The Dirty Girls Social Club

by Alisa Valdes

  “I’ll go get our bags,” Andre says. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I fall into a rocking chair and feel stress leaving my body, breath by delicious breath. Stealthily, I part the starchy curtains and watch Andre walk down the path to the main house, marvel at the way the denim stretches over his behind. There’s such grace to him. I imagine him on top of me, and can scarcely breathe.

  Andre returns with the bags, sets them in the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at me in the rocking chair.

  “Here we are,” he says. There’s a hunger in his eyes that makes me uncomfortable. I love it, but I don’t know what to do with it. It’s been so long since I was intimate with anyone that I’m afraid to move. I think I’d trip, or knock something over. I feel clumsy and scared.

  “Here we are,” I repeat. “It’s really beautifully decorated. They did a nice job with everything.”

  He stares without saying a word, smiles.

  “The wallpaper, the floors, it’s perfect,” I babble. “Did they do it themselves, or did they hire a decorator? My friend Sara, she’s quite a decorator. Now that she’s going to have to support herself, she’s thinking of opening a design firm. I think that’s a great idea for her.”

  Still staring with that smile. Silent. He laces his fingers together and watches me. Not knowing what else to do, I keep talking.

  “I’m going to help her in any way I can. She needs all the support she can get right now. All of us, my group of college friends, we’re trying to help her get the business off the ground, we put together a business plan for her while she was in the hospital, surprised her with it, rented her a storefront in Newton….”

  He’s still quiet, and smiling, only now there’s a hint of a laugh.

  I stop talking.

  “Come here,” he says. He pats the bed next to him.

  “I don’t know,” I say. I shrug like a shy little girl and feel stupid.

  “You do know. That’s why you can’t stop talking.” He puts a finger over his lips. “Shhh,” he says. “Just listen to the woods.”

  I’m quiet. I hear birds, wind in leaves. I hear water lapping softly at the shore of the pond outside the window. Andre motions for me to join him on the bed. I shake my head, cross my arms. I push my knees tightly together, and rock nervously in the chair. This isn’t how I imagined I’d behave when I played this moment out in my fantasies a million times. I’d be sultry, catlike. I’d pounce on him, lick him. I’d wear lingerie, not the simple white cotton bra and panties I have on now.

  Andre stands, still smiling, and moves toward me.

  “Do you hear it?” he asks, coming around behind the chair.

  “What?” I ask.

  “The wind.” He closes all of the open shades and curtains in the house, locks the door.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s so quiet here,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “Too quiet,” he says. He’s in front of me now, holding his hands out to me. “I want to hear your heart beat.”

  “My heart beat?”

  “Come here.” He grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet.

  “Shouldn’t we be shopping or something?” I ask. I follow him, nervous.

  “Later.” He leads me to the bed, sits me down, sits next to me. I can’t look at him. I’m too afraid. He lifts my wrist, places a finger over the veins, checking my pulse.

  “Fast,” he says. “Racing.”

  I’m perspiring. I don’t do that. But I am. Andre releases my arms, and walks gently to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of champagne and two long, narrow glasses.

  “No,” I protest. I walk back to the chair and sit, like a girl punished.

  “Yes,” he says. “You need it.”

  “I do?”

  He laughs, opens the bottle, pours. “So do I, honestly,” Andre says as he hands me a glass. “Here’s to Maine, and us.” We click the glasses together, and I take a small sip. I think of Brad, my parents, of all the things Lauren said about me. I don’t want to be that person anymore. I don’t.

  I guzzle the entire glass and ask for more.

  The sun has begun to set, and the room is filled with a warm, orange glow. The alcohol works through me until the sounds of frogs starting to sing on the pond’s edge seem like a part of my soul.

  “Feeling better?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Can you sit by me yet?”

  “Yes.” I move to the bed.

