My Shame 1

My shame follows me everywhere.

I feel it when I wake up. I sleep restlessly, waking blearily to my alarm, waddling on unsteady feet to relieve my full bladder.

I see it in the mirror. My face barely seems my own. The cheeks are bloated, the eyes filled with shame.

I'm aware of it as I get dressed. Different clothes now. Plain panties and bra, a cheap dress.

When I go into work, everyone knows it. Nobody says anything to my face, but their smirks, their whispers remind me that they know everything.

***

I stride into the staff entrance to the museum, trying my best to keep my eyes forward, not to meet eyes with any onlookers. To occupy my mind, I take stock of myself. 40 years old, married for 20. Master's degree in art history. Lucky to be employed, in this economy. But there is still my mistake, my shame. I'm 40 years old and I managed to wreck my life like a dumbass teenager.

I walk down the main hall, heels clicking on marble, past my old office. Someone else works there now. Another woman. Younger, thinner, prettier than me. Smarter than me too, if she's kept her career on track.

I take the service elevator to the basement. The walls are scuffed, the floor plain linoleum. The doors open, revealing the museum restaurant's back of house.

"You're five minutes late," barks Jonathan, my manager. "If it happens again, I'm docking your pay."

I mumble apologies, still unused, after six months, to having the kind of job where you need to clock in. I grab an apron and a tray, steeling myself for a shift of fake smiles and insincere pleasantries. Before I can walk out the door to the dining area, Jonathan intercepts me.

"Listen Kate," he says. "I want you to know how lucky you are to have this job. After the, uh, scandal, upper management didn't want you working anywhere here. It's difficult to get the cash to pay you under the table, but I do it because I feel sorry for you and I want to help a woman in need. But if you make trouble for me, well, I'm going to have to let you go. Understand?"

I nod. My throat is tight. This little speech is humiliating, but I know I can't cry. Not in front of Jonathan. Not just before my shift.

"Good girl," says Jonathan. He gets close to me, and I can see the pores in his greasy face, smell the coffee on his breath. "And I'll see you after your shift for your 'bonus'. I hope you appreciate the special arrangement we have."

"I do," I mange to croak out, and mercifully he backs off. I rush past him, eager to get away from him, even if it means running headlong into a room of demanding diners.

***

The restaurant is small compared to the rest of the museum, so it's always crowded. From the 9am opening onwards, almost every table is occupied by visitors stopping in for breakfast, brunch, lunch, snacks, afternoon tea. Still, I am glad for the chaos in the restaurant. As long as I can keep busy, I can keep my mind off what a mess my own life has become. The customers don't tip well, but as long as I keep rushing around few of them reprimand me. Jonathan even says "Nice job" and pats me on the ass when I find seating for a particularly unruly family of eight. I could do without the ass pat, but I enjoy the compliment.

It's only in the late afternoon that things slow down. My gait slows, my energy sapped by thoughts of my life and the building ache in my feet. I hazard a glance at the clock. Not even 4:00. Over three hours until the end of my shift. I begin to move more economically, hoping to preserve my strength and avoid blisters from walking too much in my heels. Fortunately, patrons at this hour are inclined to linger over their desserts and coffees, so they don't mind if I'm a bit slower bringing checks.

A new diner comes in and is seated at one of my tables. She seems familiar, but I can't place her. Thin, blonde, about my age. For a moment, I fear she's one of my former coworkers, but then I realize none of the museum faculty ever ate at the restaurant, and anyway I'd recognize her right away. Maybe I've seen her on TV or in a movie. Sometimes we do have minor celebrities dining here. It's a coin toss whether they're friendly or conceited. I'd like to avoid the risk of dealing with a conceited one, but I can't put her off forever. If she complains about slow service, Jonathan will take it out on me. Feeling pain with each step, I make my way over to her table.

When I come to take her order, she does a double-take, stares at me for a moment and then exclaims: "Kate!"

"That's me," I reply, too surprised she knows my name to say anything else.

"Kate--It's been ages! I hardly recognized you! How have your been?"

And then I realize. It's Alice, my old college roommate. We fell out of touch after graduation, but a few years ago we added each other on social media. I recognized her from her posts on Instagram: picture-perfect domestic scenes, extravagant vacations, expensive outfits. It struck me as obnoxious enough to not meet up with her, even though we lived in the same city, but not obnoxious enough to unfollow her. And, I realize, I _had_ seen her on TV. She the lawyer in a big court case a few months ago and gave interviews on the news.

