Goody Two Shoes (7 page)

Patty laughs again, “So let me get this straight.  You’re going to go up to your husband, who has turned away your every advance for a year, and ask if he minds if you suck another man’s cock?”

Yeah, that wasn’t going to play out well, “Point taken,” I say.  “But seriously, what’s the worst he could say?  No?”

“I think I’d be more afraid of the words, ‘get out’ than ‘no.’” Once again my voice of logic responds with the heady truth.  She knows that I’m so in love with him that I’d rather live in the house ignored than not have him at all.  I’ve never spoken these words, because the sound of them makes me feel weak, but that’s the beauty of such an old and dear friend; you never have to tell them.

I sit stunned by the thought of life without Simmons in it.  The truth is I never want to lose him, but I want, no I
need
, things to be different between us.  I can’t do this marriage anymore, not this way.  The strength of Ellen crawls inside me again, like a ghost assuming my body, “Call me back when you hear from Jonathon.”

After disconnecting the call, I slump down across my bed in my still damp towel.  I’d forgotten to ask her if it was the same Jonathon, Ellen’s Jonathon, I’d be meeting.  As a matter of fact, I didn’t mention reading the manuscript at all.  It’s really not important, I guess.  I do some math in my head, not one of my fortes, so it takes a minute.  Jonathon will be in his sixties.  I strum my fingers against my lips.  Kind of old for this kind of thing… I strum my lips again.  At exactly what point in my life did I start to think that age has anything to do with sex?  I’ve almost completely disassociated the two; as if once you reach a certain age you can’t have sex anymore.  Have I reached that age? 
Now that’s just pitiful
, Vagina chirps in, making fun of my imaginary rules.

As the afternoon pans by, I nervously await the call from Patty.  I feel like a sorority girl waiting on Bid Day, and I pace, dust, and fidget.  But as I wander about the house, Vagina starts discussing orgasms.  Funny how she starts up conversations but rarely allows anyone else to talk.  But as she talks she begins twitching again.  I stop at the top of the stairs, with my microfiber duster in hand, and speak to her, “Why do you keep doing that?”

Doing what?
She answers innocently.  Though we all know she’s far from that.

“Twitching!” I respond annoyed that I’m standing in my upstairs foyer speaking out loud to my Vagina.

Exercising!  Don’t you think we should get in shape for this?

Oh for Pete’s sake I can’t believe this.  “Well cut it out!” I speak to her as though she’s one of my rebellious children.

No,
and she keeps twitching.

“I said cut it out.”  I demand now because her constant ‘exercises’ are making it hard for me to think anymore and lust is moving through my veins.

And I said no,
she responds with an air of complete defiance.  But she manages to push a thought upwards into my mind.  There is a box, stored somewhere in the attic, that still holds a plastic vibrator that Simmons bought me sometime between Jennifer and Simmons Junior; a feeble effort to renew my interest back then.  I guess when it didn’t serve any purpose it was relegated to storage, but I think of it now.  With Vagina in control, I climb the stairs to the media room that has been nearly forgotten since the kids moved out.  Sliding the sofa forward, I open the small doorway to the attic storage space.  The box isn’t hidden; it just says ‘Master bedroom’ in black sharpie marker on the side.  I pull it forward and dig through it in search of the antique dildo, and I’m rewarded when my hand finds its hard outer shell right away.

Within moments it’s been washed with antibacterial soap from the sink at the bar and is wearing brand new batteries, formerly owned by the remote.  On the couch I sense Vagina moaning already; she’s like a jaguar spotting a wild boar stalling by the stream.  I swear she’s drooling.  So I turn on the toy and press it against her mute sister Clitoris.  They are twins, but you’d never know it; one’s a chatter box while the other sits politely until she’s asked a question.  I respect that.  Though deaf, she responds to vibrations extremely well.  My nipples perk as she spreads her joy to all other parts of me.  Yet as I lean back on the sofa to enjoy the sensations she shares with me, Vagina begins her uproar, and she’s getting more and more pissed by the second.  She wants her twin’s toy and she wants it now.  What am I to do?  I only have this one toy?  On the couch next to me is the forgotten duster, I grab it and ignoring what germs the handle must contain I shove it in her mouth.  It’s instinct, a bad one no doubt, but it quiets her like a pacifier while her twin Clitoris enjoys a bit of time with ‘Mr. Vibrator.’  Of course within no time Vagina is at it again, asking to push her toy deeper, deeper, she demands.  I comply like a brow beaten mother, plunging myself with the duster while Clitoris and her toy send me into orgasm after orgasm until I collapse into the thick cushions of the sofa.  Relaxation finally finds me and I sit silently with the duster in one hand and the buzzing vibrator in the other, absorbing the sensation of release.

