The Submissive Gene: Ch. 01

The day I met Stacey Erskine, I was wearing a gray Winnie-the-Pooh hooded sweatshirt and a pair of off-the-rack jeans that fit me so loosely that I could grab up almost an entire handful of denim before they began to reveal the curve of my ass. A pair of white Keds, well-worn and stained from cutting grass, and an oversized drugstore purse completed the ensemble. And my brown hair, which was still almost to my back in the unfashionable style I had favored since pre-adolescence, was scraped into a ponytail and held by a white and pink, flower-patterned Scrunchie. I was twenty-five pounds overweight and thirty-nine years old.

I remember all of this because it would turn out to be one of the most important days of my life. I remember it, because now it fills me with a mix of revulsion and mortification so fierce that I wish I could return to the night I burned that hideous outfit and burn it again, then again, then again. I wish I could take my sluttiest pair of heels, the black and red ones that are my mistress' favorites, and grind out the ashes until there was nothing left, not even a memory, of that sad woman in the gray hoodie and mom-jeans. Even the memory is enough to fill me with overwhelming shame.

Standing there on the porch of the Erskine's upscale suburban house, however, I felt no shame for my appearance. I didn't know to. I hadn't yet been taught. I was still only a wife, only a mother. The realization hadn't yet come to me that I could be so much less, and yet so much more than that. No one had yet explained to me who I was, what I was for.

Sure, I knew I looked a mess, but a mother of three was supposed to look like a mess. After ringing the doorbell, I even gave myself a cursory inspection in the reflection of the door's window, lamenting my lack of make-up and the disheveled state of my hair in the offhanded way that I often did. If I only had time, I'd think. But there were more important things in life than appearances. I was married, happily enough, or so I thought. Who was I trying to impress? Still, I figured I could put forth at least a little more effort.

I opened up the disorganized sack that served as my purse and rifled through the hodgepodge of clutter—a veritable treasure trove of cough drops, Kleenexes, Band-Aids, and ointments that served as my Supermom preparedness kit—until I found one of the many tubes of lipsticks that rattled around in my collection of junk. I hastily smeared it on using the glass of the door as an impromptu mirror. It was a boring shade, barely different from my natural skin tone. Afterward, I did my best to examine my pursed lips critically.

Even back then, I think I understood that something was missing, that there was this emptiness in my life. At times, I would catch a glimpse of my reflection in the bathroom mirror or see myself in a photo and think: who is that woman? Who is that pathetic creature? When did I give up? When did I stop being a person? These moments of self-awareness were always fleeting, though, and soon the fire of epiphany would be smothered with excuses. This was growing up. This was being an adult. I had a family, responsibilities. Life wasn't about adventure; it was about stability. And in that regard, I was the picture of accomplishment: purposely, completely, painfully stable.

I had just such a moment on that porch. I examined the travesty, the pedestrian caricature I had become, in my sloppy outfit, with my fat cheeks, pursing my lips in the doorway of a stranger, and I was repulsed, saddened by what I saw. I could remember a time-which seemed further and further away with each casserole I made, every homeroom party I planned—when I had been a woman, when people had noticed me, when I had noticed myself, for something other than the efficiency of my grocery shopping and the consistency of my cooking.

Just as quickly, it was gone. I rationalized it away, as was usual. Of course I looked like shit. I'd just gotten done with the yard. I'd vacuumed the stairs that day. I'd run a thousand different errands, been a taxi service, a soccer enthusiast, a make-up artist, a field medic operating on a particularly nasty skinned knee. I was lucky to look as composed as I did.

I focused on the lipstick. It was a nice color, a complimentary color. Much better, I thought. I looked good, damn good, then, the unavoidable quantifier, for a mom.

I was saved from further contemplation when a tall blonde woman about my own age with sharp, clinically beautiful features came to the door. Though the autumn sun was already sinking behind me, she was still dressed for work in a well-tailored striped suit jacket and matching skirt. She held a glass of dark wine in the long fingers of her left hand, which sported a hulking wedding ring and an equally splendid diamond bracelet. The latter of which was the twin to a necklace she wore that dipped low enough to accent a pair of impossibly perky breasts displayed by the sharp cut of her outfit. From her hair, shoulder length and perfectly held, to the tan, well-muscled shape of her calves, she was perhaps the most well put-together woman I had ever seen. I couldn't remember a moment in my life where I had managed to capture the easy elegance that she exuded framed by that doorway in the fading September light. Not even in my most meticulous moments, at my senior prom, at my wedding. And this, for her, was seven-thirty on a Tuesday.