"Wow, Alice," I manage. "It's been so long."

"I know--I've barely seen you since...junior year?"

"Yes. Back then, I never thought I'd meet you at a place like this. I always wondered what you were going to do as an art major. But when you married Mark--"

"Matt," I corrected.

"Well, when you got married, I said to myself, 'It'll all work out, she's got her M.R.S. degree.' Ha ha! Oh, that was so long ago. How times have changed. Back then, it seemed like I had all the time in the world. But I've been so busy lately--what with the McDougall case, and the press interviews, this is the first time off I've had in months. Of course, once I won the case, the firm made me a named partner and insisted I take a few weeks off. Now I'm just knocking around, a tourist in my own city! But how have you been?"

"Well, I've kept busy in my own way..."

"I'll say! Oh, I'm so impressed by you."

"Really?"

"Yes. Most women I know are so vain. It's refreshing to see a woman who isn't trying so hard to keep her looks."

"Uh, thanks, I guess..."

"I mean, take your hair. I remember how you used to bleach it back in college. I think you were trying to fit in with me and my clique. But it was just pathetic. You must be real proud of your natural color to have it like that. A nice brown, like, uh, like a mouse or something."

"I guess it just wasn't worth the effort to keep up."

"And your figure! These days, everyone I know is counting calories and spending hours in the gym. But I can see you've given all that up. When are you due?"

"In two weeks."

"Makes sense. Your belly is so big, you look like you're about to pop. Anyway, like I was saying, most women are too selfish these days. I suppose I'm guilty of that myself--no kids, even though my husband has been pestering me about one. But the moms I know, well, they always put themself first. Barely showing any belly, even in the third trimester. 'I need to keep my bikini body,' they say. 'I can't gain more than 15 pounds. I'm trying to avoid stretch marks.' But I can tell you're putting your kid first. I bet you have them all over your belly."

"Yes," I answer, my cheeks beginning to redden.

"Well, you've earned your tiger stripes, that's what I say. Now that you have a mombod, you should be proud, even if you're not the prettiest. And Mark must be proud to be a father."

"My husband, Matt, isn't the father."

"Oh, really?" Alice's face lights up. "Do tell." She motions to the chair on the other side of the table, but before I can react Jonathan is at my side.

"How long does it take to get someone's order, Kate?" he says. "Do I need to--"

"Sir, please excuse me," Alice interrupts him. "Kate is an old friend, and I just wanted to catch up with her. Maybe you can spare her a little while?" She moves a hand towards him, as though waving, but there is something in her fingers. A green rectangle, Ben Franklin's portrait.

Jonathan reaches out, pockets the bill. "Enjoy your talk, ladies," he says with a grin. Then he drops it, looks at me. "But finish before the dinner rush. I don't want things to get backed up this evening."

I nod, take a seat. Jonathan wanders off, though I'm sure he'll keep an eye on us. I sit, glad to get off my feet for the first time that day.

"So...spill the tea, what happened?" Now that I have gossip, Alice finally treats me like a peer. Still, I know it won't last. I begin my story. I've told it many times--I'm required to tell everything, whenever I'm asked--but that doesn't make telling it any easier.

"Most women are big on clitoral stimulation for orgasm," I begin. This is how I ease into it. Clinical language, generalizations. But I can't put it off forever. I take a breath, dive into the heart of the matter. "However, I'm not most women. For me, it's all about penetration. The deeper, the better. And thicker too. I like to be stretched out."

"Kate...!" Alice is shocked. She's never heard me be this explicit. Up until six months ago, almost no one had. She must be wondering what's making me so open about my proclivities. She'll find out by the time I'm done.

"Matt always tried his best to please me, but I wanted something he couldn't give me."

"Vibrators are a girl's best friend," chimes in Alice.

I smile. "In my case, dildos. Big ones. I enjoyed using them, and Matt enjoying watching me use them. But I wanted more. I wanted the real thing."

Alice's eyes grow wide. "You cheated?"

