Cinderella Sex
A close up of a person’s legs, clad in black athletic pants, white fishnet stockings, and clear acrylic high heel boots. They sit in a blue plastic ball pit, surrounded by multi-colored spheres.
By. Karen Bowers
Sex with a new partner isn’t much different from buying a pair of shoes. Even with savvy shopping, compatibility boils down to luck. And the price you’re willing to pay.
Whether attracted through unplanned or deliberate window shopping, the prospective purchase must be assessed before committing to the sale.
Flirt with the possibilities,
Unstylish or classy?
hold the goods,
Throw away casual
appraise the quality.
…or investment worthy for the dependability?
Stepping it up a notch, is the touch gratifying and gentle?
Is the embrace too tight, squashing unpleasantly?
Is the caress too slack, too sloppy?
You can thank the salesman, shelve the future, or press onward.
Slipping into the shoes and taking a showroom stroll yields vital information. Ecstasy, because the stride is satisfying and natural, or unfulfilled from a stumbling off-balanced and awkward pace.
Are money back returns allowed after one use?
Warning: Compulsive purchases to dull loneliness precipitates odd choices and if unrestrained, an extravagant shoe collection.
***
“Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world.”
— Marilyn Monroe
***
To fit into the golden slipper in the Brothers Grimm version of the Cinderella story, one stepsister sliced off her big toe, the other cut off a chunk of her heel. In general, I was an intact, unimpaired, semi-frequent shopper at shoe outlets. Pleasure for the sake of pleasure, but with a character hiccup. I valued intercourse as a way to feel wanted. To feel attractive. A fairy tale princess, prettier with the right pair of shoes. Lucky as Cinderella, my latest fun size slipper was a perfect match— sex-wise.
By definition, I wasn’t a bed-hopping shoe slut. Unless the interpretation was from my mother’s dictionary. Sex outside matrimonial boundaries, overreaching nuptial edges, was indiscriminate whoring in her book.
“Why buy the cow if the milk is free?” Mom loosened up from her sexual hang ups to caution against promiscuity and offer her tangled words to the wise on snaring a husband. The moment for that talk was way past the sell date. I’d been a free milk dairy farmer rolling in the hay for quite a spell.
“Why buy the hog when all you want is the sausage?” I was thirty-one, happily unwed, and hadn’t given up harassing my mother.
She had drilled it in to me that sex was only appropriate between two people who loved each other. Save the fun for the honeymoon and marriage. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes pushing and grunting and groping and maybe a baby carriage. Problem was, sex within the confines of marriage didn’t look all that promising or durable.
Equating bedroom romps with being loved was my ultimate undoing. This time, I wasn’t going to make a routine mistake. This time, I wouldn’t get sappy and romantic. I was going to figuratively keep my shoes on. Stay put on the same unsentimental page as the other player. Sex wasn’t going to be anything more than scratching an itch.
***
If the shoe fits, wear it.
***
“I’m not married anymore.”
Michael slapped his hands on the picnic table chiseled with names and initials. We were hanging out in the shelter we used as a command center. We were running a boat race and I’d hired him to supervise the medical and referee chase boats, together with safety concerns on the water and shoreside.
His declaration was puzzling. The look on my face insinuated, you’re telling me this why? We had an informal, yet professional affiliation for the year and a half he moonlighted as an operations manager.
He wiggled his fingers, mimicking a ragtime piano player.
“No wedding ring.”
Short of a chilly, “What does this have to do with me,” I babbled, “That’s nice…I guess. Is it? Nice?” I didn’t have the knack for judging whether his misfortune called for sympathetic intervention. He hardly looked fractured.
“I’ve had it. I tried to make it work. Two years ago we were at a breaking point and I gave my wife an ultimatum. Quit drinking, get your shit together, and I’ll stick around. She didn’t, so I did. Leave, that is.”
Michael scripted the impression he and his wife were separated. Not legally, but flat lined emotionally and physically. He had moved out and on from the burrow he shared with his bride. They hadn’t slept together in two years. The couch had been his bed.
Split up and wised up from my mis-marriage, when sex goes, so goes the rest. Old enough, and shrewd enough, I accumulated other trusty ground rules. (1) Dismiss anyone mutating stalwart adult names into a sophomoric Tommy, Johnny, Billy, Bobby, Joey, et cetera; an odds-on immaturity foghorn worth heeding. (2) Avoid men flaunting lengthy hairstyles. Scraggy rat tails overcompensating for balding crown hair were seriously unacceptable. (3) No tattoos. I preferred changeable art hung on my wall, not permanently displayed on my man. (4) Divorced for three years; minimum. Date any sooner and a phantom third party tagged along to dinner and hovered in the bedroom. (5) No offspring merited twenty-five bonus points. Michael met all the criteria, except for the divorce stipulation.
