When I said I’d march in the Fourth of July parade as a slave girl if we raised $100,000 for the animal shelter, it was a stunt. Me showing off, doing a tease. Sort of like lowering my blouse a little at a drunken party to show my bare shoulder.
It was a joke. Right?
Okay, more than a joke, maybe a sexual fantasy of mine, I'll admit. Play slave girl. Or OFFER to play slave girl. The real fun would be between me and Walter, in the privacy of our bedroom. After all, I'd never raise that kind of money. No harm done, right?
It was good for morale. Good publicity. Good for the animals. No harm done, right?
And then Thursday morning, at exactly 9:00 a.m., Millie, the town clerk, called.
“Julia!” she cooed, with enough fake sweetness to give a cake diabetes. “Guess who just hit one hundred and twenty thousand dollars in pledges?”
I blinked at the phone. “You're kidding, right?”
“Oh, it’s wonderful. Really, just spectacular. You should be proud!” Then, after a dramatic pause, she added, “I think that picture of you in your cute little bikini did the trick. People are so used to seeing you in your boring business clothes. After seeing you like that, people just couldn’t resist.”
I clenched my teeth as I thought of the photo my son's friend Willie had taken of me at Lake Kentucky, then blithely spread all over social media among his friends. In truth, I hadn't been THAT upset, as a part of me liked showing off to my son's horny teenage friends. But a girl can't be too careful these days, particularly with social media. Selling your wife is more profitable than divorcing her, and any pictures of a girl showing a little skin or dancing in a bar or doing her slave yoga (even in a leotard) can be used as evidence of "de facto self-enslavement." I had helped my clients scrub their husband's phones and their own hard drives and social media prior to a divorce, so I could take their shocked hubbies to the cleaners when the divorce papers arrived. It's mostly women who initiate divorces, and the woman can really clean up if the guy doesn't see me coming.
Millie gushed on. “And I did my part, of course. I made sure all the groups marching in the parade sent out those donation blasts—email, Facebook, newsletters. Everyone pitched in. Your picture was EVERYWHERE!” Millie sounded giddy. I knew she was enjoying this way too much.
“You really made it a community effort,” I said, not trying to keep the acid out of my voice. "Did you have fun, Millie?"
“Well,” she said, “usually you’re the one giving all the orders, sweeping into the clerk’s office with those court documents and contracts and that little no-nonsense look on your face. Little Miss Bossy. It’s sort of fun being the one in charge of you for a change, and showing your bikini picture around while I ran up the score on you.”
Millie was VERY old, and I had known her since I was a kid. She’s the type who pretends she’s everyone's friend, and still just the sweet girl from the soda fountain, but she’s got a memory like an elephant and is the town's worse gossip, always ready to stick the knife into her enemies. More than once I've had to call her out for delaying a zoning easement or building approval because Gladys in 1992 said she didn't like Millie's blueberry pie. I didn't do a good job hiding my contempt for people who weren't my intellectual equals, and apparently Millie was all too eager to even the score. Having crossed her, she was now positively gleeful at the idea of me—Julia James, the town's most esteemed attorney, running slave naked down Main Street.
“Do I actually have to march?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“Oh, of course not,” she said lightly. “No one’s forcing you. But if you don’t, the shelter doesn’t get the money. And the town’s expecting it now. People are setting up along the route already. Everyone’s so excited. The town crews are decorating the Gazebo and putting up the Jumbotron in the park.” Another pause. “You wouldn’t want to let them down, would you?”
I was silent for a beat too long.
Millie went in for the kill. “Anyway, it’s not about you. It’s about the animals. Right? I told everyone you really wanted to help the animals. Your mom gave $200. That really helped persuade a lot of your friends to give, too.”
My MOM? I groaned. We'd had a fight a few days before, and she was pissed at me. I had ignored her texts and calls when word of my parade exposure hit The Town Crier. My mom said I was full of myself, and she should have spanked me, in front of my friends, bare bottom, when she'd had the chance. I guess this was the next best thing.
“I suppose I could just… not march,” I said cautiously. "I mean, what if it's too hot?"
"Well, you'll be cooler than the rest of us, since you'll be buck naked!" she snickered. "The town crew is putting down this special track so the horses hooves and the dogs and cats in the pet parade and the slave girls won't burn their feet, and there will be watering troughs along the way. Don't worry, all the animals will be well taken care of."