"Not quite. Matt agreed for me to have one night with another man. There were a few conditions. He had to watch, et cetera. We put some posts on the internet. I was looking for a certain type. A big cock. Long and thick. Men contacted us, and we had them send over information. The main thing was a dick pic, but they also had to show they were disease free. You see, I didn't just want to be penetrated. I wanted them to cum in me. Matt had been my first boyfriend, the only person I'd ever had sex with. I wanted to feel cum squirt deep inside of me, deeper than it had ever been before."

"So, Matt has a small cock?"

"It's OK. About five inches. That's average, I guess. But I wanted something bigger, much bigger than average."

"How much bigger?" Alice is all ears for the juicy details.

"Honestly? About a foot. Some of my dildos are that size."

Alice's eyes grow wide. "That's huge! Does it hurt?"

I shake my head. "I'm always careful to ease into things and use plenty of lube. Not that I need it--I'm gushing wet when I fuck myself with a dildo that big. Well, the first few times with the big dildos, I was sore the morning after. But now I'm used to it."

"Wow, you really like them big."

"What can I say? I'm a bit of a 'size queen.'"

"So, you found someone big enough and had a threesome with him and Matt?"

"Well, not quite. You see, we had a few promising candidates, but they fell through at the last minute. So, we kept looking, and we found two men who we pursued simultaneously. When the time came, both showed up."

"So you had a foursome?"

"Yeah, if you can call it that. Matt just sat on the side and watched."

"How was it?"

"It was great! Everything I had hoped for." For a moment, my eyes grow misty as I recall that night. "They both came deep inside of me. I lost count of my orgasms. Even Matt enjoyed it. He probably came in his pants three times."

"Wow. I'm guessing you go pregnant from that night."

I nod.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. We worked backwards from the timing. That's the only night I could have conceived."

"So there's no chance it's Matt's?"

"No. Matt was traveling a lot for work that month, so there were only a few times we had sex. Leading up to the night, I didn't have any sex with Matt, to keep myself fresh for the other men. And the morning after, Matt was on a plane for a two week business trip."

"I still can't believe it. Weren't you on birth control?"

"I was on the pill, but it's not 100% effective. I guess I'm one of the 'lucky' 1%."

"Couldn't you get an abortion?"

"I went on some medication around the same time. The side effects included weight gain and irregular periods, so I didn't realize I was pregnant until it was too late."

"So, you're going to have a another man's baby." Alison can't help but smile at this. "Do you think it will at least look like Matt's?"

I shake my head. "One of the men was Black, and the other was Hispanic. Matt is white, pale white. There's no chance anyone will see us together and think he's the father of my child."

"Is Matt leaving you?" I can't tell if Alison is actually concerned for me or just digging for more gossip. It doesn't matter. I have to tell her everything, regardless of her intentions.

"No," I say. "He was devastated when we found out. Even though I pieced it together, he refused to believe me and insisted on a paternity test. When it came back negative, he cried."

"Did you contact the actual father?"

"We couldn't. Everything was done anonymously. The only thing we know is the child isn't Matt's."

"That must have been hard for him."

"It was. There were a lot of hard conversations. We even considered divorce, but Matt agreed to stay with me, and even to raise the child as its own."

"He must have taken some persuading."

"I had to beg him."

"I bet you offered him as much as sex as he wanted. Now that you're knocked up, there's no worry about consequences."

"Actually...I've gained so much weight now. We haven't been intimate in months. I'm just too big, and his...well, his male part isn't big enough to get into me now." The last part brings me some satisfaction to say. Matt has brought me so much humiliation. It's only right that I get my own dig in.

"Have you tried--"

"We've tried everything. My belly is too big from the front, my fat ass is too big from the back. If I try to get on top, he says I'm crushing him. He's stopped even asking for sex. I think he's no longer attracted to me. I was on the track team when we met. I was so skinny then. Now, I feel like a beached whale. And the stretch marks..."

"I'm surprised he's still with you."

"He said he didn't want to make me a single mom. But he also said he didn't want to pay child support. At this point, I don't know if it's loyalty, selfishness or spite that keeps him in the marriage."

"But raising another man's child...how can he be OK with that?"

"He said it would be the same as if we had adopted. He was still upset about what happened, so there was one condition, to ensure I'm as publicly humiliated as he will be: I have to be honest with everyone about how our child was conceived."

"You mean--"

"Yes, I've told this story dozens of times. To my friends, my neighbors, even my family."