  Andre sits close, and kisses me, softly, gently, with closed lips. He kisses my lips, then my cheeks, my neck, my lips again. Tender. His lips are full and soft, his face clean-shaved. It is nothing like kissing Brad, whose odor offended me and whose stubble chafed me. I could breathe Andre forever and never get tired. I nibble his lower lip, feel him smile.

  “That’s more like it,” he says.

  I pull away. This is almost perfect, but I want things to be the way I have imagined. The alcohol makes me warm, and gives me the confidence I lacked only minutes ago. “In a minute,” I say. “I want to change clothes first.”

  “Why? You look fine.”

  “I have something I want to wear,” I say. As I pull myself away he whimpers a bit, clings. As I extract myself from his grip, he collapses on the bed with an exasperated laugh, kicks his legs like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

  “You’re tough, you know that?” he calls. “You’ve got a shell thick as any I’ve seen.”

  I find my suitcase and take it with me to the bathroom. A full-length mirror runs down the back of the closed door. I open the suitcase, and remove the red lingerie. There’s not much to it. I open the door again, find my champagne glass, and down what’s left. I pour more, then down that, too. Andre has propped himself up on gingham pillows and watches me with amusement.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “What I’ve always dreamed of,” I say. The words sound funny. I’m tipsy. I giggle and walk back to the bathroom, shut the door behind me.

  I remove my clothes, use a washcloth to tidy up the parts of me that need tidying, then remember that tidy means something different to Andre than it does to me. This makes me smile. I take the red bustier, and adjust it over my breasts. They’re not big, but they’re not small, either. I’m a B cup, and the bustier is creatively padded so that the Bs become Cs, without surgery. Next, I put on the red lace thong panties. My mother would have a heart attack if she could see what I see in the mirror. I sit on the edge of the claw-footed tub, and pull on the red thigh-high hose, first the left leg, then the right. I figure out the garter belt, and attach the straps to the hose. Then I find the red spike-heeled shoes at the bottom of the suitcase, and put them on. I stand and look at myself in the mirror. I look good. I look like a model from one of the catalogs, with slightly smaller breasts. There is no fat on my body, but I haven’t lost all of my curves. I look like a healthy, sexy woman—it’s something of an out-of-body experience for me because I’m not used to seeing myself this way. I like the way I look. But I’m not sure I can face Andre like this, even with the champagne flowing through my veins. I brush my teeth, apply deodorant and perfume, but still lack confidence.

  I fish my cell phone out of my purse, sit on the edge of the claw-foot tub, and dial Lauren’s number. She answers.

  “Lauren!” I whisper. “It’s me, Rebecca. I need to talk to you.”

  “Rebecca?” she asks. She sounds shocked. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m in a bathroom in Maine in my red lingerie.”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m here with Andre, but I can’t do it. I put the underwear on but I’m scared to death. What do I do?”

  “Oh, my God. Rebecca? Are you serious?” I can hear her laughing.

  “I’m serious.”

  Still laughing, she says, “That’s great.”

  Outside, in the bedroom, Andre calls my name and asks if I’m all right. “I’m fine,” I call. Then to Lauren I whisper, “I want
him so much, but I’ve never done this. I need your help.”

  “Okay, okay, Rebecca. Listen to me. You’re sexy, okay? You are. You’re going to do this. You’re going to walk out of that bathroom and you’re going to amaze him with your sexual prowess. You hear me?”

  “Yes. How do I do that?”

  “Just be yourself, Becca. That’s all you have to do.”

  “Myself?”

  “Let go of your inhibitions. Just let them go, like a bad dream. Live in the moment. Okay?”

  “Should I wear lipstick?”

  “Yes, red.”

  “Okay.” I fumble through my makeup bag, pull out a red lipstick, apply. “Lauren?” I ask.

  “Yes?”

  “Am I pretty?”

  “Oh, my God. Yes! You’re beautiful. Now go. Quit talking to me. Get out there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Use a condom.”

  “Okay.”

  “Be confident. That’s the sexiest thing. Don’t wait for him to do everything. Attack him. You get on top.”

