Walk on the Wilder Side by Serena Bell

5

Rachel

“Real Romance,” I read off the side of the demo bin, as I set it down next to my mom. She’s sitting in a comfy chair with her legs up on an ottoman in a Rush Creek living room, site of my first girls’ night out. The women slowly filter from the kitchen—where the drinks and snacks are—into the living room. They arrange themselves in a circle, perched on kitchen chairs they hauled in.

“I thought it said ‘Read Romance,’” I tell her. “Now that would be a great business, don’t you think? Curated romance novels, sold direct, in the privacy of your own home party.”

She looks like she’s seriously thinking about it, so I say, “Kidding, Mami!” All the bins attended to, I position myself behind my mom, ready to bring her what she needs from her stash of boxes.

The women settle in, and my mom makes them all introduce themselves and explain why they accepted the RSVP.

The answers vary wildly. Quite a few women respond, “I was just curious!” A few say a friend made them come, shooting fond or dirty looks at the friend in question. Others use phrases like, “self care,” “self-indulgence,” or “luxury.”

“I could use some new toys,” one woman says, which seems like kind of an odd answer, but maybe she’s one of those people who fully embraces a new hobby. Like, she’ll buy the whole line of candles, or whatever, and the stands that go with them, and photograph them for Instagram, one per day, for thirty days.…

Mrs. G—who also happens to have been my high school history teacher—says, “Not gonna lie. My vibrator is my best friend since my husband left three years ago.” She makes a face. “Actually, it was my best friend for about a decade before that, too.”

Record screech!

Her vibrator?

I look over at my mother, who is studiously not looking at me.

I look down at the bins.

Real Romance.

Personal care, my ass. Possibly literally.

“Mami,” I say. “A word.”

“Not right now, Rachel.” She frowns.

I hold up a hand. “If you’ll excuse us,” I say to the circle of women.

My mother moves excruciatingly slowly on crutches, but finally we get far enough from the living room that I can whisper-yell, “What’s in those bins?”

“Relationship enhancement,” my mother says. “Intimacy aids.”

“Sex toys?!”

“Shhh,” she says.

“You’re selling sex toys!?” And then, with dawning horror, “We’re selling sex toys! On Brody’s boat!”

Because my mom loved the idea of bringing her parties onto Brody’s boat, and we agreed to do one tomorrow night.

Or, more exactly, I agreed to do one. My mom has already told me there’s no way she can take the broken foot on a boat, and after watching how much she sucks on crutches, I had to agree with her. Tonight, I’m learning the script so I can fly solo tomorrow.

A truly, truly horrifying thought occurs to me.

“Oh, God!” I say. “Does Brody know what we’re selling on his boat?”

“I think so?” my mom says.

“Not good enough!”

Pretty sure I yelled that, based on the fact that it suddenly got quiet in the other room.

She consults the ceiling, then says, “No, wait, yes. Yes. He definitely does.”

I eye her suspiciously, but she says, “No, for sure. I gave him the website.”

I’m honestly not sure if that’s better or worse. Because now Brody Wilder thinks I offered to sell sex toys on his boat.

This is definitely not going to improve the Brody-hates-me problem.

“Rachel,” my mother whispers. “We have to get back in there.”

“You. Told. Me. Essential oils.”

“I knew you wouldn’t do it if I told you what it was.”

“Damn straight!” I say.

“Rachel,” says my mother. “I was dubious too. But please come back in that room with me. You’ll see. I promise.”

“I am not going back in there. My high school history teacher is in there. And my Spanish teacher!”

“I can’t do it alone, Mamita. I can’t. Look at me.” She slumps on her crutches.

My mother does not employ the guilt trip too often, but when she does, she is an absolute, world-class expert.

“Please,” she says. “At least stay for this. If you still hate it afterwards, you can bail. I will explain to Brody that you are afraid to handle the merchandise in his presence.”

“I hate you,” I whisper.

She smiles. “I know you don’t.”

