Lauren Takes Leave (19 page)

She has a point. Unfortunately.

“It looks like a lipstick, doesn’t it, ladies?” Candy
asks.

Several women nod their heads, trying to be diligent
pupils.

“But not everything is what it seems…” She pulls off the
top and flips some microscopic switch. A tiny buzz fills the room. Candy smiles
and holds it out for all to see, rotating her palm this way and that.
“Ingenious, am I right?”

“What is it?” Susie whispers.

As if on cue, Candy responds, “It’s a lipstick vibrator!
Carry it in your purse, take it wherever you go!” She sends it around the room
as her lecture continues. “How many times have you been having dinner, bored by
the company, thinking about getting off—”

“Every Sunday at Grandma’s,” Kat murmurs.

“But, with the lipstick vibrator, all you have to do is
grab your purse and excuse yourself to the powder room—”

“
O
kay, it’s officially time for me to leave.” Kristen
stands and gives a halfhearted wave in our direction. “Tell Hoochie I said good-bye,
will you?”

“But…you’ll miss the pole dancing!” I counter.

“Thank God for small favors,” she says, and is off.

Susie is now in possession of one of the tiny vibrators
being sent around, and is playing with the hidden switch. “It’s kind of cute!”
she says, watching it move in small circles.

Kat raises her eyebrows, turns to me, and mouths, “I might
need one of those.”

I can only hope she’s kidding.

After twenty more minutes of pure shock value, Candy
starts packing up her toys. “Well, that was sooooo much fun! I’ll be here the
rest of the night, in Lady Hoochie’s office, for one-on-one consultations and
to take your orders. I take all major credit cards and am running a special
right now through AmEx. Double points.”

“I wonder if she accepts Saks or Neiman’s,” Kat jokes.

“Oh, by the way,” Candy adds, “lingerie is on display in
Lady Hoochie’s daughter’s room, just past the stairs.”

“Damn! I might have to buy something now,” Susie
complains. She heads toward the lingerie and I follow her. “I’m close to
earning two first-class airline tickets through American Express.”

“Where are Leslie’s kids?” Suze asks.

“At their grandma’s in Rye. And Steven is at a boys’ night
in AC.”

We enter baby Bethany’s room, which has now been taken
over by racks of cheap lingerie.

“Baby Bethany’s Bimbo Emporium,” Kat declares, surprising
us from behind. “I really like what she’s done with the place.”

We wander around and examine the merch. I’m kind of afraid
to touch any of it, since drunk women are trying on all manner of crotchless
panties in the bathroom across the hall and then placing them back on the racks
when they’re done. Some, I notice, are just leaving the lace bras and nighties
on. There seems to be a direct correlation between alcohol intake and clothing
offtake.

A waiter passes by with a tray of Jell-O shots, and Kat
and I eat a few. “I think this party wouldn’t suck so bad if we were even
drunker,” I tell her.

“Okay.” She shrugs. “Let’s see how that works out.”

“Hi, guys,” a voice calls. Kat and I turn away from the
Jell-O to find Shay Greene walking toward us.

“Funny, I just saw her the other day,” I tell Kat. “She
was running for some kind of office or something. Hadley School Board.”

“No shit?” Kat asks, sort of rhetorically. She’s too taken
by Shay’s entrance to utter any more. I know this because, well, so am I.

Shay seems to be moving toward us in slow motion, like a
model in a diet soda commercial. Her long, golden locks sway like wheat in a
field; her thin, perfectly muscular yogalates body is draped in shimmering, one-shouldered,
pale-pink silk. Shay’s husband, the renowned Hadley dentist, has created for
her a perfect set of teeth, which she now flashes at us in a friendly hello.

They’re the kind of teeth that look real and yet look too
good to be true at the same time, which, before I knew about her husband’s
profession, always made me wonder if she’d just gotten the luckiest genes ever.

Because Shay is perfect. She’s gorgeous
and
nice to
everyone. She’s even smart, with a law degree from Columbia. Shay and her
husband have tow-headed ten-year-old twins—boy and girl, of course—and they
live in a big (but not garishly huge) 1930s brick-front colonial with original
crown molding throughout.

Not that I’ve ever been there. But that’s the word on the
street.

Shay works as a consultant to women starting their own
businesses—when she isn’t chairing some fundraiser for the schools, libraries,
and local hospitals, that is, or running for the school board.

