The Last Place She'd Look Page 6

  50. Feels good, doesn't it? But what do you want for the future? 50 more healthy years? Financial security? An AARP membership can help.

  Shortly after AARP found me, solicited, and sucker-punched my psyche asking for membership, I was still reeling from being qualified to join a support group for the senior population. They moved pretty quickly and aggressively for a bunch of oldsters.

  I went back upstairs, checked my email, and learned that three of my new story ideas had been rejected. And I'd be receiving a kill fee (only a third of my usual rate) for a relationship story where the publisher decided they wanted a man's point of view—and a man to write it. Ah, the bleak world of rejection and the freelance writer. To take my mind off of my disappointments, I called Diana, hoping more of her Diana-isms could distract me from my inertia and rejection.

  “I may have found a husband…for YOU!” she blurted.

  “For me?” I gulped down a glass of water as my emotions raced from hope to horror. “Was that on my Christmas list? I thought I'm just supposed to have a good time. No relationship goals, no husband hunting.”

  Diana continued, “One of my friends from my last job has a brother, Roberto. He's an opera singer, a tenor, cultured, with a few extra pounds—your type. He travels a lot, but a week from Sunday, you're meeting him at her house, for brunch.”

  “Brunch next week with someone I haven't even spoken to?” I was anxious for a multitude of reasons.

  “Trust me, I know what you like,” Diana said, with certainty. “I said glowing things about you. My goal is to get you married.”

  Chapter 8

  My Late Date

  For Sunday brunch I dressed in soft colors and applied pretty pink lip gloss. I wanted to look as youthful and girlish as possible. Suzy Condella's home was a large English Tudor estate in Encino; rolling lawns, lots of trees, and no sidewalks. I walked to the front door eager and hopeful despite myself, straightening my clothes and hair before ringing the bell. Suzy came to the door wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. Although she was smiling, her eyes looked sad and red, as if she'd been crying.

  “Sara? We've been expecting you. Please come in.” Suzy shook my hand and ushered me down a short hallway into a gigantic, spotless kitchen. “Please sit. I have something to tell you.” What could a total stranger have to tell me? I swallowed hard, maintaining her gaze. “You won't be meeting my brother today,” she began. “He was driving home from San Diego and…” Her voice broke. “He had a fatal heart attack. Only 55 years young. My brother is gone. The funeral was two days ago.”

  I stood, thinking: Funeral? My date died before I even met him! I thought it best to excuse myself. This felt like being somewhere between a fever dream and a David Lynch film – soon my feet would feel heavy, a midget would enter, and someone would get amnesia. I tried to focus on the moment while wondering if anyone who cooked could actually keep this kitchen so spotless.

  “Oh, don't go. You were invited for brunch. Diana has told me so much about you. Please join the rest of the family. They're poolside, waiting for you.”

  I winced at the thought of dining with my dead date's family…but she insisted – and feeling trapped by the circumstances, my heart going out to those in such pain, I followed Suzy out the back door and greeted seven other relatives of the late Roberto.

  Sitting under an umbrella, drinking an umbrella drink, conversing with the family of my late date, I marveled at the absurdity of it all. Why was I here? This table full of strangers working through their grief was nevertheless warm and cordial. How I wished I'd met them under other circumstances. I longed for a family like this. There were advantages to being a dead guy's girlfriend. He seldom embarrassed you in front of friends. You always knew where he was. If only we'd met while he was…breathing.

  Despite a lovely lunch, I didn't linger. I thanked everyone profusely, with hugs and kisses on both cheeks. Driving home, my mind raced faster than the other drivers on the 101 freeway, thinking about an article I wrote years ago about the worst blind date I'd ever had – he committed suicide three hours before the date. Another late date? Was that a story-worthy article title? I'd write it up when I got home. But what really happened today? Did it count as a date, or anything resembling a date? Was this a sign I wasn't really, really ready for a new relationship? Or was it just another odd life experience I'd turn into a freelance paycheck? After my AARP harassing, gentle reminder, I realized I had less than half a century left. NOW was the lightning round of MY game show. The best future possible was the champion's prize. I was afraid I'd only win the washer/dryer, or even worse, a year's supply of Rice-a-Roni.

