Gynophagia Chronicles: Samantha
Sunday, August 30, 2218
Near the Wells home,San Ramon, CA
From Samantha Marie Wells’ Memoirs
Our church was ten blocks from our home, and Mom always insisted we go to the 8am service. She’d avoided me over the past three days and I couldn’t blame the article in the paper. It didn’t help, but it was not the cause.
Daddy was angry that I hadn’t shown it to him first, nor had I mentioned I was getting published. But even his anger ran deeper. He was even harsh with Mom! It was disturbing, abnormal and certainly not him.
Normally, my mother was like a giddy schoolgirl when she was alone with him. It was as if she were the homely girl who landed a date with the hottest guy in school. He was like the geek who scored the hottest cheerleader. A big reason not one of us, me or my sisters, had ever had a boyfriend is because Daddy had unknowingly set the bar so high no boy could possibly measure up. More on that later. Outside of my brothers, none of the boys I knew ever hinted they could possibly be as powerfully tender as Daddy was with Mom.
But this Sunday, we were in a sombre mood, all of us.
“So, Andrea is running to be your class rep?” Eric broke the silence on the way home.
“Yes,” I said simply.
“Good,” he said. “Voting for her?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Lauren Nichols is also running.”
Eric nodded. “You know what Andrea told me?”
“No, what?”
“She’d start a campaign of silence among the students on lesbian rumours.”
“Eric,” Daddy said. “Not here!”
I was aware of those, of course. After my article came out some of the girls, Sloan among them, labelled me a lesbian. They reasoned that I was sympathetic to lesbian issues because I was one. In other words, it was guilt by association. Friday night, with everything else, I wept about it as quietly as I could.
But we had guests coming over. Two of Daddy’s oldest friends. One was Mr. Carrington, his banker. The other was Bernard Foss, who I’d never heard of. Well, that’s not exactly true. The name rang a bell, but I certainly was having a hard time placing the name. Once we got home, I managed to get on the computer and Google it.
Bernard Foss: CEO of Playpen Entertainment Group, and Editor in Chief of Playpen Magazine. He was the eighteenth CEO of PEG. which was founded originally in 2098 in the ashes of the Greatest War. They originally called it “Playboy” but someone who owned the trademark on that name sued, and the name switched to Playpen after only a few issues. Whatever Playboy was, it is lost in the ashes of history.
Playpen Magazine had become many things. It was a political journal, a social journal, a fashion journal. It had something for everyone. Men and women alike read it. The subscription that came to our home was in my mother’s name. It was most famous for the Playpen Playmates that were featured each month in the centrefold, and the Playpen E-Girls, who were featured daily online. One of those each year was elevated to Playmate after having gone through the gauntlet of E-Girl of the Week and E-Girl of the Month. The E-Girl of the Year became Miss June in the Magazine. Playmates, by law, enjoyed a special status equal to professional women. Only Playpen could give permission cull them till they reached age forty four.
That, of course, was all fine and dandy, and the research gave me a reprieve from the sense of dread I felt. I’d be proven correct in the gut feeling I had that this visit had something to do with the Carmen Sanchez interview.
As I said, I’d met Mr. and Mrs. Carrington before. The last I’d seen them had been three years before, when I was twelve. But Daddy spoke of them often enough, so they were known to all of us. And when he did mention them, it was with very high regard, as if they were guardian angels of some sort.
But to finally figure out who Bernard Foss was... that was quite something else. Playpen Magazine was quite a force in both Political and Entertainment circles. I would later find out that west of the Mississippi, it was the go-to publication for politicians to read the general mood of the country during any given month. In the east, while it was popular, it was not considered the force it was in the west. Girls who posed in it were looked down upon, whereas they were elevated to almost royalty in the west.
At the time, I was not aware of the East/West attitudes, being a California girl. I just knew Playpen was a huge deal, and Bernard Foss, at its head, must be as well.
