Drop Dead Sexy

“Won’t Harry look sexy in these?” she asked, holding up a pair of bikini briefs in one hand while fanning herself with the other.

At that moment, I literally threw up in my mouth some of the decorative penis cake I had just eaten (Instead of the typical icing flower, I’d ingested part of the balls). The sugary bits of scrotum burned my throat. I realized then that regardless of how much of an asset he was to the funeral home, I was going to have to fire my future stepfather. There was simply no way in hell I could successfully embalm a body across from him while imagining him sporting red bikini briefs under his work apron. Come to think of it, I could never hand off an Anal/Vaginal plug to him without wondering if he had actually used the “Fun Factory Booty” butt plug my mother’s oldest friend had given her.

Needing something to drink in more ways than one, I rose out of my seat and started for the kitchen. As much as I wanted to drown my sorrows, I had to pace myself if I was going to be able to go man-hunting after the shower. Not only that, but considering the cabin was out in East Bumblefuck, I needed to be on my game to find my way around.

I was splashing some vodka into my cranberry juice when I was unceremoniously knocked out of the way by my grandmother’s cane. “Where the hell is my Fireball?” After she eyed the liquor bottles on the table, she huffed in frustration. “I guaran-damn-tee one of those alleged teetotaler Garrett girls stole it.”

Yes, ladies and gentleman, that pint-sized, foul-mouthed, octogenarian with teased silver hair and a chaw of snuff in her jaw was none other than my grandmother, Pease. Her real name was Eloise but very few people actually called her that. She even insisted on her grandchildren calling her Pease, rather than your typical “grandma” or “nana.” It was just one of the many aspects of vanity that she possessed. Being called “grandma” meant you were old, and that was the last thing she wanted to be.

You would never know it by looking at Pease, but back in the day, she’d actually been a debutante who had come out at the exclusive Piedmont Driving Club in Atlanta. Of course, considering she liked to do everything to excess, she hadn’t really fit into the society circle.

When she set her sights on my grandfather, he never stood a chance. He was everything she wasn’t—a quiet, reserved guy from a poor mountain family who was at college on a football scholarship. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he looked like Paul Newman. She left her highfaluting family, as she called them, and never looked back, even when my grandfather blew out his knee and decided on becoming a mortician.

“I’m going to need another drink if I make it through the afternoon. I mean, having all this sex bullshit shoved in my face just makes me remember that it’s been five years since I’ve gotten any.”

“Granddaddy died fifteen years ago,” I corrected.

Pease pursed her lips at me. “I’m well aware of that.”

“Then that means…um, ew,” I replied.

Pease rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Olivia, if you don’t stop being a prude, you’re never going to get rid of those cooter cobwebs of yours.”

I bit my tongue to keep from telling her that I planned on having my alleged “cooter cobwebs” swept squeaky clean tonight. Instead, I splashed a little more vodka in my cup.

When I came back into the living room, my mother was holding up her final gift, and fucking hell was it a doozy. A pair of red pasties with matching crotchless panties. She waved them at me as she waggled her brows. “Look, Olivia.”

Yes, I see it. All the bleach in the world couldn’t wipe out that image from my eyes. I forced a smile to my face. “Harry’s not going to know what hit him,” I said, as I took the empty seat beside her.

She giggled. “Before we leave for the honeymoon, I’m going to have make double sure he has his heart pills packed. Wouldn’t want to give him a heart attack.”

The allusion of a sex-induced heart attack instantly made me think of Eric, and an ache spread through my chest. I bit my lip and ducked my head.

Mama leaned over to take my hand in hers. “Oh, Livvie Boo, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” she apologized.

“It’s okay.”

Thankfully, the rest of her friends were too busy hooting and hollering at the gifts they were passing around to notice our conversation. She placed her fingers under my chin and tilted my head to look at her. “You know, I’d give anything in the world if it was you getting married instead of me.”

“Aw, Mama, you don’t mean that.”

She shook her head. “I do. More than my happiness, I want you to be happy.”

“But I am happy,” I protested.

Mama pinched her lips together in disapproval. “It’s not polite to lie to your mother.”