Regan Wolfrom - Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men

I FIRSTmet Maggie at the McDonald’s drive-thru on El Segundo Boulevard. She had the second car in line, and when the driver in front got out of his Audi to protest the lukewarm temperature of his Coke Zero, she’d been the first to come up with a workable solution, pulling an aluminum baseball bat out from her back seat.

There was something graceful about the way she smashed out both rear headlights, dressed smartly in a white wool pea coat, her long blond hair swaying in time with the bat. She carried that rhythm flawlessly from luxury car to a region of empty space not far from the terrified man’s head. I don’t think she intended to hit him, and she seemed pleased when he jumped back into his car and drove away, side-swiping the golden-arched exit sign as part of his retreat.

I’d never seen a woman as tough as Maggie, outside of Sister O’Hannan from catechism class at San Clemente, who’d selflessly taught me everything I needed to know about catholic guilt and the joy of hating men.

I got out of my car and walked towards her as she finished waving her bat at the long-departed douchebag.

“I’m Heather,” I said as I extended my hand. “You seem to have a gift for intimidation.”

“I’m Maggie,” she said. “It’s well-practiced, you know. I have a whole lot of brothers and a shitload of ex-husbands.” She smiled. “How ‘bout you?”

“I’ve been with a lot of men.”

I’m not sure why I said that.

She laughed.

We talked for a while, no one in line behind us having the balls to tell us to move out of the way, and we seemed to hit it off. I was laughing so hard I could feel my whole body shaking.

She made me feel good about myself.

Maggie invited me to come out to a bonfire at Dockweiler Beach that night, and trying to sound cool I said that I’d see if I could make it.

“See that you do,” Maggie said as she walked back to her car. “We could use more redheads.”

It didn’t take me long to find Maggie and her friends on the beach; they had by far the biggest bonfire and the largest crowd of onlookers, probably because Maggie and her friends were standing around the fire pit completely naked.

There were about a dozen of them, all just as gorgeous as Maggie, sitting, talking and laughing under the flight path of LAX, wearing nothing aside from their beaded friendship bracelets; I was taken aback, since Maggie had failed to mention that none of her friends owned clothing.

She waved to me as I approached, as did a few of the spectators, one of whom shouted out his heartfelt wish that I show him my tits.

“I made you a present,” Maggie said to me, dangling a hand-woven pink and gold bracelet from her right hand. “So take off your clothes and stay awhile.”

“Isn’t this against the law?” I asked as I accepted her gift.

“The park provides the firepits.”

“I mean the naked bit.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to lodge a complaint about my naked bits,” Maggie said with a smile. She took a quick glance down my front. “Yours are doing pretty fine, too.”

I didn’t sign up for naked, so I simply smiled and shook my head, not sure of what to say.

“Don’t be modest,” Maggie said.

“I really don’t feel comfortable—”

“Don’t let me down, Heather.” She gave me a little pout; it was very cute. “You took the bracelet, so now you have to strip. It’s like Mardi Gras, but for sober people with self respect.”

I giggled a little, and didn’t try to stop Maggie as she pulled off my shirt. Then came my shorts, and before I knew it I was naked and receiving a standing ovation from an eager public. I doubt Sister O’Hannan would have approved, but I’m sure that weird old nun would have taken a peek.

Maggie took me around the fire and introduced me to everyone. There was Mia, who looked a little like a cat and told me I looked just like Amy Adams, and Juanessa, who had a lispy Puerto Rican accent and told me that I had the sexiest elbows she’d ever seen. The comments generally got weirder from there, but all of the girls were warm and welcoming, and they made it clear that they were very much interested in having me join them.

But I wasn’t sure what it was I’d be joining, or what kind of group enjoys being naked on the only state beach in America where there’s a one in ten chance of being shot in the parking lot.

“What do you guys do?” I asked.

“We’re succubi,” Maggie said.

“That church that Madonna goes to?”

Maggie laughed. “I’m a succubus, a sex demon.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s more of a metaphorical thing. I’m not a real demon, obviously, but I have some kind of power over men…” She gave me a crooked smile and a little wink. “And quite a few women, too.”

I believed her, particularly since with Maggie’s arm wrapped around me I felt a little like I did when I’d first watched Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger in 9½ weeks. My eighth-grade social studies teacher got fired for showing it to us; I’d later sent him flowers and a tasteful thank-you card.

“So… you’re a sex goddess?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested.

“Yeah… but it makes more sense to call me a succubus… you know, because I suck the life out of people.”

“Oh.”

“Not really,” Maggie said. “I leave my lovers drained but happy.”

I could see the scene clearly in my mind, me lying on what I imagine would be Maggie’s four-poster bed, a white sheet draped over me, my body exhausted but my heart soaring. Imagining it I felt my pulse racing, my palms sweating… I felt like I did the day when my high school volleyball coach finally got up the nerve to ask me to prom.

I could feel the warmth of Maggie’s breath as she leaned in and whispered into my ear. “I’m not going to lie to you, Heather,” she said. “Sometimes we do eat people…” She exhaled against my cheek. “But only the bad ones.”

I wasn’t sure if she was joking, but it didn’t take me long to realize that I didn’t really care.

Maggie and I talked a while longer by the fire, not just about seduction and exotic dishes but about our childhoods and old movies and about how we’d both gone through life getting by on our looks, as though everyone around us just couldn’t say no, or “I’m married”, or “can’t it wait until after my mother’s funeral”.

We had a lot in common, but I could see that she’d moved on past my world of bad boyfriends and cheap wine. She knew far more about life and happiness than I could ever imagine.

I felt overwhelmed, and I lost track of myself after the cops kicked us off the beach at ten and we all got dressed and went out for fish tacos. We had a few laughs and more than a few jelly shots, and someone passed around some red and yellow pills to munch on…