  I hear myself laughing as if I’m far away. “Okay, I will.”

  “Call me later and tell me everything,” Lauren says. “I mean everything.”

  “Only if you promise not to write about it in the paper.”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  I hang up, check the mirror again. Andre is knocking on the door.

  “Are you on the phone in there?” he asks.

  “Lauren. I had to talk to Lauren.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, go back to the bed.”

  “If you insist.”

  “Are you on the bed?”

  “Yes.”

  I take three deep breaths, and tell myself I’m sexy and powerful. I reach between my legs and feel moisture. I let my hand linger for a moment, to jump-start my confidence. My head is spinning from the alcohol and the excitement of this moment. I want it to be perfect. I sniff my finger and my own odor excites me.

  I open the door. Andre sits on the edge of the bed reading through a takeout menu for a local Chinese restaurant, elbows planted on his knees. He looks up at me, and the menu falls from his hands. His mouth opens. He seems unable to speak.

  I’m not sure how you’re supposed to walk in these shoes. You never see women walking in them, only lying down in them. But somehow I have to get from the bathroom door to the bed. I walk, and try to move my hips. The alcohol has filled me now, and I am no longer afraid. I truly believe I am sexy, because I am. I am a woman. Like any other woman. I have all the same parts, the same wishes, the same fantasies.

  “Jesus,” Andre says. “You’re beautiful.”

  This time it is I who puts a finger to my lips. “Shh,” I say. “Don’t talk. We’ve done nothing but talk since we met. Shut up.”

  He grins with one side of his mouth and leans back on his elbows. His legs dangle over the side of the bed. He’s still wearing his shoes. Without breaking eye contact with him, I kneel and remove them. His eyelids flutter, his tongue wets his lips. I run my hands slowly along the insides of his calves, his knees, his thighs, and stop just short of his you-know-what. You-know-what? I can’t believe I can’t even bring myself to think the words. Just short of his balls. And penis. There.

  “Rebecca,” he says. “Come here.”

  “Shh,” I say. I straddle him on the bed. He’s still fully clothed, lying back. I kneel over him. I like this. It has always been part of the fantasy for me that he be dressed and I not. He tries to sit up, but I push him down.

  “Not yet,” I say. “Wait.”

  He looks amused, and excited. I can feel his excitement underneath me.

  I use the same finger I touched myself with earlier to trace his lips, nose, the outline of his beautiful eyes. I stick the finger in his mouth, feel his teeth and his tongue. Then I lean over him, and kiss him, passionately. He pulls me in, powerfully, and flips me over so that I’m on the bottom. The bed creaks with the movement.

  “Your turn,” he says between kisses. He runs his lips lightly over my neck, one hand in my hair and the other on my breast. “I’ve dreamed of this moment,” he says as he begins to unfasten the bustier. “Since I met you I’ve dreamed of this. I’m mad about you.”

  As he kisses my breasts, I watch. His skin is so dark against mine. With Brad, it was my skin that was dark. I hated the way Brad commented on it, so I refuse to say anything about Andre. I remember a phrase I learned in art history class: chiaroscuro. Light against dark. Beautiful.

  Noises rise up out of me I’ve never heard before. Andre plays with my nipples in a way no man ever has. He bites, kisses, touches, traces. My back arches.

  “Take off your shirt,” I say. He stands and pulls the sweater over his head. I stand too, and look at him. I want to feel his chest against mine. I am pleased to see he has very little chest hair, and no hair at all on his arms or back. His muscles are well defined and powerful. He has very little body fat, either.

  “You are so handsome,” I say. “I can’t believe how handsome you are.”

  “Thank you,” he says. I love his accent, his little smile. It makes me crazy.

  We stand in an embrace, kissing. He is warm and solid, as I imagined. He pushes his pelvis against me, and to my surprise I push back. I touch him through his trousers, and am overjoyed to discover he is quite wide, large enough to be enjoyable and not too large to hurt.

