The Lingerie Catalog

(All characters in this story are at least 18 years old when they engage in sex acts. This is an entry in the Valentine's Day Contest. Please read and vote. Thanks.)

*

This is 2020, the e-commerce era, but the postal service still delivers catalogs. One showed up in my mail several days ago. Glossy paper, bright colors, sharp photography. Women in skimpy lingerie, supposedly related to Valentine's Day.

Paper in a mailbox is intended to reassure old folks, that some things seem to be the same as they were before. A 'same' thing doesn't have to be a good thing, just not a bad thing. Getting a catalog in the mail strikes the recipient as normal, something easily understood. Perhaps the catalog will get a lookover, even if it arrived without having been requested.

The e-commerce part of this is hidden. I got the catalog because of my age, gender, life situation, and credit card purchase history. I spent my whole working life in marketing, I'm hip to the game. So I can't, in good conscience, resent those still making a living that way, and sending an old widower a catalog of young women in partial undress. If I wasn't already dating senior singles, then maybe this would shove me in that direction, and get me to respond to the dating ads in the catalog.

As I thumbed through the pages, I did more than admire the posing of the ladies that kept the imagery legal for bulk mail delivery (while I also got frustrated by what was hidden). I reflected, as old folks do, on how different things were long ago. Not in a head-shaking, decline-of-values way. In my youth, Valentine's Day and Halloween were treated almost entirely as events for kids. Around 50 years ago, both started to be reframed as events for horny adults. I had, in fact, made a good chunk of my living from this trend.

With Halloween, graphic horror movies became a sort of test for adolescent males, to see who could stand the most gore. The old justification of a horror flick, to drive a woman into a man's embrace for protection, seemed to recede in importance. In time, women realized that what a man really feared was a woman with a mind of her own. Halloween then came to be about interpersonal fears, hidden behind fears of (or courage against) physical danger.

There were four women in the catalog who really got to me. Fortunately, none resembled my granddaughters, so I could fantasize with only sadness, rather than guilt.

The adult co-opting of Valentine's Day started roughly when the sexual revolution moved from the hippie subculture to the mainstream. Women learned more about their bodies, and began shedding hangups about enjoying them. Men encouraged this, even making ridiculous attempts to act sympathetic to feminism.

My attempts weren't ridiculous. Almost all of them were sincere. I also caught on quickly about staying in touch afterward with any woman who shed some of her inhibitions with me.

Ah, memories. Wild, hot memories. Once I even got lucky on a night when I wore a leisure suit.

Blood flow to my groin doesn't need pharmaceutical encouragement. Arousal takes more time than it once did, but the result is pretty much the same. Sadly, I didn't have anyone to share the erection inspired by the catalog ladies.

Silently I asked,

Why don't I?

It was a question that rarely coalesced in my mind these days. I wondered if I was letting old habits carry over. I had been retired a year and a half, but still tended to think and act the way I did while I was working: Get up, perform tasks, watch TV or surf the web, sleep, repeat. Being alone didn't bother me. If anything, not thinking about what someone else wanted, or thought of me, was a relief.

Things had been bad between Myra and me, for several years.

Then she got pancreatic cancer.

Sadness over what was happening to her seemed to affect me less than my own helplessness and survivor guilt. I compartmentalized all of that after she died, and focused on my job.

So, did some pictures of models in teddies trigger a desire to change my solitary existence? Did they

justify

it?

As I went to sleep that night, I felt crummy about myself.

***

My daughter-in-law Karen must have the matchmaker gene. When I'm around her, by reflex I go out of my way to act upbeat, energetic, and involved with the world. This never stops her from trying to fix me up.

She called the day after the catalog arrived. "Hi Ron. How are you?"

"Fine, Karen," I said, trying not to sound impatient. "Thanks for the well-being check. You never know."

"Oh, you're healthy as a horse. Which is why you shouldn't be depriving the ladies of your presence."

Now I didn't care if impatience showed. "Who is it this time?"

"Can't I invite my father-in-law to lunch?" she chuckled. Then, in mock indignation, "Must my motives always be questioned?"

"Every time."