Kat and I gawk for the merest split second, because how
can we not? Shay’s our grown-up world’s version of the prettiest cheerleader,
the alpha girl. I always feel a bit awestruck in her presence.

So, Shay and Kat and I start talking about the district’s
budget plans, which, ordinarily, would cause us to roll our eyes at and stifle
some yawns, like we do at faculty meetings. But when Shay talks, her brows lift
animatedly, showing off a wash of silver eye shadow that sparkles so
appealingly that I find myself nodding in harmony with Kat and learning a thing
or two about the newly piloted foreign language program at the high school.

Then Shay says, “Hey, why don’t we all do some shots of tequila?”
Kat and I are really pretty drunk already, but we say, “Okay, Shay,” because
her charisma, intelligence, and flawless blend of custom-blended foundation
compel us to.

While Shay is hunting for the necessary supplies in
Leslie’s pantry, Kat and I discuss. “Shay-sa-may-zing,” Kat slurs. “It’s
so
not fair.”

“I can’t stop staring at her butt,” I admit. And I don’t
just mean tonight. I mean
always.
Whenever I see it around town. Her
tush is perfectly high and slightly bubble-shaped. It’s bouncy in her Lululemon
spandex Wunder Under cropped pants, yet appropriately demure peeking out from
under a Theory pantsuit. It’s like the ass of a teenager, only Shay’s got to be
close to forty.

Not to dwell, but tonight she’s wearing white jeans that
hug the curve of her toned backside and look sexy without looking slutty. Not
sure how she pulls that off.

Her butt is my butt’s hero and, simultaneously, its
archenemy.

So the next thing we know, Shay’s back with some salt and
limes and Cuervo, and we’re preparing the shot’s ritual. I put a line of salt
on my right hand, ready to begin.

Here’s where things go slightly left of center.

In one fluid movement, Shay reaches out and takes
my
hand in hers. Then she licks the salt off the pudgy part of
my
hand,
downs her shot, slams the empty glass on the table, and sucks on a lime.
“Excellent!” she cheers. “Who’s next?”

I stare down at the damp crease between my thumb and
pointer finger, stunned.

“Did that really juss happen?” Kat whisper-slurs to me.
“Did she juss suck you off?”

It’s not quite the phrase I would use, but I nod my head.
Shay’s tongue felt kind of warm and wet, not unlike a greeting from a
neighborhood Labradoodle.

Though, clearly, this act crossed some line that doesn’t
exist when I’m saying hello to mixed-breed puppies.

I can tell that Kat’s kind of into this round-robin
lickfest, while I’m still mentally—and, fine I’ll admit it,
emotionally
—catching
up. She smiles at Shay and watches as Shay pours some salt onto her own soft,
tanned flesh. I’ll be damned if Kat doesn’t grab that beautiful hand, with its
manicured-in-Mademoiselle fingertips, and suck on it like it’s the last spare
rib at a Chinese buffet.

During this bizarre act of PDA, I can’t help noticing the
large (but not ostentatious) tennis bracelet on Shay’s wrist, as it sparkles in
the candlelight of Leslie’s dining room.

Kat eventually releases Shay’s hand, gulps down the
tequila, and grabs the lime wedge between her teeth.

“Now this is starting to feel like a girls’ night in,”
Shay says, embracing me with one arm and Kat with the other.

I’m wondering if that’s innuendo or if I’m just being
sensitive and stupid. “You mean, like, hanging out with women friends in a
nonthreatening, college-like atmosphere?”

“I guess, if you’re into that sort of sorority play,” Shay
says, in no way helping me make sense of what’s really going on here.

Shay turns to Kat and presses her forehead and nose
against Kat’s forehead and nose. “Your eyes are pretty,” she whispers before
sauntering off, leaving the scent of tuberose in her wake.

“Huh,” Kat says.

“That’s it?” I burp theatrically. “Huh?” I take a shot of
tequila sans salt, not wanting to put my tongue where Shay’s tongue has just
been. The alcohol warms my throat but also kind of makes me want to puke.

“I’m off to the bathroom,” I tell Kat. “Be back in a mo.”

Kat waves me off, distracted.

The hall bathroom is occupado, so I head upstairs. Either
the entire second floor of the home was built on an angle or I’m drunker than I
thought. Steadying myself by running my hand against the wall, I make my way
down the carpeted hallway and into Leslie’s master bedroom.

