Now can you believe that one’s very own sister could seduce her sibling’s boyfriend on the eve of that sibling’s senior prom? I did that to Virginia. She deserved it. She borrowed my saddle shoes without asking. Well what are you looking at? She scuffed those shoes, I hardly left a mark on that boy.
A man’s a man. I know what I am talking about because I was in a very similar situation once and he was a man of the cloth. Oh, totally dedicated to his vocation, or so he said, but his eyes told me he was dedicated to me. Now, we both knew it was wrong and we fought our feelings with every bone in our hot, longing, writhing bodies. Finally it was just too much for us and we gave up and checked into a Best Western. Priest? I didn’t say he was a priest. I said he was “a man of the cloth.” He was a fabric salesman.
You know, we never made love again after that but he did cover my La-Z-Boy for free.
—Blanche Devereaux on finding out Dorothy Zbornak’s date is a priest
There’s nothing wrong with that! It keeps you healthy. Keeps you in shape. And keeps your buttocks firm.
I remember the first time anybody ever called me a widow. I was terribly lonely and depressed. Just missing George something awful. Finally, my best friend, Rebecca Sue Bliss, persuaded me to join her for a night out. Well, we no sooner stepped through the door into the Boots and Saddle Grill when these two, big, brawny truckers came over and offered us a drink. That is, until one of the truckers noticed my wedding band. Well, I was so stunned, I couldn’t speak. But Becky Sue spoke right up. She said, “That’s alright, she’s a widow.” You can bet the next time I decided to party when George was out of town on business I left that wedding ring at home.
I use to have this recurring dreams about twins — they always killed each other over me.
There’s only one thing that can turn blood relatives into enemies: jealousy. I oughtta know. You see, I was a devastatingly beautiful child. Pink cheeks. Cute, little button nose. Red, ruby lips. Adorable, little ringlet curls. Well, my sister, Charmaine, was insanely jealous of me from the time I was a gorgeous little infant. See, she was one year ahead of me in school and we use to compete for everything. But there was one thing that Charmaine did excel at: cheerleading. Not only could she twirl that baton like a propeller but she knew every cheer in the county. And she could twist her body into the shape of the letter “R”. Well, finally Charmaine decided it was her turn to be in the spotlight so she challenged me to compete against her for captain of the cheerleading squad. When the day came we had to perform in front of the entire school and Charmaine was fantastic. She twirled those batons so fast she looked like a DC3 coming in for a landing. Then it was my turn. So I did some cartwheels and only fell once. I did a handstand and almost got my balance. And I only dropped my baton four times. And when I was finish, I was unanimously voted captain of the cheerleading squad. Underneath my regulation uniform, I was wearing little, black French lace panties. Bearing the words “Bonjour”. Or was it “Bon Appettit”?
Did I ever tell you that I met my husband, George, on Christmas Eve? Let me tell you just how exciting a Christmas Eve can be. I was home from college on Christmas vacation, when my best friend, Lisa J. Beidler, fixed me up with the most beautiful boy I had ever laid my eyes on. This was Richard J. Wilde, and believe me, his name said it all. We must have pulled over on the side of the road five times on our way to that Christmas dance. Anyway, when we finally got to the dance Richard dropped me off and I turned and ran smack into a man so gorgeous he made Richard J. Wilde look like a prepubescent choir boy. Ernie Willis.
Well, Ernest smiled and the next thing I knew we were dancing in a local bar. When all of a sudden I heard a deep voice say, “Mmm-hmm, may I cut in?” Well, when I turned I saw the man I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life with. George? Uh, no, no. Thomas Penville. Uh-huh.
Well, after Thomas and I left the bar… Well, I didn’t meet George that Christmas Eve, I met George that next Christmas Eve but that was a boring story. I told you I was going to tell you an exciting story!
Well, I can’t help it. There’s something about a man in a Santa Claus suit that just drives me absolutely crazy. Maybe it’s the warmth of all that red, hot, sweaty flannel set against the austere coldness of those black, patent leather jackboots. Or, maybe it’s because those rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes bespeak of passion that’s about to erupt from a man who just spent a cold, lonely year cooped up with a pack of dwarves. I’m not sure. All I know is that the sight of a Santa sets my body aflame with unbridled desire.
I would never date a man unless I felt sparks.