"Jardin de Oaxaca, 12:30 tomorrow," said Karen. "Please don't dress like you've been painting a garage."

"I'll be there, " I muttered. How did she know that I hadn't been to my favorite Mexican place in three weeks?

***

Myra was beautiful. In time, I became totally smitten with her.

She seemed smitten with me.

I didn't realize why she was. Maybe, in the early going, she didn't either.

When I looked at her, I saw bright blue eyes, long auburn hair, and apple cheeks. I heard a voice that seemed to sing while she spoke of the most mundane things. Her long legs moved smoothly, and her hips swayed naturally, with no intent to make men ache at the sight (which they did). I yearned for everything carnal with her, but also simply for her presence near me.

When she looked at me, some part of her assessed my height, build, features, and intelligence, and decided that I would be the one to make her babies.

At the time, I would have thought that this was exactly what I wanted, forever.

***

To prepare for lunch with Karen and whomever, I shook free of my torpor. I brought out of cold storage my marketing persona, and dressed the part. I even gave the mustache a trim. Ron Corbett here, pack-leading, firm-handshaking, to-the-chase-cutting, always-closing, straight-from-the-shouldering, what-can-I-do-to-make-this-work-asking, master of the whole damn universe. I didn't actually try to make Karen's unsuspecting friend run screaming, but if that happened, hey, she'd probably be better off.

No such luck. Belinda Curry professed to like my energy (even as Karen saw through it and looked like she wanted to slug me). Belinda was maybe twenty years younger than I, with a bell-pepper torso and brown hair cut so short that it had no chance to deflect attention from her bulbous nose and eye bags.

I quickly became desperate to find some deal-breaker that didn't arise from my shallow preferences in female face and form. Fortunately, Belinda provided one. She waxed lyrical about her Hummel figurines, and tchotchkes in general, and her devoted attendance to shows and conventions on all things collectible. This prompted me to get serious and warn her about the tricks of that trade, the artificial creation of scarcity to make collectors spend like maniacs to get complete sets. I didn't admit that I had used all of those tricks. It was entirely possible that, through many intermediaries, some of Belinda's money had lined my pockets.

My warnings grew darker the more I spoke. Belinda resisted, praising the artisans who made the stuff that was in fact mass-produced in third-world sweatshops. Karen tried several times to change the subject, but first Belinda, and then I, brought it back around to the passion that appeared to be the only one in Belinda's life. I became sincerely worried about her, and gently mentioned that there are professionals and support groups that could perhaps help her.

"Nobody gets between me and my collection," said Belinda frostily.

That shut me up. Even Karen stared at her.

Belinda opened the menu sharply and said, "What's good here?"

I got my food to go.

***

That night I was picking up stuff around the apartment to put in the recycling bin. The lingerie catalog was the last item to hit the stack.

I stopped as I stood over the bin, looking at the catalog.

I dumped the rest in the bin and took the catalog to the living room.

One thing led to another. 'Another' being internet porn.

I constructed fantasies from the sight of the women online and their free, willing bodies. But at the point of release, when my eyes squeezed shut, I saw auburn hair fanned out on a pillow, a face turned to one side, eyes closed, open mouth making tiny cries. Long legs clamped around my back as my seed surged into her tight wet warmth.

That wasn't a pleasant trip to dreamland either, but at least I had determined that the equipment still worked.

***

Because of social media, it seems like the only way you can avoid people from your past is to stay off the internet. I wasn't a compulsive friender and liker, but I had bought in to the belief that being online would boost my career (which turned out to be true). So, from the internet, I could be aware of people I'd known in college, and they might have been more aware of me than they chose.

Of all the people I might want to connect with, LuAnn Murchison had to be at bottom of the list.

It was she who sent me a private message, which I noticed on the laptop as I was plodding amongst websites that didn't display naked women.

<<

Hi Ronnie! Long time no see!

I got to thinking the other day about Langdon State alums, and since I've missed some reunions, I haven't seen your handsome face. I'd like to see it again, and I don't mean in a profile picture (but I like yours a lot!). Please get in touch, if you'd like to "clear the air," as the saying goes.

Hugs!

LuAnn

>>

First, I hate being called Ronnie. She did it all the time.