There was extra squeal of delight as Millie lumped me in with "the animals." I could hear her sadism through the phone.
Millie, bubbling with excitement, went on. "Slave Mart is offering free brandings if you bring your slave and your branding head to the park. Apparently, Sam's hot dogs is going to let them heat the brands on their charcoal grill. Of course, if Walter doesn't have a branding head you can always get the slave mart logo branded on that cute butt of yours, Julia. I think it would look great on the Jumbotron."
"The Jumbotron?" I asked, dumbfounded.
"They're adding it this year, because of all of the money we raise from the auction. Richmond College Film Studies is providing students to run the cameras. We want to make sure when the slave girls squat, or bend over and spread their butt cheeks, everyone in town will get to see all the little details. It's pretty big, so don't forget to wipe!" she added cheerfully.
I should’ve just let it go. Hung up the phone, accepted my fate, and started researching the weather on Friday. But I couldn’t help myself, and asked, “Out of curiosity—who did contribute?”
There was a pause. I could practically hear her smile widening through the phone line.
“Oh, EVERYONE” she giggled, her voice bubbling with that dangerous kind of chirpiness that usually means someone’s about to ruin your day. “It really brought the town together. Some people donated at the checkout line at Price Saver—we had little jars set out next to the candy and magazines, with a picture of you in your bikini. A dollar here, five there. You know, everyday folks pitching in.”
“That’s super nice,” I said, feeling sick at the thought of being objectified in every store in town.
“But it was really your photo in the Town Crier that sealed the deal,” she went on, like she’d been waiting all morning to tell me. “Once people saw that bikini picture, I started getting phone calls. ‘Is Julia James really going to do it?’ they asked. And I said, ‘If we raise enough money, yes she will! Birthday bare, collared, right down the middle of the street.’ Oh, you wouldn’t believe how quickly the donations came in.”
I bet I would.
“Of course,” she continued, her tone growing syrupier by the second, “we did get some larger contributions, too. You’ll love this. Remember Mr. Holloway? You represented his wife during their divorce—she got the house and the lake house and the boat and all that money he had hidden away overseas?”
“Vividly,” I said, closing my eyes.
“Well, he gave five thousand dollars. Said it would be ‘worth every penny' and said he'd pay ten times that to "fill her mouth up with something other than feminist lawyering." And then there was John Riggs—you obliterated him in that zoning dispute last year. And that car dealership you blocked from expanding? They gave two thousand. Said they loved the idea of seeing you being run with the other slave girls, run had and put away wet, whatever that means."
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. She wasn’t done.
“Slave Mart gave five grand. You know they’re going to be in charge of parading you and the other slave girls, right? Said your presence would really boost attendance. Think of all the people coming to bid on you! Isn’t that wonderful?”
"I'm not a slave girl," I said. "This is just a parade. 1 hours, and I'm done."
"Well, Walter decides that, sweetie, not you. But you should see the offers I'm getting. Real money. Apparently, a lot of folks want to... put you in your place, as they put it. I wouldn't be surprised if a few of them pool their assets, to buy your assets. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Think of the money you'd raise for the town. I might even get a bonus."
Her glee was absolutely unchecked now—bright and malicious, like tinsel on a guillotine.
“Millie,” I said slowly, “are you enjoying this?”
There was a moment of fake innocence. “Julia,” she said, “I don't know what you mean. Who doesn't love a parade? Now don't forget to arrive plenty early on Friday. And don't forget to shave your little box all smooth and bare. The buyers want to see what they'll be bidding on."
"For the last time, Walter's not selling me," I snapped.
"Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, sweetie. Whether your pussy goes on the block is for the men folk to decide. All you have to do is smile and bounce!" she giggled.
I wanted to slam the phone down, but I was holding it too tightly. I managed to croak out a goodbye and hung up.
Walter was at the kitchen table re-reading the Town Crier, already on his second cup of coffee. He had about a dozen copies, all featuring me in my bikini, on the kitchen table, that "friends" had sent him. When I told him the news, he barely looked up.
“Congratulations,” he said, turning the page. “You did a good thing.”
“I’ve been played,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “You raised the shelter’s entire operating budget for the year. That’s not nothing.”
