The Cost of Curiosity

by Gwen Swick

When I parked in front of the sex shop in a town half an hour north of mine, I was simply curious. Sex has been around for a long time, and I do keep on top of the news. I knew there hadn’t been any monumental scientific discoveries. Still, lately, I’d been wondering about variations on the old theme. What new things had people been getting up to during the years I hadn’t been paying attention? Somewhat hazily, I remembered a period in my life when I’d been au courant and ruthlessly mined the topic of sexuality with similarly interested friends. The fun days. Then, things happened, and I was reshaped by routine, three children, money concerns, and work that never ended.

From my car, I stared at the narrow storefront. In the sun’s glare, it looked as innocuous as the dry cleaners, the pizza place, and the tax preparation office that shared the small plaza. There were only a few cars, and none beside me. Yes, I would go in. I got out of the car, locked up, and walked purposefully toward the entrance.

Inside, the similarities with the other businesses ended. I didn’t believe there were living penises that large. Not because I hadn’t seen one—I just didn’t think it was possible in homo sapiens. On the other hand, my experience was limited. I lived in a rural community and hadn’t surveyed body parts around the globe. There must be a plethora of different sizes and colors, maybe even an isolated far-flung population that, through the wonder of genes and natural selection, had come to feature gigantic penises in males. Scanning the array, I saw there were also tiny organs, but my gaze kept returning to the very largest. Who would be shopping for that? It was extraordinarily captivating. I lifted it up for a closer inspection. Very realistic in every other way.

I moved to the lingerie. It had to be uncomfortable. Certainly not likely to fit the average female body (if there is one). I stalled in the lingerie aisle, distracted by thoughts of women’s bodies, how different we all are, and how this fact seems to have been largely ignored. I felt myself getting steamed. Women have to be tired of being bombarded by misleading images and the strange portrayals that only seem to harm and alarm.

I snapped sideways out of that reverie when I noticed a leather corset—black of course—and garters that reached down to thigh-high stretchy black boots with punishing, stiletto heels. It again reminded me of the Western World’s enthusiasm for pushing things up and down while squishing the middle. That seemed to be the gist of it.

Ooh, but this one looked pretty. Pink, lacy, satiny, lovely realistic cleavage. No, wait, there was netting involved in something of a tight fit. That was problematic. Unless it’s hanging loosely in front of your face from a hat, netting doesn’t work. At least, that’s my experience.

I remembered an advice columnist once suggesting that as far as appearance was concerned, clothing was the only thing that mattered since all women look the same in the bathtub. The flabbergasted reader response to the claim was predictable, and I agreed. There is no bathtub in the world that can turn women’s bodies into assembly line shapes. Which is not to say that we all have charm. We are certainly—

This was terrible! That man—that man was my neighbor. I’d known him for sixteen years. I ducked behind a rotating wheel of lubricants, inadvertently setting it twirling and squeaking. I froze, feeling the blood drain from my face.

He walked toward the penises, then swerved into the aisle with the blowup dolls. I shut my eyes. I did not want to know this much about him. Jeff…now his name sounded odd to me. Jeff cut our grass when we went on vacation, celebrated holiday events, came over for dinner with his wife, entertained our children at his house as we did theirs. Jeff and my husband, Freddie, golfed and played squash together. Why was he here? Legitimate sex business, I guessed, but did not want to know more.

There were two staff people. They evidently knew how to keep an eye on things because now their eyes were on me. I knew normal was the key, but normal eluded me. I was crouched down as if to examine the silky gels on the bottom rung, formulating a plan of escape. I watched Jeff and the staff watched me. My knees were so weak I didn’t think I could stand up and walk out. Could I fake a heart attack and lie face-down until an ambulance arrived? No, the paramedics would turn me over to start treatment and Jeff would be standing there, wide-eyed, above me.

I lifted myself to an upright position by clinging to the rack, praying it was securely attached to the floor. Other than running, what options did I have? I could go right up to him, say, “Hello Jeff, how are you? Happy New Year,” (since it was still January), then head right out without another word. Or I could say, “Hello Jeff, what the hell are you doing here? How’s Jennifer?” That’s his wife, my friend. Or, “Hello Jeff, isn’t this a hoot, ha-ha, whatever turns your crank.” But I don’t talk like that.

I settled on running for the exit. I really booted it, nearly falling over, which I knew was the wrong strategy to avoid attracting attention. Still, no one stopped me, and by the time I was in the car screeching out of the parking lot, I didn’t care if anyone was looking.

In the twenty-five minutes it took to drive home, I managed to calm down a bit. No one in the family paid much notice to my arrival. I unpacked the groceries I’d picked up before stopping at the plaza and put them away, then asked everyone to leave me alone and quietly made my way to the bedroom. The tiny pain in my head that began earlier when I thought of faking the heart attack had exploded. At that point, if there was a medical emergency, it was clearly a brain aneurysm. I took two extra-strength painkillers and lay down. My husband and children didn’t question my behavior. They must be used to me. Mercifully, I fell asleep.

I awoke just before five and called to Maggie, our youngest. I could hear her nearby, performing all the roles of her finger puppets. The characters were having a disagreement, shouting. I called out a few times before getting her attention. When she appeared at my bedside, the puppets were still on her fingers but had settled down. I asked her to deliver a message to her dad to make a salad and put on water for noodles. She skipped out willingly, happy to relay the news. Noodles were among her favorites.

Freddie came in a short time later and, without probing the nature of the ailment, asked how I felt. Was there anything he could do, would I like to join them for dinner, or have a small plate delivered to me in bed? I shook my head, and he gently squeezed my folded hands then left. I felt an overwhelming love for my husband as I dozed off again.

For the rest of the evening, I stayed in bed watching Blue Planet. At about ten, when Freddie turned on the bedside lamp and got into bed to read, I decided to brush my teeth, wash my face, and put on pajamas. I lowered my feet to the floor and was about to stand when my foot touched something, startling me. My large brown leather purse lay on the floor beside me. I didn’t remember putting it beside the bed. How had it gotten there?

In the bathroom, I replayed the day’s events. I used a credit card to pay for the groceries, but beyond that, my purse was absent from my recollections. Nonetheless, I knew with certainty I hadn’t brought it into the bedroom with me earlier.

I returned to the bedroom, continuing to mull over the puzzle, trying to find the missing piece. Freddie continued reading without looking up. I got back in bed and laid there for some time, rubbing my fingers together. Finally I asked who put my bag beside the bed. Freddie’s eyes didn’t leave the page as he yawned and said he’d done that while I snoozed so I’d know right when I woke up that my purse had been found. Jeff dropped it off earlier, said that I left it somewhere, and he’d been able to retrieve it. He hadn’t wanted me to worry about it.

About the Author

Gwen Swick writes poems and short stories, and has had a musical career as a songwriter, arranger, lyricist, and vocalist. Most of her career has been spent writing, recording, and performing with the groups Quartette and The Marigolds, as well as a solo artist. She loves music and words, and has written in one genre or another all her life. Her short story, “Socks: The Journey Underfoot,” was published in the anthology Fifteen Stories High.