  I drove lost in feelings of aloneness, aware of my own transience, eager to make every moment matter. Although I enjoyed meeting Suzy and her family, death brushed my shoulder, an intimation of mortality, as if Roberto and I had shared a fleeting hug.

  I told Diana that my blind date was not a cozy Sunday brunch with Roberto, but instead a heartfelt wake with his family, making me aware of my own mortality.

  “I'm shocked! He had such a charming vitality. This is unbelievable. Don't worry. I tried to find you a live man. I won't give up!” she said, coughing repeatedly.

  Consoling her, I asked, “How are you feeling?”

  “I think I've come down with some kind of cold or flu. All of these late nights have worn me out. Uri just left town for three weeks, so now I'll get some rest. My eyelids are so swollen it looks like I need an eye lift. It's a good thing I'm not giving any guys blow jobs, or I'd never be able to open my mouth up wide enough. Other than that I'm fine. Maybe we'll get together in a week or two. But as long as I look great for my birthday—that's all that matters.”

  “What do you want to do to celebrate?” I queried.

  “Not think about turning 60 and being a grandmother. Get my swollen eyes down and my libido up,” she joked.

  I said goodbye to Diana, still thinking about my late date. First dates should be brimming with possibility…not fatality. I needed a date with a good EKG…and a pulse!

  Chapter 9

  Beauty By the Lb.

  Later that evening, I went to see Julia appearing as a lingerie model in a National Association of Fat Americans (NAFA) fashion show.

  Bright lights, flash bulbs, lightning bolts of frenetic energy filled the room. A packed house with enthusiastic men and women eagerly watched the models take the runway stage. Each voluptuous vixen, more provocative, happy, and steamily sexy than the last, fearlessly strutted the runway in skimpy, lacy undergarments. The crowd cheered as if each had scored a touchdown at a football game. Every beautiful model, her double-D's jiggling as she strode, gloriously feminine, was a glamorous waterfall of fleshy female pride. Screw you, Kate Moss! Victoria, this was the real secret. These were womanly women, in corsets and garter belts, all smoking with mature sexuality, while all of your boy-shorts-wearing girls were really stick-figured pseudo-boys, gussying up for immature man-children.

  Julia, her megawatt smile, was striding down the catwalk, her buoyant breasts bobbing in a pink teddy and peignoir. I applauded loudly, cheering. She eyed me, flipped her hair back, and winked. I watched the predominantly male audience, men of different ages, sizes, and shapes, smoldering with sexual heat and desire— hot for these women in these outfits — or out of them— as soon as possible.

  For the show's finale, the plus-sized models arrived in a line, all in floor length black silk robes. They opened the robes, revealing a variety of black lace panties and bras. Then they all removed their robes simultaneously, took their bows, and strode off the stage, dragging their robes behind them, a cavalcade of femme fatales, victoriously marching back to the wonderland of Amazon princesses.

  Later that evening over martinis, I asked Julia, “You enjoy strutting on a stage in your underwear?”

  “All those eyes on me,” she cooed, sipping her drink. “It's a fabulous feeling.” Dressed in black pants, jacket, a silk bustier with baby pink accents and white lace trim and still
in full make-up, hair curled and bouffant, she was as sexy as any movie star.

  “And the men cheer!” she smiled. “I was tingling from the admiration.”

  “I wouldn't have the guts, or the breasts.” I ate the olive from my martini.

  “It's knowing your audience. Every woman has something about her that's beautiful,” she said.

  “And this audience tonight? Who are these men?”

  “Men who appreciate big, beautiful women,” said Julia. “Some are overweight, but most are slim or bodybuilders who get turned on by a fleshy form.”

  “You see yourself as a fleshy form?” I was surprised.

  “There's a goddess inside this vessel! I see myself as lovable, desirable, and silky to the touch.” Julia threw her head back and laughed. We clinked glasses. “You should see yourself that way, too. I can get laid whenever I want.”

  “And who were you with last?” I inquired.

  “While I was waiting for this guy from Craigslist to call me back, I met a woman at the Outfest Film Festival.” She adds, “We're both Ida Lupino fans.”