Second, I had no problem with leaving the air clouded, as the saying doesn't go.

Third, the cleavage she showed in her profile pic was more impressive than anything in the lingerie catalog, so taking refuge there didn't help.

***

In August of 1975, 1,392 young people did something at Langdon State University that most of them probably didn't realize they were doing. They matriculated. Those of us who knew that word, of course, made the usual jokes about having their hands in their pants.

I was a good enough middle distance runner to get in on a track scholarship. In time, I counteracted my inability to compete at a high level in the 800 meters by toughening up my major from the cushy Sports Marketing to actual Marketing.

I met lots of other freshmen at the first mixer, including Myra Barksdale and LuAnn Murchison. They, and maybe twenty other women, had looks that floored a kid from a town with half the population of that freshman class.

Moments from those four years that remain lodged in my memory include four instances of LuAnn, out of nowhere, flirting with me. This dazzling, busty blonde was then surprisingly receptive to my requests for dates. She always made sure that those dates had us in the public eye (like at football games), and ended with nothing more than petting. Days later, I'd see her squired around by someone else, while she seemed unaware of my existence. Months later, another flirt, another public date, another kiss, another freezeout. It finally got through to me that I was being used as leverage to make other (better looking, richer, etc.) guys pursue her more actively.

Myra didn't play that game. She seemed very honest. When I started getting serious about her, she started to lose interest in other guys and got serious about me. I found myself gazing deeply into her eyes, and she gazed into mine. I wasn't winning in track meets, but in this event, I felt like I was ascending the gold medal podium.

***

I hadn't given much thought to my jerkoff session. That's roughly the point, this isn't something one has to think about. I yanked while looking at naked women on video, I cleaned up, I went to sleep. End of story.

Or not.

Messages went through my body, like

That happened, didn't it

, and

It's been a long time

, and

It didn't seem necessary, but it felt really good,

and

There weren't any problems

, and

It doesn't have to happen again, but there's no reason why it shouldn't

, and

After activating all those nerves and cells and glands, wouldn't it be a shame to let them go back to sleep again?

An indicator of how comfortable, and empty, my life was, is that my continued paging through the lingerie catalog didn't come at the expense of anything else. I still had plenty of time to look after myself and the apartment. I bought groceries and cooked food and took out the trash. I maintained my health and dodged personal entanglements. Fortunately, The Belinda Incident had gotten Karen off my back.

The catalog pictures alone didn't turn me on all the way to ejaculation. They mostly reminded me how much I like the sight of attractive women. Sometimes I'd set the catalog down and get on with my life. Sometimes I would follow the thumbing with the summoning of nude ladies to the laptop.

Did I have a problem?

The catalog moved from the living room to the bedroom, along with the laptop, and I stopped feeling ashamed.

So, yeah, I probably did.

***

Riding high and living large, I arrived at the 30-year reunion of the Langdon State class of 1979. By 2009, Myra was three years gone, and I could smoothly field all of the condolences. I showed the proper respect, then move the discussion to the upbeat, with pictures of our kids and grandkids. I also touched on my soaring career (straining the enveope of modesty), and smoothly feigned interest in my fellow alums, a few of whom may have made their peace with the loss of youth.

If I betrayed any phoniness in this act, everyone probably took it to be courageous covering of my sorrow over Myra.

Nobody had to know that I was as numbed to her then as I had been before she got sick.

This is what I had made of myself. I put enough effort into keeping my mesomorph physique. I had plenty of charm to turn on. I'd land women half my age at trade shows, and make them swoon when I got between their legs. This must have been what I wanted, because it's what I did.

I continued to be a caring, involved father, and also grandfather. Force of habit.

If there was supposed to have been something else in my life, awareness of it was behind a locked door in total darkness.

Some of the twenty-odd women who had knocked me out at the freshmen mixer were at the reunion. In most cases, their out-knocking days were over, but they seemed happy. A few struck me as worth my time, and they were excited to occupy it.

And then there was LuAnn Murchison.

Still blonde. Still stacked. Still effervescent. The same age as the rest of us, carrying a few more pounds here and a part-time double chin there, but still smoking hot.

