The Scarlet Letter Scandal

by Mary T. McCarthy

  Maggie pretended to think for a moment, a purposefully quizzical look on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry, hello, Jeannie. Yes, hardly recognized you, no offense. Haven’t seen you much since high school.”

  “Yes, well, I haven’t stayed here since then,” said Jeannie, glancing around with faux interest and an overly polite faux smile, “no offense to you or your adorable shop. But of course I was away in North Carolina for college and had a successful human resources career, and then when I met Chaz again at our twentieth reunion and he had such a good job at the financial firm… It was lucky we were both single and fell in love of course and well, I was back in Keytown.”

  “Yes, here you are,” said Maggie, who knew all of that from a friend who’d attended the reunion she herself never would have. Having stayed in town since high school, she didn’t need to know what happened to those who’d left. “Is there something I can help you find? I don’t know if we have anything befitting a former color guard captain.”

  Jeannie looked at her to see if she was being sarcastic, which of course she was, though her casual smile hid it relatively well. Maggie walked over to the counter, picking up her water bottle.

  “I’m just browsing,” said Jeannie, walking down one of the aisles and fingering vintage blouses as though they were a thing she would never pick up, much less put on her Talbots-dressed body, currently clad as it was in navy slacks (because yes, Maggie noted silently to herself, Jeannie was the type to wear slacks) and a conservative floral blouse.

  Interesting she looks like she’s on her way to church, thought Maggie. Back in the day she wore the trampiest short-shorts that existed and more than one football player bragged about seeing her wearing less than that.

  Maggie took the moment that Jeannie was facing away from her to grab a pill from her bag. She ignored all concern that the benzos could be addictive, focusing more on surviving the unpleasant social interaction that brought back painful memories of her high school years. She had already noticed she was starting to sweat and had developed a pounding sensation in her head.

  When Maggie looked up from putting the prescription bottle back into her purse, Jeannie was standing at the counter. She dropped a vintage beaded coin purse onto the counter; Maggie internally cringed at the sound of the metal clasp hitting the glass surface.

  “My daughter would love this,” she said, taking out her credit card.

  Maggie didn’t know how old the kid was, but doubted a fifty-eight-dollar black sequined flapper purse from the 1920s was going to be appreciated by any age child, especially a child of Jeannie’s.

  “So I heard the downtown area is a pretty exciting place to work,” said Jeannie, looking at Maggie.

  “Well, um, yeah, been here forever, so yeah, I guess it is,” Maggie answered, looking back at Jeannie to see what she was getting at.

  “Lots of social clubs and things,” Jeannie added.

  “Well, I don’t belong to any social clubs,” Maggie answered, “but I guess there can’t be any more or less than you have over at your cozy four-hundred-house subdivision over there.”

  “Yes, I have recently learned there is quite a bit of, shall we call it, socializing going on in my neighborhood,” said Jeannie. “Though I can’t say I’m a part of that type of activity. I stay busy with the homeowners association since my husband is the president, and of course your friend Lisa is on our welcoming committee.”

  “It’s nice of her to donate her wares to welcome people to their freshly vinyl-sided abodes,” said Maggie pleasantly, bagging up the purchase and handing the credit card slip to Jeannie for her signature.

  Maggie knew why Jeannie was there. Her reference to learning about social activity was all about that ridiculous blog “The Keytown Mouse” and its stories about the Scarlet Letter Society and whatever swingers’ club was going on over at Stony Mill. But there was no way in hell Maggie was going to acknowledge the existence of that trash, especially not to the queen of the thundercunts.

  “Our committee has been seeking coupons for the welcome baskets,” Jeannie said with a smile, taking the purchase and sliding the signed credit card slip back across the counter. “If you’d like to donate one we’d appreciate it.”

  “I already told Rachel I would as soon as I had some postcards printed up,” said Maggie. “Though since it’s not a charity I don’t consider it a donation, I’m happy to welcome new customers.”

