Dirty Diana

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

—

“I took it all off and I’m so glad I did.”

At the baggage claim, I eavesdrop on two conversations at once: a couple fighting over spilled lemonade in a carry-on; and two young women discussing bikini wax options. The full monty seemed to win in their opinions. “It hurts a little. But so worth it.”

Before the cabdriver turns into my neighborhood, I have him drop me at the Wax Pot. I don’t give myself time to second-guess. Instead I imagine Oliver’s face, so surprised and delighted by the effort that I’ve put in that he’ll agree that what we need is a reset. We can fix things.

“Just the sides?” the waxer asks as I lie flat on her table.

“No.” The exam paper crinkles and shifts beneath me. “The whole thing.”

She frowns and pulls on her reading glasses. “I hope you’re not in a rush.”

—

Emmy greets me with a huge smile when I get home. I’m lighter and stickier, but the women at baggage claim would be proud. After I put Emmy to bed and my bag is unpacked, I pour a glass of wine for me and Oliver and find him on the couch.

“Trip okay? How was the service?”

I tell him how well attended it was and how Barry would have been happy that everyone ate the food. I hesitate and then add, “You know when you go home or to a place that feels like home and you remember things about yourself that you actually liked? That were fun?” I keep my voice light and sunny.

“Like sports you used to play?”

“No. Not really. More like how I lived. I was so curious. And sensual. And I felt really young.”

“You were so young when you lived there.”

Why does this conversation feel combative? I expect my wine to be sour on the next sip. “I was just reminded that there are things I miss about myself. And I want to share them with you. I want to include you in them.”

“Like what?

This is the moment. I stand in front of him and unzip my skirt. I let it fall to my ankles and slowly strip off my underwear. I freeze when I see Oliver’s face contort in an odd way.

“Oh shit. What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you do…what’s wrong with your vagina?” he whispers.

“I waxed it. I thought it might be fun. Something different for us.”

Oliver leans closer to get a better look but not in a good way. “Is it supposed to be so red?”

“Well. I just had it done.”

“I’ll get you some ice. It looks…kind of angry.”

Oliver hurries to the fridge and I want to sink into the couch and pull up my underwear forever.

“Try this.” He hands me a Ziploc bag of ice cubes, scooping up his car keys with his free hand.

“Where are you going?”

“Poker. I texted you in Santa Fe.”

“Oh, right.” I don’t think he did, but I don’t want to argue.

“Maybe we can come back to it later?” he offers.

It. He can’t even say the word.

“Sure.”

“Nice to have you back.” His kiss is quick and he’s out the door.

As soon as I hear Oliver’s car pull out of the driveway, I snuggle deeper into the couch cushions and apply the ice. It feels surprisingly good. I imagine how ridiculous I look and my cheeks burn with humiliation. Did I really expect it to be so easy? I remember the resolve I felt on the plane: I’ll keep making stuff, even if I don’t yet know what it is. I find my laptop and take it to bed. Then, like a serial killer returning to the scene of a crime, I book a room at the Rosevale for next week. I book a single night, though I’ll only need it for the day. A hotel in the middle of the day? It feels unnecessarily clandestine, but where else can I go that’s quiet and private?

—

When I arrive at the Rosevale, I’m relieved to see the suite flooded with sunlight. It has a huge living room with soft colors, every wall padded in fabric, velvet chairs, the couch perfectly erect and the carpet just vacuumed. I open the glass doors onto a small veranda overlooking the pool. It’s hot enough for a swim but the pool is deserted except for an older couple reading the newspaper in their chaise lounges.

I set out several bottles of water and wait for the first knock on the door. I’ve spent the last several days arranging three interviews, one after another, all with women I’ve never met. When I asked Alicia’s advice on who I should talk to, she suggested I cast a wide net—Ihung flyers outside my painting class and even placed an ad on Craigslist. One respondent has already flaked over text, but that leaves two others.

I check myself in the full-length mirror beside the door. I’m wearing a cream silk blouse and camel trousers. Pearl studs in my ears. If I put on a lab coat, I’d look like a well-dressed gynecologist.

There’s a knock and I open the door. The woman standing on the other side is drop-dead gorgeous, like a supermodel from the eighties, tall and statuesque, with thick, lustrous hair, and an actual mole to the right of her wide smile.

“Diana?” she asks.

“Yes, come on in!” I move to let her pass, but she stops to kiss my cheeks. “Sandra,” she says, “with a long A.” Then she sweeps by me in a cloud of ylang-ylang perfume and leather, a Louis Vuitton handbag and Gucci heels.

“This hotel is gorgeous. I love coming here.”

“You’ve stayed here before?” I ask.

“All the time. The calamari from room service is amazing.”

“We can order some?”

“Maybe later.” She smiles warmly.

She flops her bag on the couch and slips off her shoes. “I never answer Craigslist ads—I was helping my brother-in-law post about a job when I saw it—but I read it and thought, hey, this one looks interesting.”

“Right?” I laugh. “I bought a futon off there once…” Sandra’s gaze has an unnerving effect on me. “Thanks for coming today.” I pull out my phone and set it on the table. “It’s okay if I record us?”

Sandra shrugs. “Sure.”

She sits on the sofa and pulls her long legs beneath her. “What do you want to know?”

