Hex and the Single Girl (32 page)

O’Toole where he’d like to work today. He said, “I haven’t spent much time in the bedroom, Ms. Antwerp.”

“Alas, no,” she agreed. “I’m sure I can find something for you to do in there.”

“I have a letter for you,” he said, reaching into his pocket and removing another crumpled note.

My dearest Ms. Antwerp,

I have wonderful news! Mr. Juan Conchito has recovered fully from his injury! We have tested him in the

field, and he appears to be completely healed and ready to resume his position. Pending your approval, I

will cancel your previously selected choice for March, and send Mr. Conchito to you instead.

My sincerest gratitude for your patience,

Ms. Simone Struthers, president,

Man-of-the-Month Club

Sally folded the letter and put it in her trouser pocket. Mr. O’Toole placed his plate and mug in the sink.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, upon seeing the change in her expression.

“Wonderful,” she said smiling. “If you please, follow me into the bedroom and we’ll put you to work.”

March 1st:
When the bell rang, Sally gasped prettily and ran to answer the door. The full skirt of her dress flounced as she ran, swishing, making her feel sexy and warm under the folds of pink silk. Her legs and bottom were bare underneath. She wasn’t wearing a bra either.

One hand on the knob (and one pressed against her beating heart), Sally drew an anticipatory breath and flung the door open.

There, on the threshold, stood a man. He was exactly whom she’d been expecting. The man she’d especially requested.

Demanded, in fact. He was impeccably dressed in a pressed suit and overcoat, his hair extra shiny. He had roses.

“I’ve drawn us a bath with lavender and almond oils,” she said inviting him in. “A bottle of champagne is on ice by the tub.”

“How’s the drain?” he asked.

“Clear as a whistle!” she sang, leading Mr. O’Toole into the bathroom to undress.

A WALK ON THE MILD SIDE

“Just hear me out,” said Molly Wimm.

“When we agreed to experiment, I hardly meant this,” said her husband, Stanley Wimm.

“We agreed that this would be our year of sexual adventure,” she reminded him. “We want to stay young, remember?”

“And ‘Staying young means trying new things,’” he said, reciting their twentieth anniversary mantra. “I’m worn out from new things, dear. All these out-of-the-way erogenous zones, hard-to-reach spots, and pretzel-like positions. It’s more comic than erotic. And, honestly, I’m not comfortable with this notion.”

Molly took her husband’s hands in hers, resting the four-armed ball on the kitchen table, and said, “It’s supposed to be fun.”

“Yes, I realize. But how on earth does one
prepare?
How will we dress? What kind of small talk is appropriate?”

“I’m willing to bet that orgies don’t have a strict dress code,” she said.

“Can’t we take a break for a month or two?” he asked. “We’ve been up to our genitals in bells and whistles. Our bedroom is doubling—quadrupling—as a florist shop slash perfumery slash circus with the trapeze and ceiling swing.

Can you honestly tell me that milking my prostate was gratifying for you?”

“Certainly not!” said Molly, remembering the rubber gloves.

He said. “We’re only forty-five, dear. We’re too young to feel like old age is upon us.”

“So we should hold off on experimenting until you’re impotent and I’m menopausal? The time is now. And I mean it.

Darling.”

“You think
this,
” he said, holding up the printout on top of the pile, “is the answer?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really?”

Molly imagined a harem setting, brightly colored walls, lush satin pillows, and trim nude bodies writhing upon silk kilim rugs. “Why don’t we agree to go and just watch,” she said. “I’m positive that watching would be stimulating to you—in an anthropological sense at the very least.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Shall I RSVP, or would you care to do the honors?”

“You’re swamped at work,” she said, thrilled by his acquiescence. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Saturday night, Molly had blown out her long hair, shaved every inch of her body, and doused herself with green tea afterbath splash. Stanley had spent more time than usual at his grooming, and when he emerged clean and smooth, smelling like spice and mint, Molly felt a wellspring of love for her husband.

Stanley was feeling equally as appreciative of his spouse. “You’re lovely,” he said watching her apply red lipstick.

“The men will be lining up.”

“That would be interesting,” she asked.

“Would it really?” he asked.