  Yeah, right, Maggie thought. Like the subdivision people ever came by the vintage clothing shop unless it was time for one of their slutty Halloween parties. Well, a sale was a sale. “I hope your daughter enjoys the purse.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she will,” said Jeannie. “Bye for now! Hope to see you again soon.”

  The feeling isn’t mutual, thought Maggie.

  The door opened a moment earlier than it should’ve for Jeannie’s departure, and Maggie looked up at the sound of the bells. Like an oasis in the desert, she saw the arrival of her best friend, Wes, in all of his skinny jeans–wearing, deliciously scented glory.

  He walked past Jeannie, glancing over his shoulder and giving her a visual up-down as she departed. He turned back to Maggie and with widened eyes and a horrified expression made a finger-in-mouth gagging gesture after the door closed behind her.

  “Is there a tacky contest downtown today I didn’t get the memo for?” Wes asked. Maggie walked around the front of the counter to greet him with a hug. “Because I wouldn’t want to miss it, and in fact would enjoy being a judge. But that one did not look like one of your customers.”

  “Oh, she isn’t, thank God,” said Maggie. “But she is the one I told you about, the queen bee of the cookie-cutter clan.”

  “Well, I’m glad we had lunch plans today to catch up since you got busy last time and had zero gossip. Let’s get out of here and eat sushi.”

  She walked over and put the “Back in an hour” sign on the door, locking up her shop.

  “I’m so happy to see you,” said Maggie, hugging Wes a second time. “How’s my favorite man?”

  “Oh, you know that should be Dave,” said Wes, hugging her. “But naturally I’m not complaining c’est moi. What’s with all the love today?”

  “You’d be complaining if it wasn’t you, and you know it,” said Maggie, “I’m just feeling needy.”

  “Ew, it’s weird on you, but cute. So how was your little visit down to Whore Island?” said Wes. They began walking the block over to their favorite waterfront sushi lunch spot.

  She smirked. “It was fine, Anchorman.”

  “It’s a shame that second movie was a disaster,” said Wes.

  “Truth be told,” said Maggie, “the trip was lovely. It was nice to spend time with Eva and Lisa after not seeing them for a while with everything that’s been going on.”

  “How are the ladies recovering from all their life trauma drama?” asked Wes.

  “It’s been a tough few months,” said Maggie. “Death and divorce and loss. I think we all needed the getaway.”

  “Is Eva back in New York or DC at all yet?” he asked as they walked.

  “A little bit,” said Maggie, “but not full time, which I’m honestly kind of surprised about.”

  “I will have to stop by there next weekend and say hello to her,” said Wes. “Alfred and I have a wedding to go to on the island.”

  “Oooh, fun! Anyone I know?” said Maggie.

  “I don’t think you ever met Alfie’s old friend Bruce from college,” said Wes. “He’s marrying his adorable PR friend Steve. They’re so cute together and you know that adorable B&B on the water has the best big gay weddings in America. Can’t wait.”

  “Sharps Island Inn?” asked Maggie. “Eva loves those guys. The place is gorgeous and the food is amazing.”

  “Everything there is fabu. Those boys can take me swimming in a pool full of their homemade Drunken Fig Jam anytime, honey. And good for Steve and Bruce,” said Wes. “They can join the ranks of us who were just dying to get gay married a
nd now we’re just normal married like everyone else.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Maggie. “Don’t even tell me there is trouble in your pretty little paradise.”

  Wes huffed, opening the door to Café Tokyo. Maggie walked in, picking up a menu to peruse the selections while they waited for a table.

  “It’s not trouble exactly,” said Wes. “It’s just that after seven months of marriage I guess the normalcy is settling in.”

  “Well, how is it any different from the usual married shit?”

  “I guess the married shit is all the same,” said Wes. “I wouldn’t know. I’m tired of the city. I want to move out to a place where’s there’s grass and maybe have kids and just settle down. That seems normal, right?”

