The Actual
Madame X Sex Club
and
My Wrong, Wrong Shoes

By Trudi Young Taylor

One dark and stormy night, a few years back, an editor called me. “So we are going to publish your story, but we want you to read it in New York.”

“Yay. But where exactly will I be reading?” I had dreams of an exciting but small literary salon or at least an independent bookstore.

“At Madame X. We are so excited to get in there.”

Somewhere alarm bells went off. Madame X did not sound … legit.

I packed my carry-on luggage, flew to New York, and walked to the reading.

Madame X looked like a very dark saloon. The outside was seedy and littered with liquor bottles. Smelled of garbage and cheap perfume. Inside, the tiny first floor was vampire dark and empty except the bartender. She sent me upstairs, a place of latex, dog collars, piercings, and no visible panty lines – apparently, the patrons were not wearing panties. Erotic tarot card readings in the rear. On the tiny stage, my editor introduced the night’s readers: a dictator’s mistress talking about her sex-ploits; a man telling a hilarious routine about hiring an escort from Craigslist; and a woman doing a realistic imitation of vaginal farts.

“Up next, Trudi Taylor reading her short story about pickles.”

Looking around the audience, I launched into my story, somewhat crazed and overdressed. My perky orange Banana Republic sundress with the matching argyle sweater, sleeves artfully pushed up to my elbows, matching tasteful handbag, and Dansko clogs were utterly wrong. Drenched in sweat, I read like the 750 words were a run-on sentence and clomped off the stage.

Invite me to speak at your next group or event – I promise to do my research and never ever wear perky again.