She opened the door just slightly. I fought the urge to put on more lipstick.

"May I help you?" Her expression and tone were polite if not openly friendly.

"Mrs. Erskine?" I was surprised to find my mouth suddenly dry and my words a bit more rushed and high-pitched than I intended. "I'm Mrs. Bauer. My daughter, Ericka, goes to school with your daughter, Tabitha. They have Chemistry and English together? Mrs. Johnson's class and Mrs. Pendleton's class? I was wondering if I could speak with you."

The other woman waved the hand with the wine glass languidly and let out an ethereal little laugh. "Please, please, there're a few too many 'Mrs.' in this conversation. I'm getting confused. Call me Stacey." She looked at me expectantly.

"Renee." My own name felt kind of foreign in my mouth. I said it so rarely. I was always Mrs. Bauer.

"Renee," she said the name again as if testing the way it tasted on her tongue. "It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I have heard so much about your little girl. Tabby speaks of her incessantly. I'm told they're very close."

"She does?" This information was unexpected. My daughter had explained their relationship much differently. "Close" was not an adjective she had used.

"Absolutely. Tabby was even hoping that they might attend Dartmouth next year; that way they could be roommates."

"Roommates?" It was the first I had heard of that.

"Oh, to be young again. There isn't much I wouldn't give to be where they are: the world in front of them, a best friend by their side, a behind you could bounce a quarter off of." Looking at the way her skirt hugged her tight posterior, I couldn't imagine the woman had much to be envious of, not even an eighteen year-old.

"Well, to be honest, that isn't exactly how my daughter portrays things."

"What do you mean?"

"Uhh, that's why I came to speak with you, Mrs. Erskine-"

"Stacey," she corrected.

"Sorry. Stacey. I'm concerned that your daughter might be...bullying Ericka."

"Bullying?" One of her eyebrows arched at this.

"I'm afraid so." I shuffled my white Keds awkwardly at this. The entire conversation made me uncomfortable. Bullying, what had at one time been a rather commonplace and generally ignored fact of teenage life, had become a hot-button issue in the wake of some well-publicized and tragic instances.

"Bullying Ericka? I can't believe it. Are you sure? Tabby is so fond of her." Stacey seemed doubtful, but there was a catch in her voice, as if the news might not be entirely unexpected.

"I have very good reason to think so, Mrs.—sorry-Stacey."

"I see." She took a drink of her wine and held it in her mouth thoughtfully before swallowing. "Well, you'd better come in."

"Thank you," I said, as she held the door wide for me. "I'm sorry for the trouble. I know this seems overly involved of me."

"No such thing," she said, before leading me through her house, which seemed even bigger on the inside and was opulently decorated with carefully arranged accents and sweeping paintings, all of which seemed tied together in some theme I couldn't quite grasp. "Every mother should show such interest in her child's well-being."

I followed behind her as she sashayed her way down a long hallways, her hips making tight, controlled figure-eights as she walked. I had never been overly attracted to woman beyond a simply aesthetic appreciation, but there was something about her, something captivatingly original, like she was the very first woman, carved from some faultless block of marble, and all others were just pale plaster copies of her. At least, that's how I felt, a little less worthy, less genuine with each second I remained in her presence.

Without trying, I pictured her naked, her toned legs working under her firm ass, a perfect economy of motion, bare except for her black leather heels. I was startled by the lewdness of my own imagination. What are you thinking, you big lezzie? My husband, Ron, who held the same affection for lesbianism that many men did, would have been thrilled at such thoughts, might even have bumped our bi-monthly love-making session up to once a week. Not that I really minded the infrequency. I was so tired all the time. I doubted Stacey Erskine had such issues. She was probably getting it twice a day and had energy to burn afterward. Another image of Mrs. Erskine came unbidden to my mind, this time of her naked and writhing, sweat glistening on her skin. Seriously, Renee? Blushing furiously, I cast out the unwanted fantasy and did my best to focus on the middle of her back as me moved through the house.