The room is dark except for the blue glow of the
obnoxiously huge flat-screen on the far wall. Lots of women are piled together
on the four-poster bed, watching an old-school porno on the television,
laughing and talking animatedly.

I wave in the general direction of the crowd and find my
way into the walk-in closet—oops, not it!—and eventually the bathroom.

Leslie has one of those huge, spa-like bathrooms copied
almost tile by tile from the Ritz-Carlton, Naples. It’s all crème- and
brown-toned limestone and marble, with an oversized Jacuzzi tub and a walk-in
shower big enough for a family of four grizzly bears. At one of the two sinks,
I pump some soap into my palm and wash very, very well. Behind me there is a
spaceship-like toilet and a porcelain bidet.

Being in the bathroom makes me realize that I do, in fact,
need to pee. I sit on the modern contraption that must be a toilet, and am
instantly pleased by the warming sensation of the heated seat. Leslie’s rear
end must be pretty high-end, blubber be damned. I sit a little longer than
necessary, and then, just as I am ready to stand, I decide to push a button to
the right of me on the wall, just to see what it will do.

A shock of cold water hits me in the privates.

“Ah!” I call out, surprised. Frantically, I try to turn
off the device while instinctively looking toward the door, afraid that someone
has heard my outburst. But instead of stopping the assault, somehow I hit a
button that turns on a vent. Now cool air replaces the jet spray. Which isn’t
bad, actually. It’s rather soothing.

I settle in for a good long moment, enjoying the York
Peppermint Patty sensation of it all.

My initial distress now replaced with curiosity, I decide
to touch another dial on the wall and mistakenly force the air up to Mach 5.

I don’t think you’re supposed to touch that particular
dial while sitting, because my butt feels like it’s in the eye of a small
hurricane. It’s suctioned to the seat and takes all the strength I have in my
upper torso to oust myself to safety.

And, now that I’m sprawled on the floor, I can tell you
that Leslie has radiant heat under her marble floor tiles.

Why does she also have a bidet when that
Get Smar
t
toilet does it all
? I wonder.

The next thing I know, someone’s pounding on the door.

“Just a minute!” I call, snapping to and quickly dressing.
“Shit!” I slip on the tile while trying to stand and bang my knee. That’s gonna
leave a mark, I think.

I wash my hands so quickly that I spray soap and water
everywhere. Grabbing a decorative hand towel, I begin cleaning up the mess as
best I can. Then, with bionic speed, I manage to make myself somewhat
presentable and swing open the door.

Leslie’s kohl-rimmed eyes meet mine. “Who’s in there with
you?” she demands.

“Who?” I ask, trying to remember how to form words.

“Yes,” she snaps impatiently. “Who. I was in the living
room and I heard banging and shouting coming from above.” She glances past me,
her eyes sweeping the empty bathroom for clues.

I try to relax, but I can feel my cheeks get hot under her
scrutiny. “Was it Tasty? Salty? Or Try Me?” she asks, referring not to Snow
White’s dwarves, but to the waiter/models serving downstairs.

I say nothing, merely trying to blink myself out of this
situation.

“Well,” Leslie concludes, seemingly satisfied with my lack
of an answer. “As long as you didn’t touch Eat Me, because I’m saving him for
dessert, if you know what I mean.” She raises one eyebrow to prove her point.

I cough out a laugh of sorts in response, move past her,
and drunkenly saunter away, leaving her leaning against the doorjamb.

If you’ve never tried an elaborate, specially outfitted
toilet, I suggest it highly. Aside from being a rather astounding force of
nature, it leaves you feeling fresh and clean. Like a car wash for your hoo-ha.

I head back downstairs to find Kat, a spring in my step.

Music is playing pretty loudly now in the kitchen and
family rooms, and a lot of partygoers are dancing with the hired help.

“Have you seen Kat?” I ask a few women huddled around one
of the possibly gay waiter/models. I don’t know half of these women and they
don’t know Kat, so the whole effort is somewhat futile. “Petite, with black
curls? Green eyes? No?” I have to shout to be heard, but the answer is still
no.

Although I know I shouldn’t, I grab a cosmopolitan from a
passing waiter with his tray aloft, and enjoy it in a few gulps. I didn’t
realize how thirsty I was. Probably from all that alcohol. Very dehydrating.