I remained quiet the rest of the day while we all helped prepare the thigh Daddy had picked up the night before. Mom fretting trying to follow a fancy recipe that involved honey sauce and yams… I hope she’s not watching… it was not her best choice of vegetable…
Eric and Jimmy would eat at the main table with the guests in the front room while we girls would eat in the kitchen and serve. If they stayed, we’d all move out to the back yard to visit, so we set up deck chairs and end tables for the guests and pillows for us. Thank god Eric and Daddy finished the deck on Friday.
Lest you think I was feeling sorry for myself, I was most worried about Mom. She was a wreck most of the day. She spent the time after church micromanaging everything so frantically Jenna had to get Daddy to calm her down four or five times. I was lucky. I peeled yams… yech… and cleaned utensils and made honey sauce, all of it simple and time consuming. I like being in the background when things get chaotic.
Mara and Jenna turned out to be lead cooks that evening, Jimmy being too fresh off last Wednesday to tolerate Jenna’s torture.
“Sam!” Daddy called to me from the bathroom door. It was about three in the afternoon. “We need this cleaned. Come help your mother!”
My heart almost stopped.
“NOW!”
I moved toward him as if to meet my executioner, hanging my apron on the broom closet door.
Inside the door, the pistol grip nozzle she used to rinse everything down was lying on the counter, and water was flowing freely from the end of the hose into the shower basin. Mom’s white collared grey dress hung on the back of it from one of the hooks. She was on her hands and knees scrubbing down one of the three toilets with a scrub brush. She was also completely naked, but that’s normal. Mom always hated getting her cloths wet when she didn’t have to, especially when she had the garden hose out. It’s just that, at this point, the sight of her body sent a jolt through mine that jump started my heart. When she turned, the terror in her eyes matched the rate of my pulse.
“Honey,” Daddy took her by the arm and she faced him, a hint of relief on her face.
“Honey, calm down,” he said gently as he gathered her up and kissed her forehead, then the cheek, then the lips. That was Daddy. She was everything to him and he didn’t care who knew it.
“Sam,” Daddy said. “The nozzle,” he nodded toward the item on the counter, which I took and put on the end of the hose, getting myself soaked in the process. “Relax,” he whispered in her ear as I went to my task. By the time I was done, he was gone, and I was alone with my naked mother.
Mon stood for a moment, hand on her sternum, chest heaving, with the other arm hugging herself. She was taking deep breaths, and finally calmed down. When she looked at me, she simply smiled that quiet little smile that looked so serene. It was her “hide all” smile.
“What are you waiting for, Sam?” She admonished. “Get out of those wet things and help me!” She was Mom again. Thank goodness for small favours.
As I did undress, however, I remembered she’d notice I needed to wax. I’d been lazy about that since school started. I should have done it last night, but procrastination is one vice I’m known for. I started scrubbing down the second toilet Mom had yet to get to. Silence was becoming thick till Mom burst it with a thunderclap.
“Sam,” she said, quite calm and evenly. “Are you attracted to girls?”
Now I was sobbing uncontrollably. God I couldn’t help look at other girls, and hadn’t been able to help it since I could remember. I had always noticed them, be they friends, strangers, my sisters… or even Mom. I thought it normal! I truly did! It never occurred to me that a girl would be grossed out by another girl till Friday! As much as Sloan went off on Lesbians, she rang so false to me! Every doubt I had about myself started on Friday when Sloan and the rest whispered “Sam is a Lesbian!”
When I was aware of the present again, Mom was sitting with me on the floor, cradling my head to her chest as I sobbed.
“Shhhh... shhhh…” she rocked back and forth. “It’s al right…”
I drew back, feeling like an ugly wet sponge. “I don’t know, Mom!” I blubbered. “I don’t know I swear… if I…” she quieted me down by drawing me back in.
“Mara, not now! Go upstairs. And tell Jenna to put enough wax on the stove for both of us and anyone else who needs it.”
Mom smelled of Almonds that day. I t wasn’t perfume, but the scent of the mineral oil she used. She tended to favour Vanilla and Almond scent. Ever since that day, I’ve used mainly those two.