When the phone rings, I nearly jump out of my skin, dropping both the duster and the vibrator to the floor with a clatter.

“Hello?”

“Hey Tara, its Patty.  Just got off the phone with Mr. Galloway.  He’s agreed to meet you this afternoon at four.”

“So, where do I go?” I ask, now nearly convinced that this is the right move to make.  I can’t spend the rest of my life fucking my cleaning supplies after all.

*-*-*-*-*

We walk into O’Malley’s just about 5 minutes to 4:00
P.M
., and I’m glad Patty came with me.  I’m as skittish as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs when we sit in the booth and order two Red Bull and Vodkas.  I think my teeth are chattering. 
Just a little something to take the edge off
, I think to myself as the waitress sits our cocktails down on the polished table.  Patty told me to wear the sexiest dress I owned, so I took the less is more avenue again and am wearing a total of four pieces of clothing, and that includes counting each shoe separately.  That’s right, do the math, with sagging triple D’s, you can bet it isn’t the bra that’s missing.  Finally after a long gulp of vodka, “So tell me about Jonathon.”

Suddenly a light bulb goes on in Patty’s eyes, like the lighting of a Christmas tree, “Oh Tara, wait till you meet him!  You know, I’ve always thought Simmons has pretty eyes, but Jonathon?  His eyes will transport you.  Have you ever met one of those people who you just sense is an Angel of some kind?  He’s scrumptious I tell you.  Perfection.”

“Agh, you know me,” I say sipping more vodka, “I associate with people via their flaws.  You associate via their good qualities.  That’s what’s made us balance all these years.”

Patty looks past my head and grins as I feel a presence beside me.  I glance up and my eyes take him in all at once, feeling my knees weaken.  This time I recognize him immediately and I smile involuntarily.  It’s ‘mid-life crisis’ man, standing tall as the Freedom Tower and smelling as clean as a cucumber sandwich.  Okay, I’m not going to say I’m not melting.  Oh, I’m melting in a big, big way.  Vagina is speechless, which she hasn’t been in a few days now.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says as he moves in front of our booth.

Patty stands up and plants a very sensual kiss on his lips that’s almost embarrassing to watch.  No one said there’d be kissing.  But as his eyes turn to mine I sink to the bottom of a crystal blue Mediterranean ocean.

“So… this must be Tara.  The pleasure, my dear, is all mine,” he smiles as he leans over to kiss me on the neck.”  Goose bumps begin to rise all over my pantiless body and I know instantly that I belong to this man.  At least I very much
want
to belong to him.  His voice rumbles near my ear and sends both Vagina and her twin clinging to each other in desperation.

When he looks at me I feel like I’m home.  Not my dated blue Corian countertop kind of home, but something exclusive, luxurious, pampered.  A home where I am seen for the truths that are welling up inside me, the truth that means without a doubt that my ‘Goody Two Shoes’ are on their way to the Salvation Army.

I know I’m blushing.  “Mr. Galloway,” I nod and slip further back into the dark leather booth, a tad humiliated by the schoolgirl squeakishness of my voice.  The light in the pub is dim, even for this time of day.  The old Irish feel of the atmosphere adds to the masculinity that oozes here.  Instantly I know I’m out of my element on
so
many levels.  It’s that awkward moment when you know you should absolutely run for the hills but for some reason you just want to stay and see how it pans out.  This
man
is the reason I want to stay.  He’s tall, as I mentioned, and as manicured as the White House lawn.  Gray hair tickles the tips of his ears and small hints of the same peek from the opening in his shirt.  My fingers itch to toy with them.

“May I join you two?” he asks, still standing at the edge of the booth.

I slide over to allow him to sit down beside me without as much as a second thought.  I must be under some spell!  Believe it or not the small act of sliding over to allow a man to sit beside me is more adventurous than I’d been in a long time. 
Too long
, Vagina quips.

