By the time I got home, it had sunk in, just what all I had done.
I felt beyond dirty. The smell was probably not as strong as I imagined, but I felt like I was sitting in a miasma of nastiness.
On some level, I liked it. But on another I was disgusted.
In the house, I barely made it to the bathroom before I was as violently sick as I hadn't been since the morning sickness of pregnancy. I threw up and gasped and threw up and gasped and threw up some more. The dry heaves were even worse and as I gagged and strained I was vaguely aware that the way my body was straining I was adding to the mess in my panties. I was hanging onto the bowl like it was a lifeline, thick ropes of bile and saliva hanging from my mouth along with thick clear mucus from my nose. I was gasping and tears were streaming down my cheeks.
Finally, as it must, it passed and I could get back to my feet.
I noticed that my dress was spattered with puke as I unbuttoned and pulled it off, so I tossed it into the clothes hamper to be taken to the laundry. I threw my bra in too. As I pulled my panties off I wasn't surprised at how dirty they were but the brown stain low on the back of my girdle did surprise me. For some reason, it was that rather than any of the other depravity of the day that made me feel ashamed.
I buried the panties and girdle deep in the dirty clothes hamper and breathed a sigh of relief that my petticoat hadn't been stained as well.
In the shower, I washed my face, slowly softening the crust under my nose, washed and put conditioner in my hair, and then washed my body carefully and thoroughly. I had realized, on the way home, that I had better be careful when those naughty urges took me or I'd be fighting yeast infections or get a UTI (that's a urinary tract infection for those of you with a Y chromosome not afflicted with such).
And I knew, beyond any doubt, hell, beyond any hope of redemption, that there would be other times.
But the long hot shower did its work and when I was clean and dry I felt ready to face whatever was to come.
I did my face and hair carefully, cinched myself into a bra, got my panties on, and squirmed, and pulled my way into my old-fashioned girdle. I smoothed the nylons up my legs, checking to make sure my seams were straight, and then my petticoat before slipping on another dress, something I had bought because it looked so much like one I had seen Lucille Ball wear in an episode of
I Love Lucy
. It was pink and the notched collar and sleeves were white. The white pumps completed the outfit and I felt like myself again, like a perfect
haus frau
stepping out of a scene from the
Donna Reed Show
or
Leave it to Beaver
.
I felt pretty as I worked around the kitchen preparing dinner.
I had a long talk with myself before setting the table but in the end, I sat three places. I was pretty sure Lori would be joining us.
And then I was at wit's end. The roast was in the oven, the table was ready, and I had nothing to do. So I dusted lightly, something that took only five minutes. Then I just sat, the television on but I have no idea what was playing, and thought.
I was surprised at that deep visceral level that sometimes happens, to realize that I was happy.
Then I giggled as an image flashed through my mind. When I was in college I took a course in Contemporary Literature and read a book,
The Stepford Wives
, that dealt with a fictitious town, in Connecticut if memory serves but it might have been Rhode Island or Maine or somewhere else, where once bright and serious women were turned into submissive Donna Reed or June Cleaver clones. The theme was "anti-feminism" and I recoiled from that book.
But sitting there, mindlessly watching television, dressed to look like Donna or June, my bra uncomfortable, my girdle pinching, and my belly getting warm with anticipation, I thought maybe the men of Stepford had something.
When the 5:00 news came on I got up and mixed a pitcher of Margaritas and put them in the freezer. I wanted dinner to be festive.
As 6:00 came and went I got the roast out and set it on a platter, sliced and surrounded by vegetables presented, I thought, pretty artfully. It was a presentation I had seen in my HGTV magazine.
By 6:30 things were getting cold so I put the platter in the over set low to keep everything warm.
By 7:00 I was weeping, watching the talking heads blur through my tears.
They walked in at 8:13. I know because by then I was watching the clock pretty closely.
"You could have," I started, intending to finish with "called," but I didn't get the chance to finish my sentence.
Lori slapped me, an open-handed slap that snapped my head around and made my ears ring.
"Your husband and I are hungry, Martha," she said, sounding almost reasonable, "now do your fucking job and get something on the table, please."
I was holding my cheek then, tears running down my cheeks, my nose running, and I looked at David.
"Go on," he said, no hint of sympathy in his voice or his eyes, "get moving."
I was embarrassed.
I was humiliated.
And deep in my belly, I felt the first stirring of excitement.
"HEY!" Lori called as I started moving to the kitchen.
When I turned she was holding out the third plate, napkin, and silverware. "Take these," she said, "servants eat in the kitchen."
I didn't hesitate or argue, I just took them and went into the kitchen.
I made no attempt to wipe my eyes or my nose as I got the roast and veggies out of the oven and took them into the dining room.
I moved from plate to plate and served them.
"Do you need anything else?" I asked.
"This is fine," Lori said.
I noticed that David had said nothing since they got home.
I stood back, standing against the wall, and waited in case they would need something more.
There was something about the situation that was getting to me. In part, it was the need I felt to stand, quietly, like a servant. In part it was their casual conversation, talking about work and clients and other people at work. In part, it was the way they talked about me as if I wasn't there.
"I think I'll have Martha run me over to the apartment after dinner," Lori said.
"Oh?" David said, "You won't be spending the night?"
"Don't be silly," she said, "of course I will. But I want to see how Martha did with her housecleaning chores and I need to bring some clothes over. I can't wear the same thing two days in a row."
"Of course," he said.
While I stood, silent.
When they finished their dinner I gathered up the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, and put leftovers away. I was hungry and wiping the table down when Lori called, "Come on Martha, let's go."
I didn't dare hesitate. I left the dishcloth on the table and went to her.