"How did they react?"

"Well, I've lost some friends. And those that still talk with me look at me with--a sort of mix of pity and disgust. I think my family feels the same way. Things have been awkward with them. And of course, there's what happened at work."

"What was it?"

"Well, I had to tell everyone. Even my co-workers. I used to be a curator here. I was on the fast track. There was talk of making me head of the Impressionism department when the current head retired next year. If things went well, I might have even become head of the museum a few more years after that. But of course I got myself knocked up, and I had to tell everyone what happened. I was obligated to tell my entire story with all the details, like I just told you. Some people got offended, they said my behavior was unprofessional, they complained to HR, and I was fired. I had a hard time finding a job, but Jonathan, my manager--well, my new manager now--heard about what happened to me and let me work here, under the table."

"Oh, that's nice," says Alison. "If you get paid in cash, then you don't have to pay taxes. I wish I was so lucky. Every April, I get grumpy, waiting to hear my accountant tell me how much I'm on the hook for." She smirks at her backhanded compliment. She doesn't have to say it, but we both know that even after every tax imaginable her paycheck dwarfs mine. Still, Alison can't resist twisting the knife a bit more. "I mean last year, it was almost $100,000! Can you believe it?"

A couple comes in, and I get up. My conversation with Alison has run its course, and if I leave customers waiting Jonathan will take it out on me. The rest of the afternoon passes uneventfully, although as I serve Alison, I can see the look in her eyes, some combination of condescension, titillation, amusement and pity.

Alison finally leaves. She tips me 100%. It's just another way to flaunt her wealth, but I need to money too much to care. She also leaves a business card under the receipt. The front is engraved with the text: "José Sanchez, Personal Trainer". On the back, Alison has written: "After you have your baby, give José a call. He's helped lots of my friends lose the baby fat." I can't help but marvel how Alison, despite no longer being present, manages to combine condescension and flaunting. I toss the business card in the trash. I already know that, even if every table tipped like Alison did, an hour of that high-class personal trainer's time would cost more than my entire day's paycheck.

Two more customers arrive. By the time I bring them their orders, three more tables are occupied. Things are picking up, and I let myself get lost in the rhythm of the evening rush. Time slips away, with only the dull ache of my feet to mark the hours, until the next thing I know the restaurant is empty of customers.

Jonathan sees off the hostess, locks the front door behind her. It's just the two of us.

"You wages for the day," says Jonathan, handing me two $10 bills. "But if you're late tomorrow, there'll only be one."

"It won't happen again," I promise as I make my way back to the kitchen. It's hot in here, even hotter than the overcrowded dining room at its peak. I feel myself begin to sweat almost immediately.

"It's your lucky day," says Jonathan. "Two whole cakes went untouched." This is another way I make ends meet. At the end of every shift, Jonathan lets me have any leftover food that would go bad the next day. For some reason, it's mainly desserts. I know I should exercise moderation, but after the stress of a full shift, I want to eat everything, past the point of being full, until I'm eating out of spite. Spite for Jonathan? Spite for myself? I'm not sure. The only thing I'm sure of is that I'll never have my old figure back again.

Jonathan didn't give me any silverware, so I eat the cake with my hands. I'm aware of chocolate smearing on my face, crumbs falling down my cleavage and my dress, but I'm too hungry to care. I'm finishing the last handfuls of the first cake when Jonathan comes over with a glass of milk. I reach out, but he pulls it away.

"If you leave chocolate all over the glass, the dishwasher will be suspicious. I'm not supposed to be letting you even work here, much less eat the leftovers."

I'm not sure I believe him. It sounds like another power play, but I'm in no position to argue. I let him bring the glass to my lips. He tilts it. It's buttermilk, and the liquid is thicker than I expect. I try to drink all of it, but he pours into my mouth faster than I can swallow. I feel trickles of it flowing out the sides of my mouth, down my neck, toward my boobs. I imagine the buttermilk flowing like a slow river into the valley between my breasts, crumbs of cake carried along like pieces of driftwood.

When the glass is empty, Jonathan takes it away, then pulls out a $20 bill.

"Want to double your pay?" he asks.

I nod.

"Good girl," he says and sticks the bill in between my boobs. "Oh, we gotta lock up in 10 minutes, so if you want the other cake, you better multitask."