The Roxy Letters

by Mary Pauline Lowry

  I felt a great, unexpected anger well up in me. I did not want to be able to relate to these people at all. I wanted my fears to be special and absolutely unique. As I was up next and the very last to share my deepest fear, everyone in the group stared at me expectantly. The room went totally silent, and when I spoke it was like a dam broke open inside me, and I flooded the room with angry words.

  “Lots of the very best artists are never recognized for their work,” I said. “Henry Darger was a hospital custodian. When he was alive no one knew he was writing ‘The Story of the Vivian Girls.’ It was fifteen thousand pages long, with an additional several hundred painted illustrations. Or take James Hampton, another janitor. He spent fourteen years building a ‘gilded’ throne for Jesus’s Second Coming. Sure, ‘The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly’ is in the Smithsonian now.” (As a side note, I sometimes think Ignatius J. Reilly was right to call the Smithsonian “that grab bag of our nation’s refuse,” an interesting argument in the case of “The Throne,” which was constructed entirely of trash.) “But in James Hampton’s lifetime? No one knew he was even building The Throne. And that lack of recognition isn’t my fear. It’s a PETTY FEAR,” I said, staring hard first at Kevin and then at Beatrice. “The fear of not being recognized is a petty fear because the artistic work done in anonymity is often the bravest and most worthy work.” I was crying by that point. I don’t know what had gotten into me. “No. My fear is that I won’t fucking do the work at all.”

  I was sobbing, and Beatrice—who I’d just been really nasty to—kindly handed me a box of Kleenex. The rest of the group looked at me, nodding sympathetically, and finally Beatrice said, “Amazing work, Roxy.”

  The other OMers kept nodding. A few looked at me with deep sympathy, and a couple muttered, “Glad you’re here.”

  I should have left then; I really should have. But the vibe of acceptance was so strong, it kept me stuck to my spot on the floor. The furballs are great company, but they are immune to my artistic angst and philosophies. And those numbnut OMers may or may not have understood the point I was trying to make, but I could see that, regardless, they listened without judgment.

  “Okay,” Beatrice said. “I think it’s time. Who’s driving?”

  Several of the OMers raised their hands. “Driving?” I asked. Was this OM-speak for the first males to glove up? What were they talking about?

  “We’re going to the OM Convention at the Hyatt,” Beatrice said.

  “Convention?” Alarm bells rang in my head. “That sounds next level. I’m new. I’m not going to a convention.”

  Beatrice chimed in, “But Nina will be there!”

  “Nina Sylvester?” I asked. Now I was interested.

  “Imagine seeing Nina in person,” Beatrice cooed. “It’ll be revelatory.”

  “A rare appearance,” Kevin agreed. He looked right at me. “You’re so lucky.”

  “But I don’t think—” I stammered.

  Samantha, the Botox lady, chimed in, “I’m not sure Roxy is ready for the convention.” She spoke in an annoying, motherly tone that made it clear why she has a rebellious daughter.

  “Roxy’s a natural,” Kevin said. “I mean, we all saw her ability to be so incredibly emotionally open.” All the OMers paused and stared at me, nodding slowly in agreement and approval.

  The force of their acceptance overwhelmed my better judgment. “What the hell,” I said. “I’ll go.”

  In retrospect, I clearly should have made a break for it, but the “Greatest Fear” exercise had succeeded in stripping me of my natural defensiveness and sense of self. And I hate saying no to a challenge. So I moved with the amorphous blob of OMers outside and, still sniffling, climbed into the backseat of a blue minivan driven by the Australian. Kevin sat next to me. I was suspicious of him as an OMer—he was so fantastically handsome it was hard to imagine him being concerned with perfecting his clit-rubbing technique. Perhaps he had some sort of erectile dysfunction? Or OMing provided him with access to women he perceived as “sexually loose”? Regardless, I started thinking I wouldn’t mind being OMed by him. As the old nerdy Australian drove us downtown, I asked Kevin what plays he’s been in recently. “I’m between plays right now, so mostly doing commercials,” he said with faux humbleness. “And a couple of J.Crew catalog shoots.”

