The Dirty Book Club(27)
“Too late,” M.J. said, remembering an old article in City magazine. “The site was hacked and its client list was exposed. It’s done.”
“Oh well.” Addie shrugged. “Hey, E, can I get a Macallan?”
“Sure.” Easton handed her a key necklace. “As soon as you put this on. Gloria said I should give it to you in person because you’d probably throw it out.”
“She was right. It’s hideous. I will take that scotch, though. In a to-go cup if you can.”
“You have to wear the necklace.”
“Ew.” Addie winced. “Why would I do that?”
“It says so in the invitation.”
“I get lots of invitations—can you be more specific?”
“The one I slid under your door last week.”
“Never saw it.”
“If you didn’t get the invitation,” M.J. asked, “why are you here?”
“I saw the PRIVATE EVENT sign and thought I’d score a free drink before I went out.”
“She lives in the apartment upstairs,” Easton clarified. Then to Addie, “You have to stay if you want a drink. Those were my instructions.”
“Stay for what?”
Easton removed the black envelope from his blazer. “Everything will be explained in this letter.”
Addie reached for the envelope. Easton offered her the key.
“Those two aren’t wearing one,” she said.
Britt and M.J. quickly put on their necklaces.
“You’ll get me that scotch?” she pressed.
Easton nodded.
“Fine.” Addie coiled the chain around her wrist and committed to the edge of the coffee table.
“Finally!” Jules snatched the envelope from Addie and popped the wax seal with her French-manicured nail. Then she inhaled herself into perfect spinal alignment, cleared her throat, and read, “?‘Dearest Easton, stop hovering and give the girls some privacy. They’ll holler when it’s time for you to return.’?”
Easton bowed and backed out of the lounge. “As you wish.”
When the sound of his footsteps faded, Jules blinked back a tear and whispered, “That’s what Westley says to Buttercup in The Princess Bride. It’s my favorite line from my favorite movie of all time and he just said it.”
“Nobody gives a shit,” Addie said. “Read the letter.”
Dear M.J., Britt, Addie, and Jules,
Question: What’s dirty, wet, and comes every fifteen minutes?
Answer: Our martinis!
So forgive the sloppy penmanship. We’re at a bar in Canal Saint-Martin where the croque monsieur is to die for and so is Thierry, the bilingual (and single!) sixty-six-year-old owner. Think iron footbridges, food markets, restaurants, boutiques, and the movie Ame, lie. And it’s only a five-minute walk (ten with Dot’s bursitis) from our magnifique full-floor penthouse.
We thought vodka would make writing this letter easier. We were wrong. Nothing will make it easier. Because we have a fifty-four-year-old secret; a secret that contains hundreds of other secrets that contain hundreds more, and we are about to trust you with them all.
If the old saying is true and we are what we hide, then the four of us became who we are on Friday, May 18, 1962—the day Marjorie persuaded us to read The Housewife’s Handbook on Selective Promiscuity. The book was all about the author’s sex life and, well, it was so explicit, her publisher was sent to jail for selling pornographic literature. And if we, the good girls of Pearl Beach were caught reading it? Oh my. Gloria would have been banned from the PTA, Liddy excommunicated, Dotty left at the altar, and Marjorie’s bad reputation would have gotten a reputation. But did that scare us?
Damn straight it did.
So we wrapped the book inside the cover of Prim: A Modern Woman’s Guide to Manners and read it three more times. Why? Because the author, Rey Anthony, wrote about everything we felt and nothing we were allowed to admit. She had the same needs, curiosities, frustrations, and desires that we had. Turns out we weren’t sexual deviants after all; we were repressed! And that little green book of Marjorie’s set us free. So we wrapped and read hundreds more just like it and called our secret the Dirty Book Club.
We gathered every month, on the night of the full moon, in what we called “G-spots” because they’re the places that most husbands don’t bother with—the middle school roof, our Little League snack shack, the grocery store parking lot. While they thought we were at town hall meetings, we were naming their penises, copping to our fantasies, and whispering about the erotic passages in our forbidden finds. We weren’t exactly burning our bras, but we were buying sexier ones. It was progress.
Today, sex is no longer taboo. The words testicles and clitoris won’t cause giggle fits. And you certainly don’t have to hide your erotica like we did. Today women are encouraged to “own” their sexuality: “Welcome to Bed Bath and Beyond. Interested in masturbating with us today? Then check out the new handheld MuscleProbe back massager on sale now in the wellness aisle . . .”
So what can the DBC teach you that you don’t already know? You’d be surprised.
A dirty martini will make you admit things to other people, but a dirty book? That will make you admit things to yourself. Real things, honest things, things you wish you didn’t feel but you do. Each time you uncover one of these truths, a brick falls from the facade you’ve built around yourself and leaves a hole for the light to shine through. Men are wonderful, but wood alone can’t cultivate that light. You need fire. You need girlfriends. Who are yours?