We go back into the living room where our guests look at us curiously. Mrs. G, who definitely remembers me from high school, has clearly figured it out, because she tosses me a sympathetic look.

That’s right, Mrs. G.

My wonderful but crafty mother kept me in the dark about the true nature of her business.

She starts demoing products, which means she tells me what to pull out of the bins and I do it.

At first, they are wholly non-threatening. Lotions, scented soaps, bath oils, hairbrushes. She segues into massage oil, and no one flinches. Next up is some kind of gel that makes you tingle wherever you rub it. I pass around the demo tube, and no one in the circle turns down the chance to rub a little on the back of their hand.

Oh, what the hell. When in Rome.

Ooh.

That’s nice.

“You can use this on your clit or your labia, too,” my mother says matter of factly.

Okay, pause.

I love my mom to death, but she was like most moms I knew, not a super-genius when it came to the teaching of sex ed. She did talk to me (briefly, blushingly) about the facts of life, and she supplemented with a couple of reasonably decent books that showed up on my bookshelf with no explanation whatsoever.

But I have never heard the words “clit” or “labia” out of my mom’s mouth.

I kneel and pretend to be investigating something in one of the Real Romance inventory boxes to avoid showing my hot-pink face.

Would it be awkward if I went outside to “take a phone call?”

“The blue box, Rach,” my mom calls, and I bring it to her and set it at her feet.

She starts pulling out actual toys—bullet vibes, eggs, and one she calls “the Cadillac of all vibrators” that looks like a garden-variety back massager. She hands them to me one by one. I’m supposed to distribute them around the circle. The women look like I feel, shellshocked, as I pass out the goodies.

Oh, God, I can’t hack this.

The phone call idea is looking better and better.

And then, something happens. The women are reaching for the toys, powering them up, touching them to their palms and thighs. And talking.

“I’ve never used a vibrator,” one says.

“You have to,” another says.

“Do you use it by yourself?”

“Sometimes. Or with my husband.”

“My husband’s feelings would be hurt. He’d think it reflected on him.”

“Let him use it on you,” my mother says.

“Really?”

The other women jump in.

“Yeah, totally. Put on sexy lingerie and ask him to use it on you,” says one.

“Give it to him for his birthday,” says another.

The woman with the pink rabbit vibrator in her hands stares down at it, a smile creeping over her face.

I realize right then that my mother is a bit of a superstar.

“Can I say something?”

The speaker is one of the youngest women there. She hasn’t been shy—she was one of the ones who said she was there because she was curious—but she hasn’t been chatty, either. We all turn her way, and she says, “I haven’t had an orgasm since I went on anti-depressants.”

You know how everything turns on a dime at moments like that? It could go either way. Everyone in the room could fall awkwardly silent. Or…

The room is suddenly, chaotically abuzz.

“Me neither.”

“Thank you so much for saying that.”

“For me it’s my blood pressure meds.”

“After cancer, I couldn’t get any satisfaction in the bedroom. And I miss it. I really miss it. Just, the intimacy. Is that weird?”

“No, hon. No. Not weird at all.”

“Why does no one talk about this stuff?”

“Fucking menopause. It’s like I’m numb from the waist down. And let’s not even talk about the dryness thing.”

“When I went on Prozac, I was like, where were you all my life? And then my sex life crashed and I was like, holy shit, I am not trading sex for happiness, and then one of my friends said, try this—” the speaker gestures to the Cadillac— “and then I realized, yes, you can have it all.”

Needless to say, my mother’s sales are brisk. And not just of the warming gel and lube. That Cadillac? Ten orders. One woman buys three. She says she’s giving them to her sisters for Christmas this year.

That “ten orders” doesn’t include mine. I can’t get near the signup sheet, but I’m planning to place an order, too. Getting cheated on by your asshole boyfriend calls for a very special category of retail therapy, and it should definitely include a vibrator.

I’ll add my order to the sheet in the car, right after I tell my mom that I totally, completely, and absolutely get why she loves what she’s doing.