  “What do you think about Lululemon? Would you ever do a shoot with them?” I asked suspiciously.

  “I don’t have anything against them. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, never mind,” I said. Kevin then proceeded to gently ask me about my art, but I told him I wasn’t interested in talking about it with him right then. “Your share was really brave,” he said. “It’s orgasmic to be so open. It usually takes newbies a while to get to that point.”

  For a second I thought about hollering for the old Australian guy to turn the van around and take me back to my car, but I abruptly felt indescribably weary and also very, very mellow. Looking back on it, the Klonopin must have kicked in, so it was easier to just sit there in the backseat of the van as it rolled along the highway than fight the current and make a fuss. Everett, I should have known then that complacency is the enemy. But I was too sad and lonely and disappointed in myself and my life, too stripped by my outburst of grief and anger, too sedated by head meds to go against the group tide. Perhaps I was also just really freaking curious to see Nina Sylvester in person.

  At the Hyatt, the Australian parked the minivan and we made our way to the hotel lobby, where someone slapped wristbands on all of us. We wandered down a hallway and then stood together in front of the doors of an enormous ballroom/convention room. I felt a kinship with this particular group of weirdos—I had, after all, known them, albeit briefly, in the outside world. I’d been assuming all along I’d be partnered to OM with Kevin, but when I turned to him to confirm he said, “Beatrice is my OM partner for this session.” He glanced at his watch. “But I’ll meet you for the two o’clock sesh if you want?”

  “Sure,” I mumbled. I turned to search out a partner and found myself face-to-face with the old Australian guy with the scraggly beard and inch-thick glasses.

  “I see you are looking for a partner,” he said. “I’d be honored.”

  Before I could protest, a large group pushed open the doors of the ballroom and we floated in with them. The scene before me was bizarre and surreal. Every bit of furniture had been removed from the vast, cavernous room. On the carpeted floor, hundreds of brightly colored yoga mats had been laid out—red, purple, yellow, orange—each with a large round purple pillow with a silky cover set upon it. For a moment I felt like I’d wandered into nothing more than a meditation or yoga convention. But the giant space seemed overly crowded with people—all of whom were trying not to step on the yoga mats and pillows—and a quiet, anticipatory energy filled the room.

  My panic and apprehension still lurked within me, but they had been dulled by the Klonopin. If I hadn’t been on drugs, I’m sure I would have totally fucking bolted. (And now I remember why I quit taking Klonopin—it soothes my natural alarm systems, which are there for a reason! As such, Klonopin is not my fucking friend!) I felt a surge of gratitude that I was in a dress and thus would be spared the indignity of really disrobing. I was wearing the pink pleather python panties. At home they’d seemed edgy and cool, but now I was regretting the choice. “I’m looking forward to this,” the Australian guy said, and I wished I could remember his name. “I’ve heard a large group OM can be really powerful.”

  Just when I thought again about making a run for it, an incredibly hot guy took to the stage to a smattering of hand clapping. “Ten years ago,” he said into the microphone, “I was lost. My life lacked joy, connection, and meaning. But then I met Nina Sylvester, and she told me about another way to live.” Nina! He was going to introduce Nina! He continued, “Over the last decade, I’ve spent more time with my finger on a woman’s clit than most people have spent watching movies, television,
and social media combined. I’ve become a relationship coach and I have done studies on the female orgasm and the profound effects it has on women, as well as on their partners. This has allowed me to develop new ways of helping people relate to each other. And I owe it all to Nest Life founder Nina Sylvester. Can we have a big round of applause for Nina?”

  The applause was thunderous as Nina Sylvester herself took the stage. She wore a fitted, sleeveless green dress that accentuated her lithe body. “Women, take to your nests,” she boomed, with such a commanding voice and presence I couldn’t help but obey.

