The Scarlet Letter Society. Mary T. McCarthy
sat up in the bed, leaned down, cupped her face into his capable hands, and kissed her slowly, gently, passionately.
She kissed him back, the tingle in her spine working its way to every part of her being. Though she had already had an earth-shaking orgasm, her body was hungry for more. She wanted him inside her.
Eva felt Charles’ growing erection as it grazed her silk chemise. Her panties were already gone, apparently removed while she slept. She smiled at the thought. His hunger for her was insatiable.
She grabbed his strong shoulders, pulling him into her embrace, returning his eager kisses, a soft moan parting her lips as she anticipated what would follow. She reached down to stroke him as he made a motion to climb on top of her. His fingers gently but decisively found their mark between her legs.
“Not this time,” Eva whispered, rising up from the bed and in a single motion circling herself up and over onto all fours, straddling him. They both smiled. It was her turn to be in control.
“I’m your hell, I’m your dream. I’m nothing in between. You know you wouldn’t want it any other way.” —“Bitch,” Meredith Brooks
Monthly meeting of the Scarlet Letter Society
Zoomdweebies Café
Friday, May 4, 2012
5:30 a.m.
“The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread.”
-The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne
| from: | Maggie [email protected] |
| to: | [email protected], [email protected] |
| date: | Tuesday, May 1, 2012 at 10:26 AM |
| subject: | Happy May Day, SLS! Greetings, SLutS! It’s that time again. Attached is your invitation to this month’s meeting of the Scarlet Letter Society. Don’t forget, next month will be our first book club discussion of The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. So don’t forget to pick up your copy from Zarina if you haven’t already. See you Friday! |
Scarlet Letter Society meetings were held monthly when the combination coffee shop/bookstore was closed, always at the same time: first Friday of the month, 5:30 am.
Comfy in her standard attire--a vintage t-shirt (today: Smurfs) and worn jeans--Maggie flopped into the orange 70s vinyl recliner. Maggie smiled, remembering the day she crammed the chair into the back of her ’09 Toyota Prius II without any rope; the chair dangling precariously the three blocks over to her building.
Wes, the director of the city’s largest theatre, lived a few blocks over. He’d arrived with wine, cheese and a movie.
“Burlesque, so we can talk about what a fucking delicious train wreck Cher is,” he declared. “So what’s new with your man, hussy?” Wes asked, opening the wine bottle.
Maggie narrowed her eyes at her best friend, Wes, who lounged across from her on a teal deco sofa. He was fifty, gorgeous, and delightfully, flamboyantly gay. The day she had started volunteering at the theatre, Maggie immediately fell in non-sexual love with Wes, and the feeling was mutual.
“He’s fine,” smiled Maggie.
“What do you mean ‘fine’? Someone’s not bringing home the hot beef injections the way they used to, or what?” Wes sipped, rolling his eyes dramatically. He served them each a glass of wine.
“Ted is, um, bringing home the bacon the very best same way he has for some time, Wes,” laughed Maggie. “How many details do you want about that?”
Wes seemed to ponder for a moment.
“Hmmmm, well, he’s a total hottie, but even though he’s a musician, he’s not vibing ANY gay, so I guess I might as well not torture myself by having to hear about his package and its delivery.”
Maggie laughed again. “Well I’ll spare you all the gory details, then!”
Wes thought to himself: Maggie looks great in this light. In her natural setting. Her apartment over the shop was the perfect size, with its huge bay window, and stained glass panes. Her orange chair and a small painted wooden side table formed her sitting area inside the window. Large plants were everywhere. He glanced at her old MacBook, the adorable small vintage lamp, and a framed photo of her girls when they were younger, watching a town parade from the sidewalk and grinning from ear to ear.
“So, are there more wedding bells in your future? You’ve been dating him forever!”
“Are you kidding me? I’ve already put one husband into a divorce court and another one’s on the way in there, Wes,” replied Maggie. “Why on earth would I want to put the Marry Mag curse on poor Ted? He hasn’t done anything to deserve it.”
“God, that’s true,” said Wes. “But I gotta say it cracks me up that you’re acting like a goddamn teenager about the whole thing.” He made a fake gagging motion, adding, “It’s so cliché. I mean, seriously, when do you think he’ll ask you to the prom?”
They laughed.
“I’m already shopping for my prom gown,” said Maggie. “Now hand me that cheese tray.”
“So how’s your little whore club coming along?” asked Wes.
“We don’t call it a whore club,” said Maggie, raising an eyebrow. “That’s an offensive term and besides, we’re not getting paid. Our Scarlet Letter Society is simply for women who are- well, to put it in some kind of bizarre politically correct term, I guess, who are fidelity challenged.”
“Mmhmm, whores. Well at least they aren’t still stoning you or burning your asses at the stake anymore,” said Wes, passing the Havarti and rice crackers. “The funny part is, you’re in a club you technically can’t even be a member of because you’re not even cheating on your pretty little boyfriend! Unless you count the fact that your divorce isn’t even final, which hardly counts.”
“So technically, I’m still married,” responded Maggie, “and thus a practicing adulteress, if you ask the Catholic Church.” Making the sign of the cross while rolling her eyes, Maggie added, “And since I’m cheating on both of my husbands with Ted, I’d say I’m not just the founder of the Scarlet Letter Society, but also a quite active member.”
“Well, Sister Margaret Katherine. ‘Veteran Vixen Vaginas’ would be a great name for your website,” said Wes. “You should totally lock down a Twitter handle for that.”
“We’re starting to read a book each month for the Scarlet Letter Society meetings,” said Maggie. “Historical or modern fiction about women who cheat on their husbands. I mean, the novels are usually written by men and end up with dead women, but it will be interesting to get the perspective on how things have changed. Or haven’t. We’re beginning by reading The Scarlet Letter.”
“Ooooh! It will be like the HO-prah Book Club!” squealed Wes, clapping his hands.
“Let’s watch the movie, goofball,” Maggie said warmly.
Subdivision streetlights cast the only light through the bedroom curtains as Lisa snuck out of bed to check her email. As the floorboards creaked in a house that was only built three years before in this McNeighborhood she loathed beyond words, she knew Jim would hear her.
“Where are you going?” slurred Jim