“Sammie,” whispered Mom with her palm on my cheek. “If you do… well, you’re my daughter, so I already know you do. It’s al right. But I have to tell you to please be careful. Please! If you ever get caught kissing a girl, you know what will happen, don’t you? You could put all of us in danger.”
“Why does everyone think I’m a lesbian?” I asked. “Just because of the interview?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Don’t blame them. They don’t understand. Girls can be cruel, you already know that. It gets better, but not much. I just want you to be safe. I want your sisters to be safe. Do you understand?”
I nodded, sobbing more.
After Mom calmed me down, she became the waxing taskmistress of pain, though we did manage to laugh at ourselves. She was almost like a girlfriend for the first time that afternoon. We got to tease Mara and Jenna and Grace. Grace always took things with good humour, bless her. Jenna was fun, because she took herself so seriously and Mara was somewhere in the middle. Celine, however, we didn’t’ tease. Never would we think to do so, her being our sensitive child. Now, Miki, Patti and Danielle, of course, were smart enough and anal enough to have been so well groomed Mom never had to say word one to them about anything, vain beotches that they are… (Just kidding).
The downstairs bathroom spotless, the dishes and flatware placed and the meal ready, Mom put on her best “Jackie O” Dress just in time for the guests who started arriving at a punctual 5PM. Mr. Carrington and Mr. Foss were the eldest in the group, both about sixty. Carrington was an enormous man with little fat on him. In contrast, Mr. Foss bulged around the middle, balding and squat with a jovial kind of face. He reminded me of a garden gnome. Had he a white beard, he’d look like Santa Clause, but he was clean shaven. Mrs. Carrington was dwarfed by her husband, but my mother, who stood a petite five three was, in turn, dwarfed by her. She was older, but quite beautiful. Mom seemed to truly admire her.
The two surprise guests were a black couple, and quite an attractive one. She sported straight hair that proved to be her own, not a weave, with a sports jacket and matching skirt over a white paint-on blouse on her chest. Her skin was ageless in its dark lustre. She might have been forty five, for all I could tell, or eighteen. He wore a dark pinstripe suit that made his athletic body look like he could challenge Mr. Carrington to a wrestling match here and now.
“And this,” Mr. Carrington was doing introductions. “Is Congressman Marcus Jackson and his lovely wife Sheila.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Wells, it’s so good to meet you,” Congressman Jackson said in a genuine and sonorous tone.
Then, we girls went to work. Lucky for us, the junior and sophomore home-ec classes at Franklin High included units on manners, table etiquette and service. Many a waitress owes her job to those classes. Consequently, I got very little of the table conversation over dinner. Eric would tell me later I didn’t miss anything.
“I love your suit,” Jimmy was saying to Congressman Jackson when I was serving desert. “It looks so athletic!”
I rolled my eyes. Eric saw me, and almost spit up his wine. The next time I was out, Eric was talking about this project of his.
“So it’s basically a cradle specifically for the comfort of the doe and for even cooking,” he told the guests.
“I’m interested in seeing it,” said Mr. Foss politely.
“As am I,” said Mr. Carrington, with more enthusiasm.
And that was about as in depth as it got, or as I witnessed. Jimmy did a lot of the talking, entertaining our guests, while Daddy had a queasy look on his face at Jimmy enthusiastically spewed hyperbole. Even so, he seemed to keep the guests entertained. They all had amused smiles on their faces when I saw them.
“Okay,” said Daddy at about seven. “Eric, Jimmy. Say goodbye.”
My sisters and I were clearing away desert when Daddy made this surprise proclamation.
“But my project,” protested Eric.
“I’ll come back and see it,” promised Mr. Carrington. “Don’t’ worry. I never pass up on a possible new investment.”
“Say your goodbyes, boys,” Daddy commanded.
They did, and soon were gone out the front door. I’ve no clue where they went or what their plans were, though I did hear the van’s engine start.
Back in the kitchen, the eight of us were hurriedly cleaning up when Mom appeared.
