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Illustrated by Lee Kuruganti © 2008

My Lovely

© by Pamela Tyree Griffin

There are no places like this in my hometown.

Around ten years ago, I decided to drive to the next state over, to the big city, hoping to figure myself out in ways I couldn't at home. It was a mere 100 miles, just far enough and I've never returned. I prefer keeping in touch through the relative anonymity that the phone company and the postal service afford me.

I come here for the men and for the anonymity of it all. They don't know me and they are often too enveloped in libido to want to. Sure they ask the same Saturday night questions: “Come here much? (the last word sounds like mush) and “Lemme buy you a drink” and the all important: “Live nearby?”

I guess it's good they think I'm a whore. Best not think I might be the second grade teacher who, during the day, teaches Johnny how to read. Let's not consider that the same hands that these men pull towards their dangling crotches, might also receive communion at St. Bart's over on the West side. These middle aged icons of industry are looking for one thing and don't want to clutter their minds with too many truths.

These men are not the pretty boys you find clubbing downtown. They are Viagrafied, balding and horny. But you know what? Most of them still want to know they have it without having to pay for it. I don't mind accommodating them.

Although I don't hold a candle to my sister Patty, my role model, I am pretty. That's not to say I haven't worked on it. I'm a redhead now and I wear blue contacts. Men are mesmerized by that combination. Among other things, I've had a boob job and some work on my ample nose. If asked, I'd deny that I've had liposuction, but I'd be lying. I'm a woman who would be handled, sometimes not so delicately, by these men. But I can take care of myself and they know it.

Tonight is my lucky night. Three men vie for my attention, showering me with compliments and drink offers. From behind me I hear a stunningly familiar voice. This can't be happening. It's my father. He joins this group at the bar and stares hard at me. He is on his third whiskey sour one of men says.

“You, my lovely, look familiar.”

My lovely? That's what he calls mom. I say nothing. I feel like I'll pass out any minute. This is about as creepy as it gets.

“Can't put my finger on it,” he pauses, “but I sure would like to!” This brings guffaws from his friends.

I have got to get out of here. I ease my way off the stool and run out of the bar, my head spinning. I just make it to the sidewalk when I let loose and vomit all over my new stiletto pumps.

Relieved that Dad has no idea that the blue eyed lovely is someone who used to be his handsome, brown eyed son Danny, I head for my car.

___

According to her mother, Pamela Tyree Griffin has been writing and reading since she was five years old. She has been unable to stop doing either. She has been published in Long Story Short, Bewildering Stories, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), Chick Lit Review, The Shine Journal and others. Her greatest accomplishment? Her children. Pamela considers herself a perpetual work in progress given the life expectancy of human beings...