I slipped a disc in my moral backbone and flew fast on a greased slide, a babe in the woods rationalizing his marriage was over because he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, wasn’t at home boarding with his wife. He roosted on a forty-five foot Hatteras docked in a lineup of other vessels outfitted for extreme blue water sport fishing. The boat owner, a rancher from Montana, only came to the Florida Keys in the winter and Michael bartered maintenance in trade for bachelor pad quarters. The name painted on the boat’s transom was Destiny.
Hedonism mushroomed, despite the seductive summer months of our courtship clog clomping all over the real world’s toes like a dancer with a couple of left feet. I whitewashed outright trouble while noting good days, bad nights, dreamy dates, and nightmare disappearances with a code of X’s representing the number of sheets Michael hoisted to the wind. There were a lot of X’s on the day planner pages. His wife wasn’t the only one degrading their marriage by being over-served.
Studies have shown sexual desire and low self-control drive infidelity. The most powerful predictor of cheating is steered by dissatisfaction within an existing relationship. Evident in Michael’s compulsive alcohol consumption, his restraint was a worn down muscle. And his wedlock was broken. And we were both hot to trot. The shoes sold themselves.
***
A lie can travel half way around the world
while the truth is putting on its shoes
— Charles Spurgeon
***
Michael’s primary source of income required his presence on the Florida mainland for the weekend. I fluttered into the marina with a tub of coleslaw, a bottle of wine, an 8-piece bag of fried chicken, and got ready for some welcome home carousing.
I crammed the bottle of Pino Grigio into the boat’s small refrigerator to chill for the picnic dinner. Since there was no stopping my lover’s boozing, abstaining from my favorite grape juice was pointless self-deprivation. I tidied the salon, rectified the crumpled mess on the V-berth bed with crisp fresh sheets and washed the crusty dishes in the galley sink. I put a vase of perky flowers on the table, moved the bouquet to the shelf above the control panel of baffling switches, toggles, and blinking lights, reconsidered, and returned the arrangement to the table. Satisfied all was shipshape, I watched from the flybridge helm for Prince Charming’s arrival. He swashbuckled toward Destiny and I waved as if he were a returning soldier. He waved back and a glimmer sparked off his wedding ring.
The cruelty of the gold-plated glint bore a hole into my soul. I pasted an artificial smile over the betrayal and acted responsive to his unaffected hug as my acuity hyperventilated. From then on, wherever I saw Michael, whenever we were together, I zeroed in on his left hand. What I got a load of turned my stomach. Still, reality was too wimpy for withstanding my over-rationalized, make-believe dominion. Bad became worse, and worse became swinish. He moved back to his marital apartment and wore his wedding ring “out of respect” for his wife.
“What about respect for me? Don’t tell me how much you hate your wife. How much better I am than her. Then walk out the door to go home…to her!”
My sitting duck, blind trust was violated. The “special” thrill, exterminated. I stupidly; ridiculously; naively got involved with a married man and ended up feeling like a cheated on spouse.
But the sex was still good.
Turns out, shared vulnerability and empathy between the wounded provided mind blowing intimacy beyond ordinary toe-curling physical pleasure.
***
Comfortable shoes and the freedom to leave
are the two most important things in life.
— Shel Silverstein
***
I smoldered through the last leg of the Holiday Trifecta of Horror — my birthday, Thanksgiving, and New Year’s Eve — the times it blew being forgotten. Lothario reserved celebrations, feasts, and toasts for his wife and their friends.
Identical to the ire holed up and seething without assistance and camaraderie throughout a tropical storm rolling into a Cat 1 hurricane, I rang out the Old and celebrated the New, alone, like a good little kept woman. Except my darling didn’t pay for a love nest. Didn’t fly me to the Champs-Elysees for haute couture retail therapy. Didn’t reimburse discreet l’amour with lavishness. No, my sweetheart couldn’t cough up spare change to fund a gallon of gas for a junket to my house. Bruised and disgusted, I vowed a resolution to no longer dishonor myself by ignoring the truth and living in a fantasy.
A lousy date was the final shove toward upholding my newly minted promise. Michael asked if I’d like to go to a cantina in his neighborhood and listen to the band he’d been raving about.
“Is this a date? Are you asking me out to a public place?” I badgered.
“Yes. A real date. I’ll even come pick you up.”
“Doesn’t your wife and all her friends go there? Isn’t Sunday their standing Girls’ Night Out?”
“They’re not going this week. She’s gotta work.”
I was thrilled to be sprung from isolation. Seclusion was soothing for him and a home office consequence for me. Going anywhere with Michael was a treat, an infrequent novelty. When we did cut loose from being sequestered, we had a good ol’ time.
Outside the window, the diesel chatter from his truck rattled, faltered, and quieted. I had a minute for a perfume spritz before he crossed the threshold.
“Ullo Luv!” He took a gander and said, “Wow, you look great!” I beamed in the light of his compliment and corny English accent.
Grabbing my keys, I said, “I’ll drive. Diesel is expensive and you’ll only have one round trip.” Call it enabling. In this case, it was survival of the fittest.