  “Honestly, I can’t see you leaving the city,” said Maggie, as the pair were led to a table overlooking Fritchie Creek. “I for one would be devastated, and you work here.” She dramatically placed the back of her hand on her forehead. “And the theater would perish without you. What does Alfred say?”

  “He says over his dead body are we moving to some crappy subdivision, and that he doesn’t see why that much has to change just because we have a piece of paper now.”

  “Like what changing?” asked Maggie.

  “Well, I guess I have to admit we didn’t spend a lot of time talking about having kids and settling down or whatever,” said Wes. “And you know, the whole fidelity thing.”

  “Oh, yikes,” said Maggie. “I’m familiar with the idea in general. What’s the discussion on that?”

  “I worry,” said Wes. “I don’t know if I’m enough and he is so pretty. He could have any guy in a two-minute text or God help us photo exchange on Grindr.”

  “Is he doing that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wes. They paused the conversation to order Bento boxes. “What if he is so afraid of this settling down thing that it’s making him turn to the same slutty lifestyle he pretty much had before we were together? He’s younger and sexier.”

  “But he loves you,” said Maggie. “You know that. He wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

  “That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do it,” said Wes.

  “Oh, shit,” said Maggie. “If you’re worried, I’m worried. I’m still having a hard time seeing you in a subdivision, especially not the one where they’re talking about the Scarlet Letter Society and allegedly running some swingers’ club.”

  “Ohmygod,” said Wes. “I’d have to write a whole play. I smell a Tony for that musical.”

  Jim Swain, husband of the baker Lisa Swain, sat in a shadowy corner of the strip club on East Baltimore Street in downtown Baltimore. His wife, of course, didn’t know he occasionally came to the seedy clubs downtown after work to stare at the stripper heels of the dancers. He’d made an effort to keep his relentless foot fetish out of the suburban house since Lisa wanted a family so badly. He thought he had overcome the issue, but her desires were different from his, and he found himself here several times a week, struggling with a raging boner in his navy suit pants as he watched the dancers’ feet. He had never had sex with another woman in this setting, so he didn’t consider it cheating. But many times he had paid handsomely for lap dances that involved one of his favorite strippers taking him to a VIP private room, removing her shoe, and teasing him while he masturbated (and sometimes didn’t even need to) until the always-explosive release.

  Jim often felt ashamed as he drove home from these encounters, though he figured it wasn’t his fault his wife refused to indulge his fantasies. He’d been obsessed with women’s shoes and feet since he was about twelve and had caught a glance of his teenage sister’s friend in the hot tub with her pedicured feet propped up, sticking out of the water on the edge of the tub. The early experience had locked in a lifelong foot fantasy; people called it a fetish, though he hated that word.

  From the day he saw the girl’s feet on the edge of that tub, he’d begun masturbating to pictures of women’s feet. Thankfully there was now Internet porn, giving him plenty to see online. But nothing was the quite the same as experiencing a real foot job. Only one woman he’d dated in his forty-plus years had done this for him, and it wasn’t his wife. The woman, met online while he was traveling, had applied baby oil to her feet and used them to pleasure his naked body, stroking his stiffening rod gently until he almost died from pleasure.

  The memory of this encounter was something he still used in his internal “spank bank” (a term he heard in college and still used in his head) on a regular basis. Thinking of that first encounter now, the unimaginable pleasure of someone finally understanding and making him not feel like a freak for what he wanted, Jim decided he’d ask his favorite stripper, Kristinah, to take him to the private room tonight. But first he’d visit the bathroom; he was too aroused now for the one-on-one.

  As he walked toward the bathroom, Jim saw a notification on his phone. He typed in the password, and the spyware app opened. In a moment he saw the screenshots from Lisa’s phone. He’d installed the software before giving her the smartphone, and now had access to everything that came up on her phone screen. For months he’d been waiting to see if things were going to heat up between her and that cocksucker graphic designer of hers, but everything had been oddly quiet.

  His phone screen showed the first message:

  Lisa: You won’t believe it. There is a newspaper article Zarina gave me and it calls out our “adulteresses” club.

