2017.0204—Dinner and Disclosure

 2017.0204—Dinner and Disclosure

(c) 26.0607-1202.31 by AtaraxiA, licensed under Creative Commons CC BY-SA 

SUMMARY: Over meatloaf and wine, James and Lorraine ask Thalia about her rubber fetish. She explains its origins, the meditative quality of enclosure, and the ritualistic discipline it requires. The conversation reveals their acceptance, and Thalia leaves the dinner feeling lighter, as if a weight of secrecy has lifted. The Hahns’ kindness and curiosity make her feel safe and understood.

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Dear Marla,

Tonight’s dinner was meatloaf (James makes it with ground turkey and the secret ingredient is oyster sauce), a pile of mashed potatoes, and the kind of peas that come from the freezer but still manage to taste like hope. There was a bottle of red wine that I can’t pronounce. Lorraine and James sat at either end of the table, I in the middle, and the mood was warm enough to unfreeze a dead battery.

All of which is to say: it was a night made for confessions.

The topic was not mine to choose. About halfway through his second glass, James said, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what is it about rubber that does it for you?” He asked it so matter-of-factly, so without a trace of prurience or judgment, that I almost laughed. I took a sip of wine to stall for time.

“I guess it started young,” I said, watching the wine spiral in my glass. “I used to steal my mom’s rubber gloves from under the sink. It escalated from there.”

Lorraine looked at me with the gentle curiosity of a botanist discovering a new weed. “So it’s the feel of it?”

“Partly,” I said. “But it’s more than that. The feel is just the doorway. Once I’m in, it’s like—” I searched for the word. “It’s like my brain changes channels. Everything else turns down, and there’s just this steady hum. It’s comforting.”

James chewed a mouthful of meatloaf and said, “Like meditation?”

“Yes!” I said, surprised at the accuracy. “It’s exactly like meditation, but with more sweating and laundry.”

Lorraine grinned. “You do a lot of laundry up there. I always wondered why.”

I felt my ears go hot, but she waved a hand as if dismissing any embarrassment. “Don’t worry. We’re not judging. If anything, I’m impressed by your commitment. I have to force myself into anything tight these days, even Spanx.”

The conversation drifted to other topics—news, a podcast James had been obsessed with, Lorraine’s latest email battle with her insurance company—but always, it orbited back to rubber. James asked if I wore it every day (not quite, but close), if it ever made me sick (once, with a bad rash), if I ever wanted to stop (never).

Lorraine wanted to know what the best brand was (Rubber’s Finest, for gloves; Fantastic Rubber, for catsuits), if it was hard to put on (no, because all of it has been chlorinated), and how I managed in the summer (“with a lot of air conditioning”).

At one point, Jam(c) 26.0607-1202.32 by AtaraxiA under Creative Commons CC BY-SA licensees asked, “Do you ever think of it as a kind of religion?”

I hesitated. “Not in a literal sense, but... there is a ritual to it. A kind of discipline. I have to do it. If I go too long without, I get irritable. Anxious.” I shrugged. “So maybe, yes. Maybe it’s my own weird faith.”

He nodded, as if this made perfect sense. Lorraine said, “Maybe that’s why you fit in so well here. We’re a house of odd rituals. Just ask James about his morning tea ceremony. Or my spreadsheet meditation.”

I laughed, and for the first time since the question was asked, I felt the knot in my stomach loosen. The rest of the meal went down easy. Even the peas.

After dinner, we moved to the living room. Lorraine had her tablet out, James nursed another glass of wine, and I curled up in the overstuffed armchair with Polly, their Dalmatian dog, at my feet. The conversation wandered—old jobs, travel, the relative merits of different kinds of peanut butter—but every so often, one of them would circle back to DRF. Not to gawk, but to poke at it like a fascinating artifact.

James asked if I ever wished it was something else—something easier to indulge in. I thought about that for a long time before answering.

“No. It’s a pain in the ass, sometimes, but it’s also mine. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be as interesting.”

He seemed to like that answer. “You know, I went through a phase in college where I was obsessed with self-hypnosis. Got really deep into trance states. I liked the control, the transformation. Maybe it’s not so different from what you’re describing.”

“I think a lot of people have something,” I said. “Some private thing that gets them through the hard parts. We’re just honest about ours.”

Lorraine looked up from her tablet and said, “I envy that, sometimes. The clarity of knowing exactly what you want. I’ve spent my whole life being a little bit of everything and not enough of anythin(c) 26.0607-1202.32 by AtaraxiA under Creative Commons CC BY-SA licenseg.”

I wanted to argue, but she smiled and waved it away. “It’s not a bad thing. Just different. You have your rubber, I have my color-coded spreadsheets and my bonsai trees. Maybe I should try a latex catsuit next time I prune the Japanese maple.”

We all laughed, and the tension that had haunted the earlier part of the evening evaporated. I realized I’d been waiting for some subtle sign of disgust or disappointment, some signal that I’d overstepped. But it never came.

If anything, the Hahns seemed relieved that I trusted them enough to share.

Eventually, James said, “You know, if you ever want to talk more about this stuff, or show us your collection, you’re welcome to. We’re not exactly strangers to weirdness around here.”

Lorraine nodded. “Just don’t make me try on the ballet boots. Even in the wheelchair I’d somehow find a way to break an ankle.”

I promised I wouldn’t, and we spent the rest of the night watching old episodes of “Jeopardy!” and trading bad puns.

After they went to bed, I walked upstairs, feeling lighter than I had in months. In my room, the lamp by my desk threw soft shadows across the bookshelves. The dresser waited in the corner, quietly holding my secrets.

For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to hide from the world to enjoy what I loved. Maybe it was just the wine, or the rush of honesty, but I felt—content.

I changed into my black catsuit (just the basics tonight, nothing fancy), lay on top of the covers, and listened to the waterfall outside. The sound was steady and familiar, a lullaby for outcasts and weirdos. I drifted off almost immediately, dreaming of crows and waterfalls and a house big enough for every secret to find its place.

Yours in contentment and mashed potatoes, Thalia

P.S. If you ever want to visit, bring your own weirdness. It’s the house specialty.