We sat at the outdoor bar, near the musicians, facing the patio entry. Empty tables were scattered every which way, set for a larger audience.
“Oh no,” Michael groaned.
A bevy of gilded dames sauntered like runway models into the patio area. His wife brought up the rear. The women commandeered the center of the courtyard, shoving tables together, scraping chairs into place. The band stuck with it, played over the racket, and I stared, my bottle of Corona stopped short of the next sip. The key lime wedge floated in suspended animation.
“You said she wasn’t going to be here,” I hissed.
“It’ll be okay,” he insisted. I wasn’t convinced.
Michael edged the wedding ring from the small watch-pocket of his jeans and slithered it over his knuckle. Our date ground to a crude halt. He left me high and dry and defected to the cobbled banquet table, inviting himself to his wife’s party. He bought a round of drinks for the girls, ingratiated his presence, increased his credit card balance. Eventually he retreated to the bar and graced me with a butt-side view while he eyeballed his spouse. He didn’t notice when I made a break for the bathroom.
Cloistered in the handicap stall with a private sink for a reclusive cold water splash, I heard heels clattering in the hallway and a crescendo of yakking as the bathroom door opened.
“I didn’t think he was going to be here.”
I couldn’t identify the pitying speaker. It was clear to whom she was referring.
“I didn’t think he would be either.”
This voice I knew. His wife didn’t mention my presence. Regardless of the absolution, I hid behind the locked door in the oversized stall until the room emptied.
I stormed to my seat next to Michael and snatched my purse hanging from the swivel barstool. It revolved on its axis, spinning a triple sow cow rotation.
“I’m outta here.”
“Wait!” Lord Asshole grabbed my arm. “How’m I supposed to get my truck?”
“Really?!” The Lord elevated his rank and privilege to Duke of Dickhead. “You’ll figure it out.”
I hoofed it to the parking lot, yanked open the car door, and whipped my purse at Michael’s imaginary head. The bag glanced off the passenger side window and landed on the seat. Giving it all the gas it could handle, I floored the Honda and streaked to my house, jolted, repulsed, and setting new land speed records for livid.
Midmorning, the next day, Michael weaseled onto the front porch. He was going to knock and wait for me to answer instead of using his key and traipsing in as usual. I opened the door and crossed the living room to where I’d been sitting. His raised arm hung in the air next to the rancor wafting his way.
Unsympathetic, but curious, I asked, “How’d you get here?” I honestly didn’t care.
He pussyfooted to the chair across from me. “I got dropped off.” In an instant, I was concerned.
“Terrific. Now your wife knows where I live.” Hard telling what kind of havoc a volatile scorned spouse could dish up. Then I remembered. I’m invisible.
“Nah, I walked here. I had her leave me off at the highway.”
He didn’t hit the bricks for my benefit. He hiked three miles to save his den of iniquity.
“It wouldn’t matter if she brought you here. I’m done.” I sounded off and spelled it out. “Remember Fudd’s First Law of Opposition from Firesign Theatre? If you push something hard enough, it will fall over? Well, here’s my Law of Rejection: If you push someone away long enough, they will leave.”
Michael wasn’t prepared for the destruction barreling down on him. I, on the other hand, had had plenty of opportunities to rehearse the delousing. Almost a year of broken promises, misery, and learning to decipher if an alcohol related crisis was merely an incident. I was sick and tired but not as sick as Michael looked when what was happening dawned on him.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”
Welcome to my world pal. “I’m not rejecting you. I’m rejecting the position I’ve put myself in. I deserve honor and kindness. I can’t attract respect until I have it for myself.”
“This is just great. I never wanted to love again,” he rasped, a jumble of spite, scorn, disbelief, and devastation.
“Well, neither did I. You and I both know it was initially all about the sex. Who knew we’d end up loving each other.”
I clawed my way out from falling in love. The pain had become too much. Feeling like a turd overruled shadowy truths and crafty excuses. His and mine.
A tear rolled down his cheek. My eyes were dry. The saltwater pool had long since been drained.
“You told me you felt like your love was split in two. Well, no wonder when you’re in two half-assed relationships.” Infuriation verged on viciousness as my composure waned. “You need to fish or cut bait. Either way, I’m done being miserable. I’m climbing out of this hole.”
Michael and I overstepped boundaries and traded a professional relationship for personal in the same horny, nothing ventured, nothing gained, strike while the iron is hot, opportunistic playing field. Then scratched the itch until it bled.
Cinderella’s shoes, scuffed and threadbare from friction and resentment, had fallen apart.
When photography converted from film to digital, Karen Bowers retired as a commercial photographer and moved to the Florida Keys where she reinvented herself as a destination marketer. She promoted and directed a successful southernmost beach launch dragon boat race until relocating to Arizona. She currently writes from her 1914 hermitage and works as a pro tem librarian in rural Arizona, substituting whenever and wherever needed throughout Yavapai County. She has completed a memoir titled Pushed off the High Dive. Cinderella Sex is, in part, an excerpt from the manuscript.