“A long time ago, I did a series of paintings—a book actually—all about women and sex and how they feel right after. Only now, I’m more interested in bodies and how they feel during, or even before sex. I’m interested in desire. Is there a moment for you, something that comes to mind when you think about feeling most inside your body?”

“Work related or nonwork related?”

I flash on Oliver and me when we first dated, how we used to sneak away and make out in the office stairwell. My urges took me places, led me on adventures. “Depends. What do you do?”

“You’re funny.” She crinkles her nose at me. “Let’s see.” She folds her arms behind her head and leans back. “I’ll tell you about a client who flew me to Paris. Does that sound interesting? But why don’t we settle up before I dive in?”

One might think that while sitting in a hotel room across from a woman who answered an ad I placed on Craigslist, I would have put it all together—what she does for a living—a little quicker. But it only clicks now. A million questions flood my brain.

“You can pay cash, right?” Sandra asks.

“Of course,” I say, still trying to recover. I hand her a hundred-dollar bill across the table.

She looks at the money. “I’m two grand an hour, Diana.”

“Right, right,” I stammer. I wish I had enough cash to talk to her for a couple of hours, but I have nothing close. After apologizing profusely for wasting her time, I walk Sandra to the door.

After she leaves, I sit on the couch, stunned. I’m even surprised by my own surprise. I try to gather my thoughts. Did I think this would be simple? I pour myself a Jack Daniel’s from the minibar and sip it slowly. I think about canceling the next appointment. There was no name in the woman’s email to me, just “The Sexagenarian” and a phone number. When I called, she answered the phone on the second ring with no hello, only, “I’ve been expecting you!” Then she very warmly accepted my invitation to meet.

Just when I pull out my phone, there’s a knock at the door. She’s early. I smile with relief when I open the door to find a woman with naturally graying hair wearing an oversize wrap made of some organic-looking undyed fiber. She smells like maple syrup and patchouli.

“I’m Diana,” I say. “And you’re…” I wait for her real name.

“The Sexagenarian.” She sits on the couch next to her enormous canvas tote. “I’m a menopause facilitator. Women come to me seeking spiritual guidance as they make their crone transition.”

“That’s so interesting.” I’m not sure what a crone transition is, but I’m excited by any woman in Dallas who owns her age. The Sexagenarian smiles at me, and her eyes are a bright, sparkling blue.

I give her my rehearsed pitch about what I’m interested in, and what I hope to talk to women about, and she asks, “So you’re looking for me to share a fantasy?”

“It could be. Or a story from real life.”

“Mmm.” She opens a bottle of water and takes a long sip. “What I have in mind is neither. It’s a sexual journey. And”—she points a finger at me—“you must loosen your sphincter muscle to open yourself up to its pleasures. Do you struggle with constipation?”

“Sometimes?” I clear my throat. “I’ll try and relax.”

“Your sphincter.”

“Yes. That.” This is not off to a great start.

“Are you recording?” she asks.

I nod and she leans forward so she’s speaking directly into my phone. “My inspiration is diverse and my techniques are quite sophisticated. I don’t usually share them out of the boudoir.”

“I see.”

“Do you like surprises?” Her blue eyes get bigger. “Do you like to be pampered with exceptional experiences?”

“I think so,” I reply quietly, feeling like I’m cracking open a door that should remain closed.

“My journey is a unique blend of sensual massage filled with otherworldly pleasure. High-class meetings proven and practiced over hundreds of years.”

The order of her words confuses me, like someone’s thrown random darts at a Learning Annex course guide and this is where they landed.

“Make sure you’re recording this part,” she warns me. “Have you ever had an orgasm that begins in your nostrils and ends in your parfem?”

I want to ask what a “parfem” is, but I stop myself.

“Dionne.” She looks at me straight on and I don’t dare correct her. “I’m ready to share.” Then she sits up very straight and holds out her arms. “Time travel with me, okay? I need you to come with me. To a time when winged creatures performed cunnilingus on unexpecting fairies. Are you with me? I want you to attend high-class meetings with Merlin and his enormous staff.” She leans forward again, and the words tumble out, rapid-fire. “Let me paint a sophisticated picture for you. A Minotaur, alone and lost in the enchanted forest. I approach cautiously, but he can smell my intimate pleasure. I float toward him, like the Angel of Touch, and lift his supple horse tail so I can penetrate his—”

I’m up out of my chair. “You know what? I think I should stop you right there. Thank you so much for coming.”

When the Sexagenarian leaves, I take out my phone and google “parfem.”

There’s an aggressive rap on the door, and my heart does a jump in my chest. If she’s coming back to tell me more, then I don’t want to answer the door. I freeze. If I stay still, maybe she’ll go away.

There’s another, louder knock on the door. “Ms. Wood, this is Leonard, the hotel manager. Would you open the door, please?”

Sweat beads along my hairline.

I set down my phone and open the door. I paste a polite smile on my face while Leonard looks over my shoulder, scanning the room.

“Is everything all right?”

“We’ve noticed a few…outside guests to the hotel. Should we be expecting more?”

I wish for a massive claw to descend from the sky and pluck me from the planet. “No,” I say. “As a matter of fact, I was just leaving.”

“I suppose that would be best,” he says.

I don’t think the day can get any worse, but then I’m forced to ride the elevator eleven floors down with Leonard. Although I shouldn’t care what he thinks of me, I can’t help myself. “I was conducting research.”