Spanish Word of the Day: Mariposa

My first and only attempt at writing "morning pages" from the instruction manual "The Artist's Way" led to porn. Maybe porn is too harsh a word. How about erotica? I guess I was channeling Anais Nin. Perhaps she had been my morning muse that particular morning.

So after a wee bit of should I/shouldn't I?, I decided to go ahead and post Venus Butterfly. I'll put in a page break so anyone who's squeamish about this sort of stuff can bail. For the rest of you....

Venus Butterfly

I wish I could better remember the details.

Somewhere around 18 or 19 years old – before my door-to-door encyclopedia job or maybe after my daughter was born and before the University of Missouri job – I answered a newspaper ad for a receptionist.

These are the things I do remember: being dressed appropriately secretary-like, a small dark office, interviewed by a man whose age, hair color, level of attractiveness are unclear.

Was there a front office, a reception area, a second desk with an ink blotter and a cup holding pens and pencils?

How did the man describe the business to me? Did he use the words “sex toys” or were they implied?

At the end of our interview he said something like “if you come back tonight, meet me for dinner, the job is yours.” Something like that.

I know I didn’t want to appear naïve, freaked out so I said something like “okay, what time?” Of course I didn’t go back and I never told anyone about that job interview.

But what if I had gone back, met up with the man in that dark office to have dinner? How would that one yes have changed my life?

Let’s say I’m desperate for a job. Maybe it’s after my the birth of my daughter and except for typing and shorthand classes in high school I have no prior office experience. I’m 21, a single mom, and need a job bad. So I go back to the office that night.

It’s the early ‘70s, the hotpants era so I wear those. Here’s my outfit: brown wool shorts, snug, with a matching scooped-neck top but not scooped too low. Dark brown pantyhose. Dark brown suede over-the-knee zip-up boots (that are made for walkin’, doing my Nancy Sinatra thing). My hair is longish, a dark auburn color.

What did I drive? When I got pregnant I had to sell my ’68 canary yellow Camaro. Maybe my dad still owned the metallic green Baracuda so I borrow that.

I am terrified as I make my way from the suburbs to that dark office in downtown St. Louis. I park on the street in front of the building, walk up a flight of stairs to the office door. It’s unlocked. I walk in.

The man is there behind the desk. He appears relaxed. The chair is tilted back a little and he’s smoking a cigarette, sipping from a shot glass, a tawny-colored liquor. He is handsome, around 35, with dark hair combed back away from his forehead and coffee-colored eyes.

“Good. Good,” he says. “You came back.” He motions for me to sit in the chair across from him. He pulls the bottle from the desk drawer a pours a shot of Jack Daniels, the one with the black label.

This is my first taste of whisky.

He once again leans back in his chair and takes in my outfit, my thin frame, petite stature. I’m perched on the edge of the wooden slatted chair like a house sparrow.

“This is a delicate business and I have to be careful about who I hire. You may be asked to do things you’re uncomfortable with.” He sits upright, lifts a box from the floor and places it on the desk. One by one he removes the items – dildos and vibrators of all colors, sizes, various shapes and textures; strap-on battery-operated butterflies; various creams, lotions, lubricants in flavors from cherry to chocolate; magazines and VCR tapes with covers a collage of breasts, vaginas, penises.

He hands me a vibrator with two tips, the bigger one for the usual place, the smaller for the back end.

“Are you uncomfortable with this, with holding it?”

“No,” I say but not all that confidently.

“Because you may be asked to show one to a client, describe how it works.” He takes back the pink double-ended dildo and hands me the strap-on butterfly. “You may be more comfortable with this. I want you to put it on.” He nods toward the restroom door.

I take the box with the butterfly and as I walk away I think this is the time to go, you should just go. But I’m desperate for a job and so I walk into the restroom and close the door behind me.

I unzip the over-the-knee boots, slip out of the hotpants and peel off the pantyhose. I follow the instructions on the box, attach the straps like a harness with the butterfly snug against my clit. With the shorts back on – but not the pantyhose or the boots – the apparatus isn’t too obvious, just a slight bulge. I go back into the office where the man is standing, leaning against the desk waiting for me.

He pushes himself upright and takes the battery pack from my hand, clips it to the waistband of my shorts. He reaches down and touches the butterfly through the material. Then he flips the switch.

The butterfly vibrates. A soft hum is the only sound in the room. I think I must be holding my breath. The man pulls me to him and kisses me. He moves both hands down beneath the waistband of my shorts and cups the smooth skin of my ass. Then with his fingers he traces the butterfly strap which is nestled between my butt cheeks and gives a little tug.

I come.

Then what?

Had that been a real job offer or a ploy, a way to get women into his office? Into that butterfly? After a night of sex, would he had said “the job is yours. I’ll call you in the morning” and that’d been that? Would I have been relieved there had been no call?

Maybe we had sex on his desk then he took me to dinner. Offered me a for-real job and I took it.

It turned out it was a job I was good at. I liked “demonstrating” the toys, liked the money I made. I married the boss. We moved into other areas of the business, films, but nothing too hardcore like children or snuff.

We made a lot of money. After he died I became a 1 percenter.