Page 55 of Boss Me Around

Gram and I talk about a lot of things, but we never talk about that.

I may be nearly thirty years old, but in her eyes, I’m still that little girl who came to live with her when I was in second grade and so traumatized by life with my flighty mother that I slept on a mountain of emotional support stuffed animals.

“You’re too young and pretty to be on the shelf,” she continues.

“I’m not on the shelf,” I say, indignant. “I go on dates all the time.”

“But you haven’t gotten laid in years.”

My jaw drops far enough for one of the fake birds hanging from the ceiling to fit inside.

Who is this woman and what has she done with my sweet, mannerly little grandmother, the one who wouldn’t say “poop” if she had a mouthful of it?

“I may be old, but I’m not blind,” she says. “Or senile. I know what goes on around this town.” She arches a loaded brow my way. “And what doesn’t. And while I’m all for waiting to settle down until you find the right guy, there’s no sense in torturing yourself, sweetheart. Intimacy is a basic human need. It’s fun and relaxing and good for you.” Her brow furrows with concern. “You do enjoy sex, don’t you? If not, there’s therapy for that. And no shame in asking for help.”

“I…” I trail off. Open my mouth. Close my mouth. Blink and wait to wake up in my bed, mortified that my subconscious served up such an awkward dream.

When that doesn’t happen, I wheeze, “What are you getting at, Gram?”

“I’m trying to figure out if you have some sort of sexual dysfunction or if you’re just a big old chicken.”

My jaw drops again, and Gram reaches over, tapping me beneath the chin.

“Close your mouth, sweetheart,” she says kindly. “Don’t want a fly to get in. I saw one zooming around the kitchen earlier. Don’t know how flies are still pestering us in November, but it’s been a warm winter so far. Supposed to be even warmer tomorrow. You should pack that cute little sweater dress with the pink and blue swirls for your overnight and take your guy to breakfast tomorrow. I can hold down the fort alone for a night.”

“You cannot,” I say, ignoring the rest of the madness for now. “What if your arthritis acts up and you can’t get into bed by yourself?”

She shrugs. “Then I’ll sleep on the couch. One night on the couch won’t kill me. And I don’t have to be anywhere but here at home tomorrow, so I won’t need you to drive me around.” She pushes her chair back and stands, beginning to gather the empty egg cups on the silver platter I used to deliver them to the table. “If you don’t like Sam in that way, that’s fine, of course, but don’t use me as an excuse. I may be fussy and particular and have a bossy streak a mile wide, but I’m no cockblocker.”

“I have expired,” I murmur in a stunned daze. “I’m dead, aren’t I? And this is some weird version of hell where I have to listen to my grandmother say obscene, out-of-character things for all eternity?”

Gram frowns. “Isn’t that the way you say it? Cockblocker? Debbie told me it was. I asked if maybe it should be ‘vagina blocker’ in this case, since we’re both women, but she said that isn’t the way the slang works.”

The last of the blood drains from my face. “You talked to Debbie about my sex life?”

“Your lack of sex life, you mean?” Gram counters. “And yes, I did. Debbie’s my best friend.”

“Debbie’s the biggest gossip at the senior center!”

“She won’t gossip about you,” Gram says, adding beneath her breath, “There’s nothing to gossip about. That’s the whole point of the conversation.”

I surge to my feet. “I’m going to change. I’ll load the dishwasher when I get back, don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll load the dishwasher. And I’ll make my own breakfast tomorrow morning if need be.” She sniffs. “And that’s all I’m going to say about it. Just know that I support you getting out there and enjoying yourself a bit more. There are things I regret in my life but having lots of wonderful sex with your grandfather and the two very kind and generous men I was intimate with before him isn’t one of them.”

“Okay!” I chirp, plastering a smile on my face as I dash from the room, still certain this is a fever dream.

But twenty minutes later, when I leave for my walking date with nothing but my purse slung over my shoulder, the disappointed look Gram shoots me from the couch makes it clear this is very real.

I’ve really been reverse slut-shamed by my grandmother.

What would that be called?

Celibate shamed? Prude shamed?

Whatever you would call it, I can’t help it.

I can’t help it if the only man in town who makes me tingle keeps pushing me away. And I can’t help tingling for him.

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