We ended up in the kitchen, a sparse modern room with sterile-looking appliances and practical furnishings, seated at a small metal café table, where Stacey poured herself another glass of wine, and one for me, as well, despite my protests.

"I don't usually drink."

"Come now," she offered. "Don't make me drink alone. I'll feel like an alcoholic." I thought about pointing out that she had been drinking when I arrived, but something about her smile and the polite but insistent quality of her voice compelled me to remain silent. Not wishing to give offense, I cupped my hand around the glass, a great wide-rimmed stem-less container that Stacy filled slightly more than half-way, but did not drink.

"I hope I'm not intruding. I'm sure you're busy. I would have called ahead but I didn't know your number."

"Nonsense," she countered. "Roger and Tabby are at a photo shoot. You're saving me from the trial of my own company. I'm dreadful as a solitary creature. Never was much good at entertaining myself. I always preferred playmates, even as a girl." I tried to picture her as a child. I couldn't. Each attempt ended with me stamping those intelligent eyes, those full expressive lips, on a little girl's too small face. The end result was like a Picasso, all angles and insufficient space. Stacey Erskine could never have been something as defenseless as a child. She must have been born fully-formed from her father's imagination, like Athena.

"Roger is your husband?"

"Yes. He's a psychiatrist. He spends half the day trying to crawl into my head and the other half trying to get up my skirt. But at least he has the good sense to be perverse in both regards. If you're going to marry a man, make sure he is inventive enough that his libido never outruns his creativity and wealthy enough that his vices never outstrip his wallet. That, or one foolish enough to leave you too much time and dumb enough not to figure out how you use it." She gave a wink at that last part. I was sure she was kidding. Still, I was shocked by her crassness. I had never heard a woman speak that way.

"Is it just Tabby? I mean, as far as children?" I was eager to change the subject back to something I was more comfortable and familiar with.

"Just my tabby cat. She's enough. Thinks she's a model these days and she has the ego to go along with it. And you?"

"Three. Two girls and a boy. Ericka is the oldest. Anthony is six. Then Kayla is in the middle. They're the lights of my life, the reason I get up in the morning."

"Three? I can't imagine. Just raising Tabitha seemed, at times, like an impossible job. Three..." She made a whistling sound then paused and thought for a second before cocking an eyebrow at me with a grin. On a lesser woman it would have seemed a leer, but Stacey Erskine seemed incapable of something as common as a leer. "Perhaps you just enjoy the making them part. I know when Roger and I were trying it was labor of love, to say the least. We were nothing if not persistent, before breakfast, in his office at lunch, in the bathroom at dinner. Whenever I was feeling the least bit receptive, here'd come Roger. I think I spent most of that year with my legs in the air or standing on my head to improve the chances. Took almost a year to hit the spot. Not that conception slowed us down. By then it had become a habit. Did you develop a little addiction of your own?"

"I-uh-well, I mean, w-we tried of course. Well, we, it, uh, didn't take long, you know?" I was stupefied by her brashness. How could she be at once so elegant yet so patently audacious?

"Oh, I understand. You're one of those extremely fertile women, aren't you? Built for sex, huh? Do you have good hips? You seem like you might have good hips." The way she looked at me when she said the last part. Was it appraisal I saw in her eyes? I was uneasy with that look, but also thrilled by it. It had been a long time since someone had looked at me in that way. If she even was. No, of course she wasn't. Still, I wished desperately that I had dressed better, that I had done my hair, that I was a different person.

I wanted to pull my eyes to the side, to look away politely, but I was unable to. She held me with that look—it couldn't be lust-like a hand under my chin. I blushed furiously and, to my great shame, let out a strangled little noise, something between excitement and exasperation. With no other recourse, I dove into my wine glass, which seemed more akin to a fishbowl than to the narrow flutes that I had used the few times in the past years that I had actually drank. The vintage was potent, hot and bitter on my tongue and it filled my chest with a warm sourness. Being generally out-of-practice with alcohol, I drank a bit too much in my first couple swallows and the wine found its way to my cheeks remarkably quickly.