“I think most of the donations came from people who just want to see me humiliated in public.”
“Well,” he said, “motives don’t matter. Money talks.”
“You sound like Millie."
“Smart woman. I've always liked her. She certainly did a good job on this, didn't she? Maybe I should send her a card."
I knew Walter was goading me, trying to get a rise out of me. Rather than play his game, and end up having to give him another hummer, I slipped into my running outfit to check out the parade route. It was a sleepy Thursday morning, and it was hot, so there were very few people on the streets, which was good. It was all downhill to the High School parking lot, where the parade would start.
As I jogged toward the school I thought of the other girls who were going to be paraded and sold. Most were slave girls, and I didn’t know them, or care to know them. I did recognize two of them, though. I was the financial planner for Jeff Blowz, and he had a new wife who wanted an expensive wedding. Reviewing the options, I had mentioned slavery, and his greedy gold digger had jumped on it. Jeff’s daughter Jennifer was only 6 weeks from graduation when the slave police arrested her to start her 5-year indenture. I had to rush, because if we waited for her to graduate, she’d be 21 and Jeff couldn’t sell her. His new wife had wanted a permanent enslavement, but Jeff knew 5 years would pay for the fancy wedding, and then some, and he wanted to be fair.
Jennifer had looked terrified in court when they stripped her naked. I was there to shoot down her court appointed attorneys meager, lame objections, and had gone outside to watch her being branded. I didn’t have to do that last part, but I wanted to be thorough. Looking at her photo in the Slave Mart catalog she already had SLAVE DUMB plastered on her pretty face. I wondered if she would even remember me.
Besides the Mayor’s niece, who was basically being sold down the river by her greedy Uncle to fund his superpac, the other three slave queens were all pledging to the same sorority. The girl who got the highest bid would be admitted, so they would have family friends bidding on them, which would be rather embarrassing. Too bad, so sad, I had my own problems.
It felt strange standing in the empty school parking lot, remembering the many events I had attended here. I had last been here in May, when my son James had graduated. We had hosted a rather raucous party for his friends. I still saw his crew, although now that they had driver’s licenses, they didn't need mom as much. But I knew his friends – Willied, too, would see me -- all of me -- in the parade.
There were some port-o-potties setups, and several trailers. Much to dismay, one of the trailers was from SLAVE MART. I tried to jump and peek in the windows, in order to see what was in store for me, but the blinds were drawn. I'd find out soon enough. When I noticed a police car slow down to take a look at me, I pretended to tie my shoe, and kept running.
The city crews had already closed the streets to lay down the track I'd be marching on, along with the other animals. Some sort of poly-whatever that would keep my feet from melting into the asphalt. Walter said they would also put some stuff on the bottom of my feet, to help, but I imagined that would come off as I walked?
The stores weren't open yet, but I imagine the local businesses couldn't have been happy with the street closures. Still, if Millie was right, the crowd on Friday would more than make up for it. There were port a potties on the corner, and a large reviewing stand on Main Street. I had sat on that stand a few years, as an honored guest. Now I would be naked slave pussy, parading past the town's elite.
Millie was right about the animal troughs. They had already been filled, and I noticed the water, which already had some leaves and dead bugs in it, looked unappetizing. I was running, and it was hot, but I couldn't imagine being hot enough to want to drink that water, let alone get down on my hands-and-knees and stick my ass in the air to slurp it down, with the whole town.
The parade route only took a few minutes to jog, and I didn't want to linger, lest someone recognize me. I got a few wolf whistles, but I ran fast, so I was gone before people could realize who they were seeing. I also noticed the police cruiser slowing down to take a closer look at me as I stared into the murky water. "Relax," I thought. "You're a professional woman, an attorney, a respected member of the community. Nothing has happened yet."
I ended up at the town Gazebo, which I had helped to design and build. This is where the auctions would be held.
The Jumbotron was HUGE, and Millie was right: the crowd would be able to see all the little details. The screen was to the left of the Gazebo, and to the right, was Sam's hot dogs. The grill the branding iron would be heated on was already there. I wondered if the camera would focus on my face or my ass when they branded me. It was large enough to do both.
"Look who's here!" a voice shouted out.
"Hey, Miss James! Strip off and give us a preview."
Without even looking to see the source of the catcalls, I ran back to the safety of my house.