Attention from other men, interesting? Of course it would be, she thought. Stanley was the only man she’d ever been with—and (or) thought she’d ever be with. That might change tonight, if she were inspired to do more than watch. She wondered how excited he was, to be presented with the ripe opportunity to have sex with a different woman. Despite conventional wisdom, Molly had always thought men were more traditional, faithful beings than women. Molly made a mental note to revisit that opinion later. Observing strangers’ copulation rites might give her newfound clarity on the subject.

Stanley escorted her to the car and drove. They talked like magpies about nothing of consequence for the entire forty minutes ride to the city from their sleepy Long Isand hamlet. Talking gave them something to do, a diversion from overflowing anticipation. But, by the time they pulled into the parking garage on 14th Street, Molly’s excitement had turned into nervousness.

They walked along the street until they came to the right address. “Here we are,” said Stanley with forced brightness.

He was nervous too. She felt reassured by that. They took the elevator to the sixth floor and entered suite nine to greet Mr. Earnest Blang, facilitator.

Mr. Blang was quite tall. Remarkably tall, in fact, over six feet five inches, with a deep baritone voice that made Molly’s eardrums vibrate when he spoke. “Yes, Mr. and Ms. Wimm. I have you on my list. Welcome. You’re one of six couples for tonight. We begin in ten minutes, so, if you’ll follow me, you can get dressed.”

“We’re already dressed,” said Molly who’d painstakingly selected her silk skirt and camisole and her high-heeled mules. She knew they’d be wearing masks, so she’d been sparing with the eye makeup.

“We have a strict dress code,” announced Mr. Blang.

Molly flashed a mocking glance at her husband. “Who would have thought?” she said wryly.

“Isn’t there a fully-dressed cocktail hour first?” asked Stanley. “The nightly agenda was detailed online. First, theme beverages—your website mentioned Slippery Nipples, I believe—followed by an erotic dancer performance. At ten o’clock, a gong is bonged, and everyone strips to underthings. Or did I read that wrong?”

Mr. Blang looked taken aback. “That sounds like the Feeling Groovy Center for Sexual Awareness. We’re the Touchy Feely Center for Sensual Awareness.”

“Gracious!” said Molly. “Oh, darling! With all those printouts on the table, I must have RSVPed to the wrong place!

How dizzy of me!” Her nerves now turned into anxiety.

“Tut tut, dear,” said Stanley. “Perhaps it’s destiny.” To Mr. Blang, he asked, “And what is the nightly agenda here, sir?

”

The facilitator waggled his index finger. “I’m not going to tell you. It’s best to go into it without preconceived notions.”

“Maybe we should leave,” said Molly, nibbling on her lip. “I think maybe we should go.”

“Do you really?” he asked.

“I assure you, the experience is safe, harmless, and inspiring,” said Mr. Blang. “Now, if you please. This way.”

Stanley took his wife’s hand. “Yes, please lead the way. We always adhere to the dress code, don’t we dear?”

“We certainly do,” she said, grateful her husband had made the decision for them.

The extra-large proprietor brought them into a clean-scented, lush-carpeted locker room with a flawless purple paint job and instructed them to undress—including jewelry, shoes, and underwear. Locks were provided at no charge, and they would wear the keys on springy bracelets. They were to redress in what they found hanging inside the lockers.

After this, the Wimms were to go through the red door to their right and enter the room where six couples waited for the session to begin. Then he left them alone.

Molly and Stanley started to undress. The tension of the moment—nude in a strange place, not knowing what or who waited for them on the other side of the red door—set Molly’s bare skin aglow. Jittery, she moved quickly, stripping, folding her clothes. She was tantalized by what could be inside the locker. Sexy lingerie? Or perhaps something made of leather. Or vinyl. Or a blindfold! That idea made her tingle.

She stole a glimpse at her husband. Stanley was already erect. Molly heart—and other parts—leapt at the sight. She said, “I see you’ve figured out a way to come prepared.” He laughed and they indulged in one quick kiss that left her more erotically charged than any of the mad hunts for mysterious spots they’d tried last week.
I’m diving into the
unknown,
she thought, touching herself briefly to see if she were twitching, or if she just thought she was.