  As he began to boil and lose focus with anger, Jim caught only phrases from the exchange: “mentions the swinger club in my neighborhood too…” “I just don’t want it to get around that it’s us…” “extreme whores.”

  Jim shut the phone off and shoved it into his pocket, his former level of arousal at the stripper show now diminished. That whore, he thought. I knew it. I knew she fucked him. All these months of coddling her, getting rid of all those perfect shoes, decorating a nursery. Who knew if that baby had even been his? He seethed. After composing himself a bit, he decided there would be no more guilt about his foot fantasy. He would indulge his desires with or without her. He texted Lisa, telling her that he had a late meeting today and an early one in the morning, so he’d be staying in the city tonight.

  He walked out to the strip club with a new level of confidence. He sat at the table directly in front of Kristinah, her long, tanned, oiled perfect legs just a few feet from him. She wore a midnight blue sequined set: bra, panties… and the pièce de résistance: 160mm meridian blue Swarovski crystal platform heels. They were $6,000 shoes. He happened to know this because he had given them to her right before the show. A tip, really. (If Lisa knew how he’d hidden money aside from his real estate development company—hell, if his company knew how much money he’d “tucked away” for his fetish hobby?—everyone would be extremely unhappy with him.) And now, the shoes were also perfectly timed as perhaps a bit of bribery. Though he had never asked, Jim knew for a fact that Kristinah would meet him at a hotel later that evening. He’d book it right from his phone and text her the address. Previously, they’d only really texted about her work schedule; he’d made sure to get there early enough to give her the new shoes. For the first time, he was going to get to see her outside the walls of this club. She knew him and his needs and she wouldn’t care if he wanted to massage her feet all night long. He wondered if he could orgasm just from touching her naked feet. The thought made him grow hard.

  She worked the pole, grinding her hips to Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name.” Her long layered bleached blond hair, not a far stretch from those original ’80s videos by the big hair band, whipped around as she slid up and down the pole. Occasionally she would dance over and smile at Jim. He held up his phone, pointing toward it to indicate he’d texted her. She winked and nodded at him, slipping her foot out of one of the heels and sliding it up and down the pole. His dick grew as hard as the metal pole she twirled on, as he envisioned what it would be like to have that gorgeous foot of hers in his mout
h.

  September 2013

  Rocksprivatefitnessclub.com

  COME ONE, COME ALL.

  Join us tonight for Anything Glows night! No need to hide in a private room. Wear your blacklight neon pasties and come on over as we enjoy sexy dance music, nude swimming under the stars, light-up drinks and glow-in-the-dark hands-on FUN!

  About

  Rocks Private Fitness Club is a membership-only lifestyle club. We don’t give our location online because no walk-in memberships are accepted. If you’ve heard enough about us to check out our website, you already know where we are in a neighborhood near you! We hold special events most weekends and you can find more information about them by checking our main page. COME ONE, COME ALL.

  Rules

  Basics: All club members must fill out an application in-house and await approval. No single men, but single women are allowed. We host singles nights once a month where single men can come for a $75 cover. Single women are ALWAYS FREE. Nudity accepted anywhere inside the club and inside the fenced pool area. Bamboo is planted around the pool fence for privacy; please don’t leave this area without clothing on. Don’t forget to RSVP for each party using the link on the main page.

  Special Events: From Tiki Bar Toga night to Masquerade Mystery parties and Swinger Swing Dance night to Stripper Poker, we always keep it fun so check the main part of the website to see what calendar events are COMING up.

  $: Drink mixers are provided, BYOB. Tip jar on bar is used for membership DONATIONS, cash only when attending parties and to help cover house costs, condoms, tissues, blow job throat numbing spray, hand sanitizer, etc. Minimum $40 per guest per party is expected. Remember that this place costs A LOT OF MONEY to run - pool towels, linens, electricity, etc. We will not be able to stay open without your donations so please stay home if you don’t want to pitch in.