Much-divorced, well-off, holier than thou, but approachable.

I wasn't really sure what was in the attitude I took then. Fuck-and-forget had become my baseline, but because LuAnn and I had a history, there was probably also some bitterness, and even regret. If it had been her instead of Myra...

We chatted, and danced, and drank, and I decided that she was still fairly dim on topics other than how to play men off against each other. She put in the obligatory two minutes on how sorry she was to hear about Myra and how terrible it must have been for me, and seemed relieved when I gave her the off-ramp with my kid pictures. She quickly ran out of nice things to say about them, so I asked how she'd been doing.

This sent her into public-consumption explanations, in which the phrase "things didn't work out" was voiced three times. I nodded when I needed to.

She was pleasant and chatty, even flirtatious, but her look wasn't exactly inviting. There was her usual reserve, giving away nothing of value, but making it clear that the valuables existed. Her words and actions were pious, without actually being religious.

We were staying at the same hotel. After the on-campus reunion events, she agreed to join me at the hotel bar.

I remembered, very well, the ways that she ensured her deniability.

I offered to buy her a martini. She quickly said, "Oh I really shouldn't."

"It's just one," I said with a smile.

Her return smile was half as big as mine when she said, "Oh all right. If you insist."

I bought the round. And ended it there.

The conversation was just as forgettable as it had been before. We both finished the drinks. Her looks at me grew puzzled.

I asked, "What would you like to do, Lu?"

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"We seem to be hitting it off nicely. What else do you think should happen?"

"Well..." She looked at her empty glass on the table. "It's very nice, meeting again like this."

I chuckled, in my master-of-the-universe way. "New century, Lu. If people want to have fun together, they should just be upfront about it." I leaned towards her. "No seduction, so there'd be no excuses about being seduced."

She looked more puzzled. Then she tried, "I, maybe, I drank too much. Ronnie, can you help me up to my room?"

"No."

Another blink. "No?"

"Remember junior year?" I said. "After the movie we had a few beers, in a back corner booth at Friar's Pub. You snuggled in against me. I copped a feel. You leaned into it. You kissed me, and you could tell I was getting charged up. My first time getting a hand on your terrific boobs. Later on you told everyone it was my fault, that you never would have behaved that way if I wasn't getting you beer."

"I don't remember that," she said flatly. Maybe she was telling the truth.

"Point is," I said, "Men and women are better off if they're open and honest. So, what would you like to do now, Lu? Honestly."

Her eyes widened. "Can't you help me, Ronnie?"

"With what?"

"Um, uh, my room."

"What would happen in your room?"

"Well..." she tried to gesture out some meaning.

I pressed, "And will you take responsibility for it?"

LuAnn was pretty easy to read. She was turned on. And now, also, alarmed. Urgently she whispered, "Ronnie..."

"Lu, if you really think you'll have trouble getting to your room, I'm sure there are plenty of hotel employees who would be happy to help you." I stood, and tossed some bills on the table for the tip. "Hope you feel better."

I left the bar, allowing myself only a glance at her dropped jaw.

I'd also chatted up Janice Wheeler at the reunion. The years had been good to her. She was trim, and sassy, and unattached, and interested. She'd invited me to her room any time after 10 p.m. I'm pretty sure we had a great time, although I can't say as I recall many details now.

***

My last big project in marketing was a follow-on to the one that had brought me a large load of coin, and had me sticking my chest out to my classmates. I was in on the development in the twenty-oughts of Halloween pop-up stores, which made it possible to push larger and weirder decorations, and a wider range of costumes, than you'd find in the party-supplies chain stores. The recession in '08-'09 made this business even bigger, because then there were even more empty retail spaces that liquidators were desperate to monetize. Short-term rentals were dirt cheap. At one point I had huge displays of haunted forests and scary dungeons in three defunct car dealerships.

In 2014 I was recruited by an outfit that thought this model could be transferred to Valentine's Day.

I had a hunch that this wouldn't work, so I didn't put any of my own money into it.

Sure enough, Valentine pop-ups went nowhere. Most people may have never seen them, they flopped really fast. I was right about why that would happen.