They opened their lockers at the same time. Inside, instead of the bondage-gear she thought she’d be wearing, Molly found a pair of rayon pajamas. Holding the bottoms against her hips, she couldn’t help but feel confused. Ankle length and oversized, they were not sexy at all. Two sizes too large, the top was just as baggy. Stanley seemed puzzled by his pajamas too, but he shrugged and slipped them on. Molly dressed as well. They put all their possessions in the lockers, put the key bracelets around their wrists. Holding hands, they stepped up to the red door, turned the knob, and passed into a new uncharted world.

Said new uncharted world turned out to be one room. Square in shape, it was about twenty feet wide, windowless, with ceiling fans churning above. Lighting was soft, low, from sconces. The walls were painted a flattering orange. No furniture. Large fluffy pillows with cotton cases had been scattered on the floor. The floor itself was covered with what appeared to be about five or six futons all pushed together. The other couples stood at the periphery of the futon island.

They were dressed in oversized pajamas, too. Molly noted with relief that all of the others were reasonably attractive people. None too fat or thin or hairy or old, with seemingly clear complexions, although the lighting and wall color were forgiving. The participants smiled and nodded at the Wimms as they joined the group. Eager to begin, fourteen people gave their attention to Mr. Blang for instruction.

In his booming baritone, he said, “The rules are as follows: No removal of clothing. No touching below the waist. No kissing. No humping. No grinding and no talking.” He paused, made eye contact with each participant to make sure he or she understood the rules. “When the music starts, you will all lie down on the futons,” he added, “and cuddle.”

“Cuddle?”
blurted one of the other women, a petite redhead. “Who do you have to fuck to get fucked around here?”

she asked.

The rest of the group laughed nervously. Stanley held tightly to Molly’s hand. She sensed his concern. Leaning into him, she asked, “What is it, dear?”

“The idea of watching people have sex was a lark,” he whispered back. “But I’m not comfortable with the idea of another man cuddling you.”

Molly was still processing the news that under-the-belt action was not forthcoming. Her twitching had stopped on the dime. This wasn’t exactly the bold, sexual adventure she’d sought. Cuddling? One could hardly call that a youthful escapade.

“We’re here,” she said, observing that each couple was huddling in conference about the evening’s game plan. “We can’t be the first couple to leave, darling. That’d be bad form.”

Music seeped into the room. Molly believed it would fall under the category of soft jazz. One couple and then another lay down on the futons and began snuggling with people other than their partners.

“Shall we?” Molly asked.

“Ladies first,” said Stanley.

And down they went. Molly found herself sandwiched between two men who immediately commenced to cuddle her.

One threw a leg over hers and started to pet her on the arm and stomach. The other pressed himself against her side in what might have been a borderline hump, considering his flagrant wood. But she forgave him as he began to nuzzle her neck in just the sweetest, softest way. Molly opened her eyes and tried to find Stanley among the bodies but couldn’t locate him. She gave up, closed her eyes and let herself be stroked and petted and massaged as if she were a great big cat. And, like a spoiled feline, she stretched and twisted as she received her due, giving little back to those who admired her.

She floated around the room, was actually lifted and rolled from man to man (and even woman to woman, although Molly did NOT like that). A few men were unapologetic grinders, and many of them (at least five) paid a bit too much attention to her above-the-waist erogenous zones. The attention was glorious, and Molly felt as if her genitals had been inflated with a bicycle pump. She was puffy and hot and throbbing to a chaotic jazz beat. But, despite her response, Molly felt like an overly sexual move would be beside the point. A peculiar contradiction, which she would meditate on later.

Eventually, Stanley and Molly found each other on the mat. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he whispered, “Hello! I’d have known that collarbone anywhere.”

She whispered, “Are you having a lovely time cuddling, darling?”

“I am now,” he said, stroking her with gentle hands, innocent and guileless, with no place to go, so they went round in circles along her shoulders, neck, the base of her skull, over her breasts, and around her waist. Molly was hypnotized by her husband’s familiar touch. She was vaguely aware that another man was spooning her from behind, but Molly was far more focused on her husband’s caresses.

The music stopped. Mr. Blang returned to the room and softly whispered that three hours (three hours!) had elapsed and it was time to go home.