  Things got even weirder when all around me, women shimmied out of their pants and sat down on their “nests.” We are talking hundreds of women disrobing from the waist down, creating an eerie rustling of fabric, as hundreds of men stood around and tried to act like they weren’t watching. A woman nearby me hopped around awkwardly on one foot as she tried to peel off a pair of leggings. I stood there reluctantly as all the women sat down on the pillows (a.k.a. nests) and the men knelt on the ends of the yoga mats near their feet. Without yet removing my panties, I crouched down so as not to draw attention to myself.

  “This is going to be an incredible experience for all of us,” Nina continued. “I want to express gratitude to our door counters. Thanks to them, we know that at 672 participants, this will be the largest OM in the history of the world!” Whoa! I was going from zero to the Guinness Book of World Records—I was helping to break a sex cult record! Everyone in the room applauded enthusiastically, and I felt a momentary surge of enthusiasm courtesy of Nina. “Men, don your gloves.” The Australian pulled on latex medical gloves. Next to me, Beatrice had lain back on her nest with her knees flung apart, her head thrown back as if in anticipation of abandon. Kevin knelt down in front of her.

  Wait, what was I doing here? The energy of seconds ago morphed just as quickly into confusion as I surveyed panties scattered on the floor all around me. What individual choices had I made that had resulted in me being in a room with 336 women naked from the waist down? I could not quite call to mind the string of events that had led me to be dropping my own pink pleather python panties to the floor of a hotel ballroom. I lay back on the nest, butterflied open my legs, and squeezed my eyes shut. I suddenly understood the ostrich that sticks its head in the sand as I hoped madly that closing my eyelids to the crowded ballroom would cause it to cease to exist. “Get ready, get set, OM!” Nina said as a loud and sonorous bell rang to signal the start of the fifteen-minute OMing period.

  The Australian’s lubed finger touched my clit, lightly, ever so lightly. It certainly felt as though he knew what he was doing. I relaxed into the sensation, trying—as Nina had exhorted in the videos I’d watched—to focus all my attention on that point of contact between his finger and my clit. Just as it was starting to work, all around me women began moaning and sighing. It made it hard to focus. A few nests over a woman started warbling and clucking like a perturbed chicken. A couple rows in front of me another woman commenced squawking as well, as if the barnyard noises were somehow contagious. In contrast, all the men worked with silent, focused intensity. The woman next to me screamed and I looked over to see if she was all right, but it was clear when I saw Beatrice’s face that the screams were of ecstasy. That, Everett, is when I saw you, two rows down and staring right at me! There is not enough Klonopin in the world to take the edge off having your ex-boyfriend watch you get fingerbanged by some old Australian while the ex-boyfriend himself fingerbangs some other woman, all in a hotel convention ballroom full of… Well, I don’t have to tell you. You were there.

  That’s when I jumped up, crammed on my sandals, and ran from the room, weaving between nests as I went, all of those pink and purple and brown vaginas staring at me, hundreds of vaginas (THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SIX, to be exact). I ran on and on through the endless wave of nests, as if in some nightmare Freud himself would not have dared analyze.

  I burst through the double doors. They swung open, releasing the sounds of hundreds of women receiving sexual pleasure—many of them apparently sound exhibitionists and many more (inexplicably!) intent on imitating the racket of farm animals. With the doors still wide open, I ran straight into the sculpted chest of a man wearing a black T-shirt. I stepped back and almost fainted. It was none other than Texas, the hot drummer from FAIL BETTER! He first looked beyond me to the inside of the ballroom where he saw hundreds of OMers hard at their meditative work. The doors slammed shut behind me as our eyes met, both of us in a kind of traumatized shock. “Vet girl,” he said.

  “Texas,” I said.

  “What are you— What are you doing here?”

  “What are YOU doing here?” Deflecting was clearly the only way to muddle through this surprise encounter.

