Breakfast in Stilettos

by Liz Kingswood

  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?”

  An icy wind blew up from the street, blasting me at the same time as the freeze ray from my friends and family hit me from behind. Held in near rigor mortis, I could nothing more than nod.

  Frank smiled widely, leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Great. See you then.” And he turned, launching himself off the last two steps as he trotted to his car. From the corner of my eye, I saw Asshole Bob give me the thumbs up from his sentry post at the window where he kept guard over our parking spots.

  This was one of those moments you have in dreams, where you are running but make no progress, or when the curtain is about to come up and you are supposed to sing, but you can’t remember the words, or you have been given the lead in a play, but never saw the script and it is opening night. I have these types of dreams from time to time and the theme is consistent. Something bad is about to happen and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, I can do to stop it.

  Chapter 18: Getting Ready

  Everyone watched Frank as he hopped into his Karmann Ghia and drove away. It was like a bank robber’s escape, only he had left his accomplice behind to face the bruised and beaten security cops. I finally had to turn around and face them.

  Sal must have been feeling grateful for my having picked her up at the accident scene, because she was polite enough to walk inside without a word or look. Mom and Kenner weren’t going to let me off that easy.

  Kenner started. “O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!”

  “Hamlet?”

  He nodded.

  I wanted to say something like, “Hey, I’m nearly thirty. I’m old enough to know what’s best for me.” Except that it wasn’t true. I could drag up all the problems Mom had with dating, but that would only throw fuel on the fire of her determination to keep me from repeating her mistakes. Nor could I say that Asshole Bob said I should go after what I wanted, no matter what others said. Not exactly Obi-Wan Kenobi. Nor could I honestly say, “It is only work,” since I was clearly entertaining the idea of at least kissing him again and we all knew where that would lead. So I did the only thing I could think of.

  I shrugged.

  In the world of self-defense, this is the “guilty as charged” gesture. Kenner shook his head. Mom mumbled a very audible “Not again.”

  I wondered what Pixie would say, or Dr. Steiner. Chances are they would encourage me to follow my heart; then I wondered if I knew how to follow my heart. I’d always followed my head. What made sense. What was logical. Logic always overrode the passionate part of myself. What I wanted and what I thought I should want were very different things.

  With that thought I stepped between Mom and Kenner and went back into the house. They started to follow me inside, but stopped. Perhaps they sensed that I wouldn’t be up for an intervention at the moment. Both, almost as a pair, said they’d see me later. Mom gave me the bishop’s hug. Kenner just gave me “the look,” which meant I would hear a bunch more about this when I was on company time.

  I closed the door behind them. My trials were not yet over. Now I was alone with Sal.

  I returned to the kitchen. When I saw Sal actually drying the dishes and putting them away, I knew I was in trouble.

  She wiped the last bowl and put it on the shelf and then flung the dishtowel over her shoulder and turned to look at me. What I wanted to do was see what was in the envelope, but knew I should probably hear out my friend, even if I already had a pretty good idea of what she was going to say.

  “You lied to me.” She didn’t look angry, but I could tell that I had been reduced in her mind to something small and microscopic.

  I slumped into the nearest chair, “Yes. I did. I’m sorry.” And I was. I felt a bit insane, and my temporary insanity was affecting the people around me.

  “And?” Apparently an apology wasn’t enough. I suppose “I’ll never do it again” was the expected response. But I couldn’t honestly say that.

  “The truth is, my current Frankless state isn’t working. I’ve realized a couple of things over the last couple of days. ‘Couple’ being the operative word here. For some reason I can’t put Frank behind me. Something is still there and until I figure it out, I’m in this crazy space.”

  Sal sat down across from me. “Do you love him?”

  The question startled me. “Love? I don’t know. How can you be sure what that feels like?” Then I thought about it. “Maybe this is what love feels like.”

  Sal laughed. “Repeatedly subjecting yourself to emotional pain could be some form of love. I don’t know. I’ve never felt the need to do that. But you wouldn’t be the first. So I suppose it could be love.”

  “Asshole Bob says I need to stick up for what I want. Even if it makes everyone else unhappy.”

  A look of consternation creased Sal’s brow. “You think we want you to do something that makes us happy? Regardless of how you feel? That’s stupid.” Sal went back to wiping the counter with angry strokes. “And, if I remember correctly, Frank has made you markedly unhappy. Over and over again. What makes you think that has changed?” She stopped and glared at me.

