A Special Place for Women, Laura Hankin [brene brown rising strong .txt] 📗

“Um,” I said, struggling to keep my body language neutral. “I don’t know.”

“It could also mean a more general frustration,” Margot said. “Feeling blocked or stuck.”

I gave a vigorous nod. “Yeah, frustrated! It’s probably because I’m trying to edit my novel and can’t tell if what I’m doing is helping or hurting,” I said, and then, desperate to lighten the mood, joked, “Or maybe I’m frustrated because I haven’t gotten laid in a long time.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized my mistake.

Margot and Vy exchanged a look. “Oh, but I thought—you and Raf aren’t . . . ?” Margot asked.

“Well,” I said, grasping at straws. “We’re together and things are going really well, but we’re taking it slow, physically.”

“Of course,” Margot said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“We totally do stuff! Hand stuff.” I scratched the back of my head. “Um, mouth stuff. He’s got a great mouth!” It was true, actually. Raf’s mouth was one of his best features. Vy snorted—it wasn’t a laugh, I’d never seen Vy laugh or even smile—and stared down into her tea. “But I feel like I’ve rushed into sex too much in the past and because I really like him, I wanted to . . . take our time, you know?”

I was fumbling, but Margot’s eyes grew sympathetic and she reached out to clasp my hand in hers. “I do know,” she said. “Please, don’t feel like you have to make any excuses to me.” She hesitated. “I was . . . Keep this private, please, but I was in a relationship for years where I often had sex just to please my partner even though it could be painful for me. Occasionally I would have to go to the bathroom afterward and cry.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

She nodded. “I think I had undiagnosed vaginismus, not that my gynecologist at the time was taking any of my concerns seriously, which is why I’m never going to a male gyno again.” I hadn’t seen Vy touch anyone before this, hadn’t even necessarily thought her capable of tenderness, but now she rubbed Margot’s back protectively as Margot went on, her voice a little shaky. “But if I didn’t have sex regularly and pretend that I liked it, my partner would get . . . well, he wouldn’t be happy. Not that he ever forced me, but the whole night would be off. I felt that I had to keep him content, even though that meant making myself miserable.” She blinked a few times. “So I admire you for setting those boundaries. I wish I could have.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, simultaneously grimy from hearing a secret I hadn’t earned and grateful for the new Margot unfurling in front of me. I’d imagined her whirling from fling to fling, letting whatever man caught her fancy fly her out to Paris to woo her. She radiated so much self-possession that I’d assumed she was one of those women who could just cum seven times in a row, who were so sexually in tune with themselves that they had orgasms doing yoga, silently quaking with ecstasy in pigeon pose. “Is it better for you now? Oh God, sorry, you do not have to answer if that’s too personal!”

“It’s fine,” Margot said. “Things are better. I know who I am, and I try to only have sex on my own terms. Maybe it’s not that often, but men just have to deal with it.” I rearranged the picture in my mind: a man flying Margot all the way out to Paris, taking her on a whirlwind tour of the city, buying her the fanciest champagne, and then her pecking him on the cheek and shutting the door in his face. “Most of the time, they deal with it gracefully. And if they don’t, well . . .” Something flickered in her eyes. “I have ways of making them sorry.”

We all sat in silence for a moment. Vy gave Margot’s back one more solid pat. “I’m so glad I’m a lesbian,” she said, then took another pool filter sip of her tea. “Now finish the reading. I have to go home and feed Anais.” (Was Anais a dog or a kid?)

“Of course!” Margot said, tossing her head as the elevator dinged in the background. “This is supposed to be about you, not me. Let’s see your future card.” She leaned over and began to turn it over when Caroline motored off the elevator and toward the unmarked door that I’d assumed led to a greenroom/office area, walking furiously, stress radiating from her in an almost visceral way. Vy tapped Margot on the shoulder and they watched as a hapless club member attempted to engage Caroline in conversation.

“Caroline!” the club member said, catching up to Caroline right as she passed in front of the other door, the one that Margot had acted so strangely about during my first visit to the club. Caroline turned and plastered on a smile.

“Hi,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to propose an activity,” the member went on, leaning casually against the door. Caroline stiffened, her eyes darting to the door as if to make sure it wouldn’t swing open. Weird—so it wasn’t just trials like me who weren’t supposed to go inside. This door was off-limits to members too. My mind whirred through possibilities of what could be behind it—Secret files? Male prisoners?—as the member kept talking. “My friend would love to come in and teach this awesome workshop she does, How to Spell Your Success.”

“How to spell what?” Caroline asked, her voice tight.

“Your Success—”

“It’s only two words. It doesn’t seem like it would require a whole workshop.”

“Oh, no,” the member said, laughing. “Not spell like letters. My friend’s a witch! So, like, how to pick the best crystals for getting the promotion you want, or lighting a certain kind of candle and sending your energy out—”

“Great initiative, but I don’t think that’s the right fit for our members.” Caroline’s smile was frozen and tight on her face.

“Oh, I’m sorry—” the member began, coming out of her casual