Having never had truly good wine, I was taken in by it, by the nuance of it. It contained so many different flavors, and hints of flavors, little allusions to the possibilities of flavors. Plum and little hints of jam tapped on my tongue, while a curl of leather and black pepper whispered from the background. It was far removed from the simple Barefoot white wine I infrequently drank when Ron and I used to go out with friends—before we simply became too busy for such things-or the cheap, frizzy sweetness of the discount champagne we sometimes drank on special occasions like New Year's Eve. As it spread through me, it evoked a sensation of fullness, of complexity, and I relished it like a child who had discovered a kaleidoscope for the first time: examining all the colors and shapes. My life was challenging, but never complex, like juggling an armful of perfectly dull, colorless balls.

The wine was the first new thing I'd experienced in longer than I could remember. I let it wash over me, becoming so lost in the blissful unfamiliarity of it, that I it wasn't until my glass was empty and the last of the astringent red fluid had passed through my lips that I remembered that I wasn't alone.

I sought out my host, who, oddly enough, was only eyeing me with an inquisitive, somewhat satisfied look on her face. My embarrassment at sucking down my wine like some kind of desperate junkie mixed with the alcohol to produce an even deeper blush. For her part, Stacey merely poured me another glass, this one even fuller than the first and gifted me with a dazzling smile. My pulse felt quickened, and I didn't know if it was from her or the wine.

"Tell me about this bullying," she said mercifully.

And I did, grateful for the escape rope. Without making eye contact, I told her about the nicknames, the teasing. In a rush, tripping over my words, I blabbered and blurted, about the day Tabitha and the rest of her gang, who Ericka unaffectionately referred to as "The Razor Girls" because they were all so thin and perfectly sharp, cut my daughters hair. The words poured from me; I wanted them never to end, knowing that if they did, I would have to once again face the silent intimacy of the kitchen table and Stacey's piercing stare. What was it about this woman that made me want to simultaneous spill my guts and run for the hills? Without pausing for breath, I inform the other woman that the other girls, led by Tabby, often took my little girl's clothes from her gym locker, hiding them about the room, forcing Ericka to walk around mortified and naked while the girls giggled and made oinking noises. I described the way my daughter had cried when she told me, how she had shook with anger and embarrassment and begged me not to intervene. Then I explained to Stacey why I couldn't refrain.

"Ericka is a very bright girl, pretty too, if in an unconventional way. What she isn't, is involved. And with college just around the corner, we both think that she would do well to add a couple extracurricular activities, just to pad her application. Specifically, we were thinking cheerleading. Ericka's always wanted to try out for the squad, but she's been too shy. I thought she'd outgrow it but she's over eighteen now and no different. I'm afraid she'll regret it if she never tries, and if she's ever going to do it, this is the year. But, with Tabitha heading the squad, she doesn't feel like she has much of a chance. Plus, she's worried the girls might try to embarrass her. We're not asking for any favors her, Stacey, just a fair shake. I just don't want my little girl bullied out of her dreams. You know what I mean?"

The blonde woman just sat quietly for a few minutes. When she did speak, her voice was apologetic and her eyes were wide with sympathy. "I'm so very sorry, Renee. I had no idea. Tabby never let on that...I never got a call from the school."

"Ericka hasn't told anyone else, just me. She was hesitant to do even that."

"Well, I'm going to have a talk with a certain young lady when she gets home! You can count on that."

"Please, don't make a big deal out of it. I don't want this to rebound on Ericka. If Tabitha gets in too much trouble she could take it out on her. I don't want to make things worse for my daughter."

"But, Renee, Tabby needs to be punished. I mean, that is no way to treat anyone, let alone someone you purport to be friends with."

"No, no need to go that far. Maybe you could just...chat with her, get her to ease up a bit."

She nodded, just a slight shake of her head, as if she still wasn't convinced. "I will, but, Renee, I don't what I can do to help with the cheerleading thing. The tryouts were months ago. The squad has already been decided."

"I was thinking, maybe, a private tryout? Just Tabitha and Ericka? That way there'd be less pressure and, if Ericka doesn't make the cut, less embarrassment if she fails."

"Hmmmm." Stacey tapped her fingers on her lips as she spoke. "It's possible. It's highly irregular. Not sure the athletic director will go for it. It seems like favoritism."