looking from face to face, feeling my guilt like a scarlet letter.

Frank apparently assessed my mood, apparently finding pleasure as much in my discomfort as the fact that clearly I felt something for him. And while gallantry might have made another man lie for the sake of my friends, Frank was never one to care much what other people thought—at least not when it didn’t serve him. “I just wanted to talk to you about tonight and see if you had everything you needed.”

I nodded mutely. I was hoping, hoping, hoping,
please
that he wouldn’t out me, but I saw the smirk spread across his face. “
OK
, then, I’ll see you there. Nine o’clock?”