Thrift Store
Whore
by Alison
Tyler
For want of
a better word. I mean, I suppose I could say “thrift store slut,” but where’s
the fun in that? I have been one—a fan, a convert, a member of the cult—for
more decades than I care to share. Ever since I first tucked a rumpled one-dollar
bill in my pocket, I’ve gone in search of a second-hand haven in which to find
treasure.
Because
that’s what thrift store aficionados (find a rhyme for that, I dare ya) do. We
search, we dig, we paw through the racks. We press up against the glass cases
and yearn for the sparkly, twinkly, dime-store gems displayed within.
I learned to
drive so I could get to the clothes-for-a-pound stores in the Mission. (There,
I would buy old bowling shirts embroidered with different names in that
gorgeous curling handwriting.) I figured out how to read a map (not my forte on
the best of days) in order to find the Haight/Ashbury’s mecca of thrift.
I was
ridiculed in school for my response to any praise of my wardrobe. Someone liked
my blazer? I’d inadvertently, unconsciously, share, “Oh, I got it for a
quarter.” I wore chrome ID bracelets jangling on my wrist, each one emblazoned
with someone else’s boyfriend’s name. (Or someone else’s ex.)
For years, I
sported a watch fob as a choker, with a big man’s ring hanging from the center.
I thrust my fingers into the hole absentmindedly, stroking my talisman from
long ago.
In L.A. I
continued to shop almost exclusively at thrift stores. How else to stand out?
How else to be different?
In Dark Secret Love, I described a packing
scene. Sam’s going on a trip to New York, without Jack.
“You’re only bringing black.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“It’s sort of morbid.”
“It’s New York.”
I’d been to Manhattan often enough to appreciate the different
dress styles of the coasts. Where you could wear flirty sundresses all year
round in L.A., New York's a much more dramatic environment.
“I like you in color.”
“You’re not even going to be there,” I grinned at him. “How will
it bother you if I’m all in black?"
“I’ll know,” he said, teasing me. “I’ll feel it.”
*****
The hotel is gone now, to my supreme distress. But it was my
favorite spot in New York. So hip, with the most beautiful staff, and an ultra
chic lounge. The elevators were lit in different colors: red, orange, purple,
and green. The bar was insane. So dark. So sexy. And the tiny little guest
rooms charmed me with their black-and-white checked floors, boasting only
enough space for a bed and a miniscule dresser. A huge painting took up the
wall behind the bed, adding the only color to the room.
I fit in perfectly in my black attire, as I’d known I would. I
felt a rush of freedom as I walked through the city. I had three appointments
over the next few days: with my new publisher and two magazines. But I had
nowhere to be that first afternoon, and I walked through the neighborhood,
trying to decide what to do. Where to go.
It’s not surprising that I ended up in the hotel bar at the
counter, trying to read in the dim light and failing. I had my manuscript with
me, the revised one that I was going to turn in to my publisher in person. I
drank tequila, slowly, savoring the sensation. Several boys flirted with me,
but I brushed them off. I wasn’t interested in a New York fling. Not with Jack
waiting at home.
Thank fucking god.
When I went back up to the room, I was sweetly tipsy, but not
drunk. I got my key in the lock, and opened the door, to find Jack—on the bed,
fully dressed, reading the paper. He smiled at me as I stood there in shock.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “After you left this morning, I booked
the next flight.” He stood up and pulled me into his arms. “I couldn’t—“
The room was so small, and with Jack, his height, his power, it
seemed smaller still. I thought about the boys in the bar, and I wondered if
Jack had come because he didn’t trust me. But I didn’t ask. The answer wouldn’t
have done me any good.
“Where were you?” he murmured as he kissed my neck. “I’ve been
up here an hour.”
“I was downstairs.” I pulled away from him, so that I could set
down my purse and the folder holding my manuscript and take off my sweater. “In
the bar.”
He kissed my lips, tasting the tequila.
“You’ve been a good girl?”
And there it was.
“Of course.”
“Not chatting up any local bucks.” This wasn’t a question.
He’d seen me. That was obvious. He might even have been in the
bar with me. The room was so dark and I’d gotten myself a corner spot. I hadn’t
been looking around at all, because I hadn’t been expecting Jack.
“A few guys tried to buy me drinks, but I didn’t let them.”
“No,” Jack said, pulling now on my dress, tugging at the tie on
the side and then flipping open the two buttons, so that the fabric came off in
a wave. “You wouldn’t have let another man buy you a drink.” I was in my
stockings—black, sheer—and these beautiful glossy high-heeled Mary Janes. My
bra and panties were matching black satin, and I had on a thin beaded choker,
my only jewelry. Jack slid one finger under the necklace, testing it, and then
spun me around and undid the clasp. He must have been carrying the collar in
his pocket, because I felt him buckle the thick leather into place. Had he
carried the collar on the plane, stroking the buckle absentmindedly as he drank
his first-class champagne?
“Now,” Jack said, spinning me around and then standing back,
admiring me. “What should I do to you first?”
I still shop
at the thrifts. I’ll never overcome my desire for treasure.
Alison
Tyler’s twenty-five erotic novels include Dark
Secret Love and the upcoming Delicious
Torment (both from Cleis Press). Her novellas include Tied Up & Twisted (Harlequin), Those Girls (Go Deeper), and Banging
Rebecca (Pretty Things Press). Visit her at alisontyler.blogspot.com 24/7
because sleep is something she least likes to do.