“Gracie, Danni. Go light the candles in back. Are we almost done?”
Jenna nodded for all of us.
“Patti, take the wine back with… uh…” she counted on her fingers. “Get fifteen glasses out. Make sure they’re spotless.” She looked around after giving those commands, turned and disappeared, only to re-appear ten minutes later.
“Okay,” Mom said emphatically. “Everyone out. Tell the others to sit on the mats. Sam, stay,” Mom caught my arm. “Aprons! Aprons!”
A storm of aprons landed upon us as my sisters giggled and ran outside.
“I’ll be right back,” said Mom, squeezing my arm, as she let go I noticed her hands were still trembling even after all these hours. She hurried up the back staircase with the exuberance of a schoolgirl and I stood and waited, looking around for something to do. I finally remembered I was buried under aprons and began hanging them as Daddy led the party through the kitchen.
“This way,” he was saying. “Where’s your mother?” he asked me.
“Upstairs.”
“She okay?”
“She said she’d be right back,” I told him.
Daddy shrugged and guided the guests back. They all smiled at me while I just blushed and felt stupid.
“She’s so beautiful,” whispered one of the two women, I don’t know which, after they’d all passed outside. Mr. Foss winked at me… kind of like Santa Clause.
When Mom reappeared she carried two issues of Playpen, set them down on the counter, fixed her hair and make-up at the closet mirror.
“How do I look?” she pleaded.
“Stunning!” I breathed, meaning it.
She smiled, hugged me, and grabbed my hand, then whirled back to grab the magazines in the other as an afterthought, then dragged me outside.
Daddy and the guests were all seated in chairs, while all my sisters were on the pillows. Daddy was reminding everyone of all my sisters’ names when we arrived. He told a story about Jenna’s fiery personality, then saw us coming.
“And this is Sam,” Daddy said.
“The reason we’re here!”said Congressman Jackson. My heart sank. I thought I was in for it. I stood there frozen with my heart in my throat.
“No,” said Mr. Foss. “I have nine lovely reasons to be here.”
“I agree,” said Mrs. Carrington. “I’ve seen so many beautiful women in my time, but his group is equal to any other if not more so.”
“What were you thinking, Bernie?” asked Mrs. Jackson.
“Oh, a thousand thoughts,” said Mr. Foss. “But that can wait.”
“You must be very proud, Matthew!” said Mr. Carrington. “And your boys! I must say, Eric certainly impresses me!”
Mom led me to the middle of the pillows and took the central one, with me taking the one closest to her.
“If,” Marcus Jackson started, “you will indulge me. My wife and I would like to read you something that is shaking up the District of Columbia this weekend.”
Sheila Jackson played Carmen Sanchez, and Marcus Jackson played the interviewer… namely: me. They did quite well, making it a little production and we all applauded at the end.
Jenna, Gracie, Mom and Daddy, had, of course, read it. The rest hadn’t.
Marcus Jackson waited a few moments, then asked: “Which of you ladies can guess why people in Washington are nervous because of this article? Not you, Miss Samantha.”
Mara raised her hand.
“Okay, Mara. Let’s have it.”
“Well,” Mara said. “I guess it’s because they don’t like lesbians in Washington.”
Sheila Jackson snorted. “Understatement of the year!”
“Excellent,” said Jackson. “You made them smart, and beautiful, Matt! Here’s the deal: Yes, they don’t like lesbians. They’re afraid of lesbians. So am I, quite frankly.”
“Why?” Mara asked.
Jackson took a breath. “They believe, and so do I, that lesbians were one of the root causes of the last Great War. Historically, lesbians hate men, and that hatred led to a weak nation. They said, hundreds of years ago, that men were bad. There was no such thing as a good man, they said. The Unites States became weak as lesbians gained power, and men became submissive. After the war ended, lesbianism was outlawed.
“Here’s the part that is confusing,” Jackson continued. “Miss Sanchez is not for lesbians. She is for bisexual women and girls. She believes, as many do, that all women and girls are naturally bisexual. That is to say: girls can like both boys and other girls at the same time. That there is no such thing as a bad gender. Follow me?”