  “God,” I say. He lets out a small moan. His hand reaches between my legs, and slides the thong out of the way. He knows what he’s doing, unlike Brad. I cry out with pleasure. Andre falls to his knees, and kisses my stomach.

  “You’re so strong,” he says. “So amazing.”

  He moves my legs wide apart, and kisses me there. His fingers, his mouth, all concentrated in the same place. I can scarcely stand. He’s so good at this, I’m afraid I’ll explode too soon. I stop him, kneel next to him, repeat the favor for him as he lies on the floor. He kicks his pants all the way off, and there he is, nude. He is remarkable in every way.

  “Stay there,” I command. I find my purse in the bathroom, take out a condom. When I find Andre again, he is touching himself, moving his hand along his penis. He stops when he sees me.

  “No,” I say. “Keep going. I want to see you do it.”

  I’ve never watched a man masturbate before, though I’ve wanted to. Andre obliges me, asks me to do the same. I sit, legs spread, close to him, and pull the thong to one side with one hand, work on myself with the other. He watches. I watch. Until we can’t watch anymore.

  I roll the condom onto Andre, ask him to stay on the floor. Then I straddle him again, lowering myself slowly onto him, letting him fill me up. We look into each other’s eyes, and it feels so good I actually cry.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Oh, yes,” I say. I begin to move. I smile. We hold each other’s hands. “More than okay. This is amazing.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  We change positions several times, move around the room, and finally finish on the bed, doggie style. It’s a position Brad found disagreeable, but one I find intoxicating. By the end, I scream. Years of pent-up frustration comes from my mouth, and I come for an eternity.

  Andre holds me. We kiss, softly.

  “Unbelievable,” he says.

  “You think?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  We rest, doze, for a while. Call for takeout.

  Then we do it again.

  It is two full days before we manage to get any shopping done at all.

  The bridesmaid dress is one of the greatest conspiracies against single women ever invented. Mine just came in the mail, ten days before my friend Usnavys is supposed to get married, and I nearly mistook it for a 1970s prom dress. Thanks, Navi. Now you’re sure to be the cutest one at the wedding.

  —from “My Life,” by Lauren Fernández

  lauren

  AMAURY RUBS HIS rippling six-pack of a belly under t
he sheet next to me. We have just finished making love to the soundtrack of morning birds. Fatso sits in the windowsill chattering at them as they fly by, as if they’ll drop into her mouth because she’s asked, like takeout. No one ever accused that cat of being bright. Amaury has stayed here every night for a month, and she’s used to him. So am I. I don’t want him to leave. Not even for his class.

  In our three months together, I have come to love this man.

  The bedroom window is open and that dewy, incredible springtime Boston air flows over our naked bodies, warm and salty. I feel free, for the first time in my life, I truly do. And happy. Last night, before we fell asleep, he looked at me with small fear in his eyes and asked, “Would you mind listening to something I wrote?” It was a short story, in the style of Garcia Marquez. I was floored. I know my Spanish is nothing to write home about, but hanging with Amaury has helped polish it. The boy can write. Even if he is a drug dealer. His words had music to them. Merengue. And not Puerto Rican merengue, which I can now distinguish from Dominican merengue. Dominican merengue rocks. Puerto Rican merengue? Not.

  The sucias think I’m crazy. They think a guy who looks this pretty, has eyelashes this long, walks with a swagger, smells like CK-1, wears a cheap-looking beeper, wears his shoes laced and unlaced with equal ease, drives down Centre Street slow and chévere, and knows every questionable character along the way—heck, we all think a guy like that can’t be any good. Couldn’t possibly be any good. They laugh at men like him. It’s not just the sucias either. All professional-looking Latinas smirk at us in public, when we walk through the Stop & Shop holding hands. His kind laugh, too. His boys think he’s lost his mind, for being with an educated, independent woman like me.

  “I love you,” I say. He leans over, kisses my eyelids.

  “I love you too.”

  “Don’t go to school. Stay here all day. Let’s play.”