On this hot June afternoon, friends Ginny and Merril sat at the end of the bar, away from others, drinking at their husband’s Fraternal Order of Eagles lodge.
This club was in a little town in the SW corner of the state of Washington along the Columbia River. Brewster, the bartender, always kept the room dark by turning down the industrial-style wall sconce lights, as today. What little fresh air came in the windows, opened just a crack, blew in off the Columbia river not two hundred feet from the lodge.
The air moved around in the club by four old-noisy-commercial wall fans, oscillating from where they were bolted in each corner twenty years ago. The walls were covered with wood-grain paneling that had gotten stained and darker over the years. Single shafts of light filtered through the three grime-coated windows, where the floor-length curtains fluctuated open from the slight breeze blowing into the club.
For Merril the odors of stale cigarette smoke and nicotine-saturated drapes, mingled with her Chanel No. 5, made images flash by — images from her childhood, from her teens, of french fries, of intimacy. The scents of the Columbia river wafted in the window, triggered images of being topless in her father’s runabout boat, planing down the river and back slews with her friends on sunny days.
George Strait’s “Amarillo by Morning“ ended on the jukebox. Now only the conversations of the other patrons in the club could be heard. An occasional eruption of yelling would ebb and flow from the three tables of card players, but for most of the time the club was a constant drone of near-retirees and retirees talking about their kids, spouses, aging parents, and better days.
Ginny’s swivel-bar stool squeaked under her weight. To fight off the boredom, she’d shift her butt and squeak the chair just to watch Merril’s look of disapproval it’d cause.
“Ginny, help me find a job. You are just sitting there like you do most afternoons. Instead of wasting away. Help me make something happen. “
“You?” Ginny laughed. “Work? Do what? You know Merril, you are on such a high horse. Is it a throne? No, I got it. You’re on a mountaintop.”
“It’s fun. What’s the difference?” Ginny shot back, frowning and sticking her tongue out at Merril.
Merril gazed past her friend. “I don’t know.”
“Honey, today’s world,” Ginny scowled, pursed her lips, “is not for fifty-year-old high school dropouts.” Yawning, looking at her watch, she said, “Could you be on your feet all day?”
Merril pantomimed answering a phone, then grabbing her boobs and finally swirling around to show Ginny her ass.
“On my feet all day? No, but I can answer phones. I can run a ten-key.” Merril undid another button on her blouse and pulled it open for dramatic effect. “I got nice cleavage to show and still a nice ass.”
“Oh, I got it. You’re up there on your mountain. Let me ask you. Is it hard to breathe up there where the air is so thin?”
“Ginny, I want to get paid for sex. Why not? What if I got paid? For sex? A hooker?” Merril’s face flushed. Such an inner heat. Images of her father’s friends with her on Sundays. Sex that was spiced up by the taboo was always the best.
Merril felt a flush creep up her cheeks, a warmth stirring within her. Imagine if I got paid for sex, she thought, words stumbling in her mind. She dared to voice the word hooker in the silent conversation she held with her own consciousness. The notion sparked something in her, a raw, hidden desire. Memories of her father’s friends, of stolen Sundays, tainted by an intoxicating taboo, seeped into her thoughts. There was a thrill to it, a thrill that made the forbidden the most tantalizing.
Merril leaned back and stretched her legs out before her. “Aaron is at work ten hours a day, plus a two-hour commute.” She pulled her blouse a little more open, and lifted her boobs up, “Robyn is married and living in California. My days are empty. Why not?”
Ginny stiffened, wrinkled her forehead. She ran her hand down her side and then over her arm. “You want what? Now? Too?”
She picked a piece of lint from her jacket sleeve. Merril gave her friend a quizzical look, her nose wrinkling in confusion. She said nothing, instead choosing to pluck another piece of lint from her sleeve. She was clueless about her friend’s question.
Ginny squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Finally, she said, “Honey. Forget it. You can’t. You would hurt so many people. Think about what it would do to the surrounding others, not just yourself with a nice swollen vulva all day long.”
Ginny straightened up, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. An air of determination washed over her. Lifting her chin defiantly, she broke the silence. “Honey, erase that thought,” she began, her voice steady, firm. “The ripple of hurt would spread far and wide. It’s not just about you and a sense of physical satisfaction with a nice swollen vulva. Consider the repercussions of those around you.”
Who would I hurt? Checking first that he wasn’t watching, Merril balled up a piece of old-soggy napkin off the bar and flicked it on the floor toward the bartender. Ginny’s got it all wrong. Merril’s heart raced faster from the images of getting it from a stranger in the daylight. “I have dreams. Desires. What’s wrong with that?”
Merril steepled her hands, fingertip-to-fingertip. Answering her own question, “Nothing. If you maintain control. Only have sex at their place, with cheating husbands.”
“Merril, that is so wrong in so many ways, you know that. Don’t you? You’d be a sinner and never get into heaven,” Ginny said.
Merril got off her bar stool, facing the empty dance floor, “Right?” She swung her arms around in the air, mimicking an orchestra conductor conducting. “Then tell me this, Ginny. Why did God put so many married men on this earth looking for a side action in the booty call? If it was so sinful, he wouldn’t have ever done that.”
Ginny’s long legs wiggled. The corners of her mouth twitched. “Your old man makes plenty. I wish mine made as much. You can’t be hurt for money. You just want the fun don’t you? To you, you’d be doing God’s work. Wouldn’t you?”