  “I’m here for work.”

  Was he waiting tables at the hotel’s restaurant? Or—oh Goddess!—was he working a catering gig for the OM convention? “Oh, well, I’m just headed out.” I gestured wildly down the hall toward the hotel entrance.

  He glanced down, his attention caught at floor level. “Your underwear seems to be hanging from your shoe,” he said. I looked down with horror to see my pink pleather python panties snagged on my sandal.

  “They could be anyone’s,” I stammered.

  “Apparently,” he said dryly, with a glance at the ballroom doors. He took in the sign by the door that read: ORGASMIC MEDITATION, LARGE GROUP SESSION 1 P.M. “I’ve been meditating for years, but apparently I haven’t been doing it right.” He gave me a sly smile.

  “It’s not too late to start,” I said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.” I bent down and pulled the panties from my shoe, wadding them up in my hand. Just then, the ballroom doors swung open again. The sounds that hit us, the sight of that veritable sea of vaginas, curdled my blood. Out stepped the old Australian, his eyes magnified to the size of silver dollars behind his glasses. He still wore a blue medical glove on one hand, the fingers shiny with lube. A half erection strained at his pants. “There you are!” he said. “Are you okay? I know it’s been an emotional day for you. But you were just loosening up!” My curdled blood drained out of me. I was submerged in a vat of shame, so scorching and foul I felt as if it was steaming my skin off.

  Texas and I looked at each other. His eyes were inscrutable. Was he amused? Embarrassed for me? Horrified?

  “I’ve got to go,” I told Texas. The Australian I ignored completely. I fled, squeezing my panties tightly in my fist as I ran down the hallway. The burnt-orange carpet covered in gold swirls stretched out in front of me like a hideous psychedelic trip that would not end.

  Outside I frantically tried to pull up an app on my phone to call a driver, but my fingers shook so badly they fumbled at the screen. That’s when you came out of the hotel doors. Everett, you were so kind in talking me off the ledge and driving me home.

  I wish I could have explained to you then that my crying in the car the entire ride was about a lot more than the OM Convention, or being OMed by an old guy, or even running smack into Texas. It was also about Patrick, and Brant Bitterbrush, and the fact that I don’t draw anymore, and that I’m underemployed, and lonely. You kept telling me you were sorry. But it wasn’t your fault. My life isn’t your fault at all.

  I can’t tell you how much it meant to me that you fed the furballs, and gave Roscoe his insulin shot, and Charlize Theron her pill while I took a hot shower, put on my most conservative pajamas, and got into bed. But I’ll tell you now—it was nice to have your help again. And as you sat there in the chair in the corner of my bedroom until I fell asleep, it felt like you were a hapless angel sent to watch over me, or a kind old friend eager to make amends.

  Traumatized but also weirdly grateful,

  Roxy

  September 11, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  When I woke up yesterday morning, I got your note that you’d already given Roscoe and Charlize Theron their meds. Sad to find myself alone in the house again, the reality of my situation
descended. The thought of going into work and possibly having to see Patrick was more than I could stand, so I called in sick.

  “Let me guess,” Dirty Steve said, “you are sick from dropping molly at some fire dancer performance?”

  “I’m not sick. I went to an orgasmic meditation session where 336 men fingered 336 women in a hotel ballroom and it was so shameful and horrifying that now I can’t get out of bed.”

  “I thought I’d heard every excuse in existence,” Dirty Steve mused. “That is disgusting.” He sounded impressed. I said I’d be in tomorrow and he said not if he fired me first.

  I lay in bed all day, staring at the ceiling in a state of depressed isolation. At nightfall, I finally gathered my resolve and sent Annie and Artemis an SOS. They both immediately agreed to come over and bring alcohol.

  Artemis arrived first with a six-pack and a splurge bottle of High West bourbon. “You look like shit,” she said.

  “What’s up, Sin Sation?”