  What had changed? It was a good question. The situation certainly hadn’t, but was I different? Or did I merely want to be different. “Maybe I want to change. Maybe I want to be the kind of person who can make a relationship with Frank work. Maybe I’m tired of the person who is unhappy with Frank.”

  Sal looked a little less angry. She sat down at the table. “There were a whole lot of maybes in that little speech. Seems like a wishy-washy start to channeling Asshole Bob.”

  “All I’m saying is that I’m trying to figure something out and I hope you can be
patient with me, even if it looks like I’m paddling toward the deep end in a leaky boat. I just want to be sure. Sure that I’m making the right choice.”

  Sal jerked her head in the direction of the roses. “I hope those aren’t doing all the talking.”

  “Of course not.” Which was another lie, because roses always say something.

  Sal nodded slowly, as though finally coming to a difficult decision. “If you think Frank will make you happy, I’m there. Don’t expect me to add him to my speed dial or anything. I still loathe the guy, but I’ll give you and him whatever space you need to make sure.” She gave me a meaningful look and then looked at her watch. “Well, I should get ready for the meeting.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You are speaking tonight.”

  We spent a few minutes on her, how she thought the speech would go and how prepared she was. Even considering the accident, she was ready. I wished her luck and she left to shower and get dressed. That left the Bermuda Triangle—roses, envelope, and me—alone at last.

  As soon as she had left the room, I grabbed the envelope, taking a closer look at the handwriting on the front. It was addressed to me with the subject on the bottom, all printed in an elegant cursive hand. The writing was so unlike my own, a haphazard combination of print and cursive that invariably inspired the question, “Are you a doctor?”

  I flicked open the flap and pulled out the fold-over invitation. At first I thought it was a thank you note, but the front had small gold embossed letters that read, “You’re Invited.”

  As a columnist, I received my share of invitations. Lots of people want press coverage and are more than willing to give you a free entree. I don’t have the opportunity to write about many—they just aren’t strange or unusual enough. However, it was a perk of the job that I usually had someplace interesting to go. And one of the great pleasures was opening the invitation itself, like inhaling the scent of freshly baked cookies. Enjoyable, even if you don’t take a bite.

  I flicked open the invite. The inside was written in the same elegant cursive.

  You are cordially invited to

  The Salon After-Party

  Starting at Midnight

  At the studio of Mistress Maven.

  Bring a favorite bottle to share.

  I flipped it over to see if there was anything else, but it listed no date, no names, no postscript. Only an address at the bottom. Not even a phone number if one got lost. I guess if you couldn’t find it, you didn’t deserve to come.

  I refolded the invite and inserted it carefully back into the envelope, wondering if I had the courage to go, imagining myself standing in the studio of a Mistress. Now if anything deserved to be classified as Strange and Unusual, this was it.

  I took the envelope into my bedroom and slipped it into my purse. I suddenly felt a little queasy. In just a few hours I would be standing in line at The Slutterati Salon, waiting with the other slutterati to witness an evening of artistic erotica. And afterwards ….

  I lay down on the bed, tossing the stilettos over to the side, feeling as though they were invading my space, infecting me with their raw scarletness. I tried to ignore them for a while, but they kept assaulting my consciousness—this type of shoe you couldn’t ignore. The wearer would obsess about them with every step, always conscious of the need to live up to the advertisement. The bystander would watch them, wondering the same thing. I kicked off my practical shoes and socks and slipped on the stilettos, waiting for the Cinderella magic to take effect.

  A few minutes went by and nothing happened, just the periodic banging around of Sal getting ready in the next room. It was then I realized that this transformation might take a while. As long as it happened before nine and didn’t wear off at the stroke of midnight, I knew I’d be fine.

  I looked at the nightstand. There sat the assertiveness book, and next to it, the other one I had grabbed on instinct—Bottoming for Beginners. I had a hard time sitting and reading a book cover to cover anymore. I was a skimmer. Partly because of my job. I was looking for things that stood out. Frank said I had the “Hey Martha” column. Anyone who read my column should immediately turn around and say, “Hey Martha, did you know ....” If that happened, I’d succeeded.

  In this book, as I turned the pages, I saw the topics I expected—sections on bondage, submission, pain, pretending, humiliation and the like. But the chapter on bottoming and spirituality caught my eye.

  Americans didn’t typically connect spirituality with sex. In fact, typically the opposite. Good little church-going girls don’t have sex until married and even then, believe there are boundaries one shouldn’t cross. But here was an entire chapter outlining the history of rituals within various spiritual communities, eastern and western, and how sex was used to bring one closer to god in whatever way you might perceive him, her or it.