  “I wish I could be gender-flexible,” I sighed.

  “I think you already are. You just need to loosen up a bit. When you see a woman you find attractive, just say 'hello.'” Julia smiled, stroked my arm, and downed the rest of her drink.

  I admired Julia's confidence, and the way she dressed and carried herself, —quite a provocative package. No wonder she always had a devotee when she wanted one. Could I, a goofy ex-gamine who barely fills an A-cup, find a roster of receptive lovers, too?

  “Hello is a brave word right now. I'm feeling invisible in the real world, rejected in the writing world, and without mojo or a live body in Diana's world,” I blurted the second Julia put her empty glass down.

  “Diana can be a steamroller, Sara. Don't let her get you down,” soothed Julia.

  “She doesn't get me down. She just flaunts her sexuality in such a way that I feel like I'm a different species.”

  “You are, dear,” Julia replied, “And that's okay. I'll make you feel better about yourself. Remember, I'm your have-a-good-time, get-a-sex-life sponsor. Friday night I'm taking you to a party … a dungeons-and-fantasy party.”

  “Wasn't that a geek-boy computer game?” I asked.

  Julia laughed. “You're thinking Dungeons and Dragons.”

  “What do you wear to a dungeons-and-fantasy party?”

  “I'm wearing black leather pants and a bustier,” said Julia.

  I gulped. “If I had your body, I'd wear one, too. You wear a bustier out in the world more than anyone I know.”

  “Everyone should flaunt their assets,” Julia said. “For me it's tits. For you, it's wits.”

  “Okay. I'll polish my wits and see you Friday.”

  Chapter 10

  Divas of the Dungeon

  Friday night, Julia's dusty Corolla was outside my house at 9 p.m. I slid into her car wearing all black: pants, a long jacket, and a simple, sheer tank top. Julia was in her high-cleavaged glory, with full make-up and lips glossed like a soap opera actress on Univision.

  “Are you ready for a fantasy evening?” she asked in a mock Ricardo Montalban accent. We drove for almost an hour, out near the airport, where all the buildings housed U-Hauls, rental cars, or storage units. There was a nondescript, dimly lit building where cars were lining up. “That's it. That's the place.”

  We parked. The couple walking alongside us looked like corporate office workers who'd arrived straight from their jobs (except for the fact that he had a leather dog collar around his neck and she was holding the chain, walking him to the club). At the doorway stood a woman who looked like Vampira and another dressed in a Catholic school girl's uniform with a thigh-high red plaid skirt.

  I exhaled as we entered, thinking I'd be the squarest, most uptight woman there. We were escorted down a long entrance hall by a security hostess dressed in a slinky black jumpsuit á là James Bond's girlfriend. Another door opened … into the party.

  Some party. A cavernous room that was probably a storage facility during daylight hours, with décor resembling a church basement. Wood-paneled walls provided a backdrop for cheap folding chairs, card tables, and a bar that was merely two tables covered by a paper cloth and offering beers and hard liquor.

  Every former 6th-grade geek, freak, misfit, and outsider was dressed up in their best fetish finery. Men were either emaciated or rotund—and leering, more than looking, at the women.

  Yes, the women. Where do you shop for freak-show clothes like these? There were two platinum blondes with identical short, spiky haircuts wearing matching black leather mini-skirts and shiny red patent-leather bustiers, pushing basketball-sized breasts skyward. They took turns sitting on each other's laps while they alternately kissed and warmly greeted everyone who sat at their table. Body piercings were everywhere. The most beautiful women in the room were transvestites.

  I learned that latex brings out the best curves in everyone. I scoped out the patrons as my eyes ricocheted around the room. The cornucopia of couples was mesmerizing. It was like a car accident – I couldn't look away, repulsed and attracted all at once. The air was heavy with smarmy sexuality.