“Exactly Ginny.” Merril dug her nails into her palms. “Not on my feet. I could be on my knees or back all day.” Merril looked directly at her friend, puckering her lips, sucked in her cheeks then flailed her arms wide backwards and leaned back,” and let out a laugh so loud others sitting in the bar looked over at her. “No, I got that wrong. You’d be doing the devil’s work. You know that, don’t you Merril? The devil’s work?”
Merril’s heart rate increased. The pang and twinge tingling between her legs moistened her panties. I need to get more sex, and different too. She took a sip of her Cuba Libre — rum, coke, and a twist of lemon. “I love coming here after…smelling like sex, tasting my fingers. Don’t you? I wish masturbating was enough.”
“It’s a small price to pay.”
Ginny moved in closer. “A small price to pay for what?”
“Yo, get out of bed each day with excitement in mind. A day of making money and sinning. If it ain’t sinning, it ain’t fun, Ginny.”
“It’s a small price to pay.”
Ginny lifted her glass. “Okay then. It’s a small price to pay. I’ll drink to that,” and they clinked glasses in a toast, “I’ll come along too.”
Ginny’s voice held an understanding note. Her eyebrows shot up. “We wish. So?” Her shoulders dropped, and she slumped, looking at her friend, and let out a little controlled giggle.
“Ginny, I want it. I want it to be strange. Hard. And often. Like in the porn videos. Strange. Regular. Now I said it,” Merril confessed.
Ginny laid a hand on her shoulder. “May I speak freely? Can I say what I want?”
Merril looked at her friend. “Yes, dear. You may. What’s on your mind?” Is she asking for drama? Or really wants my permission?
“You’re naughty!” A glimmer of laughter came out of her, and a glint of a devil in her eyes. “I’ve told you and I’m telling you again. That is a stupid idea,” her voice no longer sounded like a dentist’s drill, high-pitched and persistent, now low and agreeable, “We only live once.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow playfully, a smirk tugging at her lips as she declared, “We’re like Elsa and Anna from ‘Frozen’. Now, the real question is, who are you?”
“Oh, I’m Elsa and you’re Anna,” Merril said.
“We’re more like Thelma and Louse,” Ginny said.
“Instead of banks, it’ll be men. Older men with money to show and a reputation to hide.
“I think you’re mixing the movies, that’s The Sundance Kid you’re thinking of,” Merril said.
“Sounds like a business plan to me,” Ginny said.
“You know it’ll end like Thelma and Louise, don’t you,” Merril said.
Then let’s pay well and last as long as we can,” Ginny said, again holding up her glass to clunk with Merril’s and make packing-toast for the future.
“I want to work. Get out of the house. Have my money,” Merril said, drum-rolling finger taps on the bar.
“You really believe in magic?” Ginny paused, letting her words sink into both of them. “Elsa and Anna had magic, so can we.”
Staring at a distant point, “You really believe in magic? Don’t you? Okay, I give. Then start with a regular job,” Ginny said, “and use it to get some action on the side for pay.”
“So you’ll help me?” Merril said, delighted
After a long pause, “I heard of a job opening with a home builder. There is one. A home builder,” Ginny said.
“Honey, you’re repeating yourself,” Merril said.
“He told the bartender. I overheard him.”
“That could work. Money. High-End homes,” Merril said.
He is probably married. Merril pulled her hair back. “How old is he? Construction guys all have such tight butts and who doesn’t love the way their Carhartt jackets smell? Sawdust, wood smoke, and cologne.”
Ginny’s eyes widened, shaking her head, “Not — what are the hours? Not — what’s it paying? No? How old is he?” Ginny said, raising her voice’s pitch to emphasize “old.”
Still stuck on nice butts and sweat-stained-smelling Carhartt jackets, the pleasant shiver and tingling between her legs grew more intense. She turned towards the empty dance floor and adjusted her boobs in her bra again. “Okay. Okay. Okay, that too, but is he married? How old is he?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?” Ginny said, drumming her fingers now on her beer glass.
Either too young or too old won’t work for me. Merril put her hand under her friend’s chin, and with a love squeeze said, “I will ask him,” with emphasis on the word will.
Ginny’s vacant stare ended when she yelled to the bartender, “Brewster!”
Pushing a five-dollar bill toward him as he walked up, “Brewster, who’s that construction guy? That one who told you he needed a receptionist? In here a couple of days ago? I need his name and number.”
“Hmmm, let me think.” Brewster took the five. “Yeah. Ginny, just a minute.” He walked over to the cash register, looked through some papers alongside. Then the member’s booklet, wrote something down and came back to them. “The guy’s name is Tommy. Tommy Arnold. His company is Arnold Homes.”
Brewster handed Ginny the piece of paper. “Here’s his cell number. Why? You looking for a job?”
Smiling, Ginny sat up straight, puffed out her chest, “I got a job, dear. I have to be here in the afternoons to keep an eye on your sweet ass.”
Merril piped up, “No. I’m looking for a job. Ginny is asking for me.”
“Whatever? Good luck,” he said, and walked away.
Suddenly, she’d overcome her boredom and was motivated to make something happen. Rising, Merril left her chair and headed towards the ladies’ room.
Merril’s wooden three-quarter-inch heels rang sharply on the tile floor. Five steps away from the bar, she turned and said back to Brewster, “Bring us another round. I’m buying — be right back.”