All of us nodded.
“But it’s a long road to that place where people can accept and understand the difference and accept women as they truly are.
“Now, here comes Congresswoman Carmen Sanchez. She likes to stir the pot. Or, as some believe, she likes to make trouble. She certainly made people nervous. She expressed ideas in Miss Samantha’s interview that are scaring a lot of people. Now, we must make a choice. Miss Samantha and all of you are going to help me make that choice. Do I continue to support Carmen Sanchez? If I do, the people of California might not elect me Senator, and the might not re-elect me to Congress either! Or, alternatively, do I back off and not comment on the issue at all? Part of me thinks that if I back off, I’ll be seen as weak and that it might hurt my friend Carmen Sanchez very badly, though she brought this on herself.”
“What do the polls say?” asked Jenna.
“Good question!” said Jackson. “Preliminary polling shows an even split. Beyond that, we honestly don’t know. I do believe this could really hurt my campaign.”
“At school,” Celine said, her voice a little shaky. “They were calling Sammie a lesbian. And, and it was really mean!” I could not have loved Celine more than in that moment.
“When was this?” asked Mrs. Jackson.
“Friday,” Mara said.
“That’s awful!”
“It was,” said Patty. “I mean, how do you say anything to defend your sister like that? You know?”
Jackson scanned our faces, pensive and brooding.
“Well,” Mrs. Carrington said. “I’ve kissed so many girls I can’t count them all. And I’m married, so I’m not a lesbian. I have a son who we really need to bring here, Sly! Don’t we? I have had seven daughters. Three are married. I’m not at all ashamed of being a bisexual woman. I only stay in the closet for their sakes.”
“Nor I,” Mom blurted out. “I… I… I just have been… I’d tell you all the story except it would hurt someone I love. But I’ve always been attracted to women and men. I hope you can understand that I love my husband. I love him with all my heart and soul. But I can’t deny that women are beautiful to me and I really want both of you to sign these for me please…” she held out one each to Mrs. Carrington and Mrs. Jackson an issue of Playpen.
“Oh my god!” said Mrs. Carrington. “I haven’t signed one of these in years!”
“You were a Playmate?” asked Gracie.
“Long before you were born, sweetie,” said Mrs. Carrington.
“Is!” Mrs. Jackson protested. “There is no such thing as a ‘Former Playmate’ that still lives and breaths. A Playmate is a Playmate her entire life.”
“You might be interested to know, Gracie,” Mr. Foss said. “That this one was almost a Playmate herself.” He was pointing at our mother. “And should have been.”
“Is the cut off still sixteen to twenty three?” Mrs. Jackson asked.
“Or she’d be one now,” Foss lamented. “But I don’t have the kind of power it takes to override that rule. By the way, it's actually fifteen to twenty three.”
“It’s funny,” Mr. Jackson said. “It’s always the still water that runs deep.”
“What do you mean?” asked Foss.
“Miss Celine said it: the accusatory finger pointing is just mean. If I back off, I’m tolerating it, aren’t I!”
“I’d say so,” said Mrs. Jackson.
“Miss Samantha,” said Mr. Jackson.
“Yes, sir?”
“How would you like to interview me?”
I spent almost an hour upstairs composing my questions as my family enjoyed their time with the company. Eventually, Eric and Jimmy made it home and joined in. Eric managed to show Mr. Foss and Mr. Carrington his contraption in the garage, which made him very happy. The thirty questions I asked were all about position, policy and of course, female bisexuality and the law. When we were done, all Mr. Jackson could say about it was: “Wow! She’s tough!”
That over, we did catch Sheila Jackson cupping my mother’s breast. Mrs. Jackson had taken up my seat, and the two almost forgot themselves and kissed.
“Sheila!” Mr. Jackson admonished.
That was the end of that, and the end of quite a what had turned into a very nice evening. I slept soundly that night, dead to the world even as I dreamed about possibilities.