  Feeling like a sexual tourist, I was reminded of the bar I'd visited with Beth. If the gay bar was Paris, this was Amsterdam. Then I found the roadmap for our vacation from “sex as we've known it.” I picked up a brochure from a stack on the corner of the card table and read:

  “Club DV8 has the nation's largest, most elegant, and best-equipped dungeon. (I'd hate to think we were going to an inferior dungeon; you know how dungeons can be.) Fully air-conditioned and heated, cleaned daily (let's hope so), and filled with state-of-the-art equipment. (It's so bothersome to use 20th century flogging equipment.) We have a total of seven complete theme rooms and dungeons in 7,000 square feet plus a 2,500-square-foot social area complete with stage and lighting. Bondage, Spanking, Slave Training, (what's graduation like?), Tickling, Role Playing, Wax, Fire & Ice, Foot Worship, Electrical Play, Role Play, Wrestling, Feminization, English Caning (I don't think that's chair-making.), Domestic Discipline, Nipple Torture, Suspensions, Flogging, and so much more.” (What's left, fondue frolic?)

  I tried not to stare as we ventured to theme rooms where people engaged in their role-playing pleasures. Voyeurism was highly encouraged and seemed to be the preference of the gaggle of geek boys who arrived without female companionship. In one room, I counted 35 people watching as a man was shackled to a wooden stake and then flogged by the woman who'd accompanied him.

  I was intrigued, repulsed, and mesmerized by the circus of scenarios that seemed more theatrical than sexual. I got a weird thrill out of being this close to couples touching and sharing licentious energy, making me feel that I was having a second-hand sexual moment, anonymous and in a small crowd. It felt like watching the making of a porno film.

  Excited and uneasy, I held on to Julia's arm as we walked from one “theme room” to another, an X-rated Disneyland. Others walked past us, smiling and eyeing Julia as if she were alone. Meanwhile, she and I found all seven rooms: a classroom with old school wooden desks where students were bent over their desks while teachers spanked them with rulers. Next, a boudoir filled with large-size evening gowns, where three large men were whooping it up, laughing, and admiring themselves in Mae West style, the belles of the 1890s-style gowns, each exclaiming over the other's necklaces and feather boas. Another room with a rack and various shackles was very crowded. We perched on the side of a leather massage table and watched couples spank one another. Some brought their own toys and a bag of tricks. Others borrowed from the selection we'd seen in the “goody room” on our way in.

  Watching the pain and pleasure at first was titillating. But with each repetitive slap and every tightening turn of the rack and subsequent flogging, the thrilling sensation dulled; Julia and I both started squirming, itching to move on. Before we left, we stopped in one more room where everyone was wearing nothin
g but Saran Wrap; it was the spanking room.

  That room got Julia and me thinking. A 30-year-old man was lying face-down on a table, wearing nothing but a diaper. A woman was spanking him; first hard slaps, then soft, then a gentle rub, like a schizophrenic mother. She looked bored. She was obviously paid to do this on an hourly basis. How did I know? This dominatrix was not young, or beautiful, or dressed in a bustier. She was over 50, overweight, and dressed like somebody's dowdy mom.

  Finally we saw our demographic: the invisible, mid-life woman. She was here making a living, helping man-children live out their fantasies! “Mommy porn?” I asked Julia, suppressing a giggle. Then, right outside the room, we saw this sign:

  Do you want to work in a clean, safe, and 'drama- free' atmosphere? We welcome top-quality dommes with experience. Also, professional switches with experience, and submissives, no experience necessary. Cash paid daily, great working conditions, make your own hours. Here is an opportunity to work in one of the great Dungeons of the World.

  “I'd like a drama-free work environment, wouldn't you?” I said, snarkily.

  “With your schedule, you could fit in a few spankings a week,” she laughed.

  “So, you're encouraging me to apply for this?” I questioned, hesitant, although it could open the door for many article ideas as well as expand my sexual imagination in a dark, disturbing way.

  “Oh, yes, definitely!” said Julia. “You could probably write about it for your self-help articles. Women's magazines always clamor for articles on sexual specialties. Besides, you can earn $150 an hour.”

  “Do you know how many beauty tips and hair care hints I have to wax poetic about for $150? I'm writing down the number,” I remarked, excitedly. For that rate, working in a dungeon seemed like a spanking good opportunity. Plus, it had the fantasy I could spin into smut stories for high-paying men's magazines. I could postpone thinking about my own sexual dilemmas and focus on my clients.