He slides beside me and his cologne becomes stronger in my presence. 
I’d like to lick that right off his neck
, Vagina groans.  “So is the big news true, Tara?  You’re interested in joining us?”

But I’m examining his hands on the table in front of us; I can’t take my eyes from the length and mere size of them.  I’ve only seen hands like this on television during basketball games, and I immediately notice the lack of a wedding ring.  Finally I glance up at his eyes and realize he’d asked a question.  “It’s true!” I perk, swimming in the colors that bounce off his eyes as he looks at me.

“We certainly couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful proposal,” and his thick hand covers mine sensually.  “May I ask if your husband knows you may be participating in our training exercises?”

I shake my head and pick up my vodka with my empty hand, “No, he doesn’t.  And it wouldn’t matter one way or the other because our sex life is non-existent.”  Oh my Lord, what the hell did I just say?  Did I seriously just introduce sex to a conversation with a man I’d met… what, two minutes ago?  I tell you, I’m losing it here.

He chuckles and smiles, “I see!  Well, I appreciate your honesty.  Tell me my precious Tara, what do you know about The Tramp Stamp Club, and what would you
like
to know?”

Glancing over at Patty I can see she’s eating this up like pumpkin pie.  Her eyes are in a tennis match watching us interact.  I kick her hard beneath the table, but a wink tells her that I am teasing.  She was absolutely right about his eyes.

I look back at Jonathon, and again I’m stunned by his size.  There are men in this world who don’t exude their proportions; they never quite seem as large as they are until you are right up close to them.  Jonathon is like that.  Beside me he feels like a mountain, and I feel safe and cozy under his shadow.  “Patty told me there would be a training period, and then a Graduation Ceremony.  I envision it as a sexual hazing of sorts.”

His eyes twinkle again, like I’d made a splash on the cool water there.  “Hazing?” he laughs.  “No, nothing like that!  You won’t be eating any live goldfish, I assure you that!”

“Okay, then what do you call it?”

His fingers twirl around my wedding band in the style of a lover, “Honestly?”

I nod.

“It’s called Slut Wife Training.”

My eyes pop from my head, “Excuse me?”  I gulp more vodka.

But he’s patient and glimmers at me despite my impertinence, “Slut Wife Training,” he repeats plainly as if the title wasn’t at all offensive to him.

I shake my head with disbelief, “Oh I see now, a bunch of husbands who train their wives to be sluts.  I see who reaps the reward out of this deal!”

Jonathon turns towards me as the waitress leaves his drink on the table, “Excuse me for pointing out that your husband isn’t aware of your being here.  In other words,
you
wish me to train you.”

Dang!  Foiled again.  “Okay fair enough, but aren’t you taking advantage of women here?”

He glances at Patty with a look that speaks of secret love, a jealous bone strikes within me, “Patty, do you feel taken advantage of?”

“Tara, every single thing I’ve done is because I absolutely want to.  I think you should just go on up to Jonathon’s office and continue this conversation in private.  Give it a try.  No harm, no foul.  If you don’t like it, then go home and pretend it never happened.  You can bet that no one
here
is ever going to mention it again if you do.”  And she crosses her heart for good measure.

“Whoa!” I raise my hand, “So if I say we go forward, this starts today?  Right here and now?”

Jonathon nods, “Or you could go home and clean your house again.  Eventually you’ll head to Walmart for a fuzzier robe to keep you warm at night.”

Now that cuts right to the bone.  He isn’t far off the mark here, and he knows it registers like a ton of bricks; he can see it in my eyes.  Suddenly I find myself searching for a way to blame this all on Simmons, and somehow spin it so that it isn’t my responsibility.  Like maybe if he said we’re getting a divorce unless you do this; something, anything, an ultimatum to get me out of this Catholic laden guilt.  I feel envious of the women whose husband’s drag them kicking and screaming to Jonathon for reform.  I sigh, “Does my husband have to know I’m here?”

Both Patty and Jonathon shake their heads, “No he does not.  That’s between you and Simmons.  Patty says you need us,” he says as he winks at her, “and Patty’s word is as good as gold with me.  Of course, luscious curves don’t hurt my eyes either, so you can’t blame me for hoping you’ll join us!  From what she tells me, I think we can help.”  His eyes surround my ‘luscious curves,’ pulling me in the warm waters again, making me feel like a pawn under his enchantment.  Rationally I know there is no magic here, a definite chemistry though.