  I thought about my own upbringing. My mom wasn’t religious, but I’d started going to church by myself when I was five. Mom supported me in whatever I wanted to explore. So she’d drop me off and pick me up. I’d sit in the back seat of the car when we were driving, see a sun break shining down through the clouds and think it was God. I had this overwhelming desire to know why we were here and what we were supposed to do. I thought I’d learn that in church.

  Maybe the answers were there, but I just wasn’t asking the right questions. Or maybe I hadn’t explored a wide enough variety of religions. Granted, I’d been baptized into so many of them I figured my name would show up on the list of whatever pearly gate bouncer the good lord employed.

  But here was a whole chapter on people who believed that sex was the way to god. Not just sex but BDSM sex.

  Wouldn’t it be funny if the religious experience I’d been searching for all my life included a delicious series of heavenly orgasms set to a rousing “Hallelujah Chorus” and ending in a benedictory “Ah Men!”

  Chapter 19: Shoes

  I awoke with a start, jerking a look at the clock. Damn. It was 8:00 p.m. So much for dinner, although I wasn’t all that hungry. Nerves had gotten the better of me. I sat up, realizing I still had the shoes on. I slipped them off, set them carefully back on the bed and made my way to the bathroom to take a quick shower. I didn’t have much time—I couldn’t be late or I’d be locked out.

  I set the book on the nightstand. I clearly had to stop reading in bed.

  Sal had already left for her meeting. I was surprised she hadn’t shaken me awake, but perhaps she was still feeling upset with me. I figured Mom and Kenner were unhappy with me as well, but I pushed that worry out of my head, determined to follow through with the desire to square up with Frank, one way or another. Collapsing the wave-form.

  Once out of the shower, I retrieved the jacket and skirt from outside. They were icy cold and damp. I put them over the heater vent and actually turned up the thermostat to a Sal-satisfying temperature. The old floor furnace billowed forth, gusting hot air up into the skirt and jacket as though someone was wearing them. I rummaged through the drawer, looking for acceptable “I might end up naked” underwear. Or better stated, “I might end up naked next to a man with aspirations to have sex.” I didn’t own much in the way of lingerie. Most of it would fall into the category of active-wear—white, practical, and always up for a game of racquetball. It didn’t bunch or ride up your crotch. In short, it wasn’t sexy. But, in the back of the drawer were a few pair of underwear that knew their job. I pulled out a black push-up bra and lacey thong and managed to get them on, ignoring my body’s objections to exposing its butt cheeks and cleavage to a wider audience. I ignored it as I wriggled into a garter belt and the hosiery that matched.

  Once properly trussed, I wiped the steamed bathroom mirror so I could put on make-up. I kept meaning to watch the DVD on how to put on the make-up contained within the kit I had ordered a while back. I was clearly missing some arcane information on how to make all these slabs of colored powders and creams look natural using the handful of different sized brushes that shipped with the
kit. I had no clue. Several America’s Next Top Model episodes had not improved my understanding. I always ended up looking slutty. Maybe this evening that was the goal. Ten minutes later I had a painted face, a Farrah Fawcett hairdo, and a permanent wedgie.

  I managed to snake into the skintight scarlet top that I’d borrowed from Sal, wondering whose breasts were peering out of the neckline. Then I pulled on the now toasty leather ensemble. The jacket was satin-lined and slid on like an eel, but the skirt wasn’t lined at all. Once I got it on, I felt the distinct texture of rough leather on my bare butt cheeks, which made me wonder what shape they would be in by evening’s end, if sweat and friction played any role whatsoever.

  It was 8:35 and I needed to leave. That left the last item on the list of my transformation. Those impractical shoes sat perched as if lounging about backstage, lazily waiting for their turn in the stripper spotlight. I slipped them on and looked at myself in the full-length mirror in Sal’s room. I suppressed a scream. Vice squad here I come.

  I simply wasn’t ready for the whole meal deal. I went back to the bedroom, took off the shoes and rummaged through my closet for some shoes that were a bit more practical. Black, short heeled, a lot less attitude—in other words, lower self-esteem.

  A final inspection in the mirror and I was set. I could live with this, but I decided that you never knew when you might need that extra super hero talent, so I boxed the stilettos and carried them out under my arm and into the nippy night air.

  Chapter 20: The Slutterati