The Sportin' Life

by Nancy Frederick

  It was just the tone in her voice each time she said my name that made me so uneasy, for no matter how much she protested that she loved me more than anything in the world, it seemed that her hatred for my father was focused on his name and therefore spewed out all over me each time she called me. I began to think that the name Francis itself was unlucky, and besides that it just didn’t seem to suit me as I grew into a woman, so I decided to change it to something more likable, Fauna.

  Actually, it worked out perfectly, because I entered high school at about that time and none of the teachers knew me by any other name, so when I wrote Fauna on all my papers, they naturally called me that. I tried to convince my mother that she, too, should call me Fauna, and I told her that it was for reasons of good luck, and since she was superstitious, she decided to oblige. The only problem was that she could never remember, so she’d whine, “Francis oops Fauna…” That went on for some time until she managed to delete the oops, making it sound like Francis-Fauna, and I’d hear it as Francis hyphen Fauna and that drove me crazy too.

  I was the shyest girl you can possibly imagine. Even as I reached adolescence and boys began to call me or to stop me in the hallway at school, I was too inept to talk to them. Mother said not to worry about it, because boys only wanted one thing, and I didn’t need that at all. What was it that they wanted? For years I was too shy and scared to ask her to tell me. And when they called up at home and Mother would primly say that Francis-Fauna wasn’t in, I breathed huge sighs of relief.

  There was something wrong with me, and both Mother and I knew it. Francis Senior would never have left if I hadn’t been such a wash out, and lucky for me that Mother loved me anyway, even if my father couldn’t and no one else ever would. I just wasn’t pretty enough or smart enough or clever or popular or any of the things girls had to be to attract attention.

  By the time I was sixteen, I knew it was hopeless. I had boring brown hair, not dark raven brown, or shimmering chestnut brown, or swirling golden brown, just mongrel brown, no big deal hair. And I was small, not even five feet tall. I had to look up to everyone and I knew that they were always going to look down on me. My front was as flat as my back, and never mind that here I was growing up in Vegas, which is practically the boob capital of the world, for once again I had been overlooked.

  “Don’t worry about your poor looks, Francis-Fauna,” my mother would say condescendingly, “You’re probably better off. If you had my looks, you’d have to deal with men and one would come along who’d break your heart and then you’d be miserable and alone. We have each other and that’s all we’ll ever need.” Somehow it just never sounded as reassuring as she intended.

  Mother had had a glorious past. She had been a show girl in one of the casinos and men routinely threw themselves at her feet. Even now she remained beautiful with her blue eyes and perfect face and figure. It didn’t matter that she refused to wear makeup or anything fancier than a cotton house dress. She had long legs, soft curves, and natural red hair. It’s obvious that Francis Senior would never have left her. Whose fault could it be but mine?

  I tried to work on other areas of my development. I read a book a day for years. I took tests to increase my vocabulary. So what—I was too tongue tied around people even to open up my mouth never mind dazzling them with polysyllables. I got books on how to win friends and influence people, how to make a good first impression, how to succeed. They were all interesting, and maybe for an hour or so after finishing them I would be all fired up with enthusiasm and believe that I could follow their instructions and metamorphose myself into something good.

  Mother found my library habits most amusing. She had never read a book in her life, and she thought my preoccupation with self improvement silly. She’d laugh and say, “Francis-Fauna, you are what you are and it’s silly to try to change. I love you just as you are and I always will. Now could you run and get me a cup of tea, please? I’m so tired.” I was supposed to feel grateful that she loved me despite the fact that I was a loser and so inferior to herself and therefore I should lavish care and love on her in return.

  I graduated from high school with pretty good grades and I was hoping to go to college and maybe become a teacher, if I could learn to get up the nerve to be with people. I felt that I could be OK with little kids, because they might not notice how plain and uninspired I was. Mother felt that college was a waste of time and besides she couldn’t afford to send me, so instead I took a job as a waitress in the coffee shop at Bally’s.

  You would not believe the assortment of people who came into that place. There would be high rolling gamblers down on their luck who could barely afford to eat unless they were comped, and there would be those who’d hit it big and would tip twenty bucks for just a cup of coffee. The show girls would come in at sunrise to chatter and end their night. And the hookers would come in at any time, just to take a break. The hookers always gave the best tips.

  I worked there for two years before I got up the nerve to have a conversation with anyone. By that time, I began to know a group of the regulars who came in often and gradually we would develop some small talk about the weather (always hot and dry, but we’d comment on it all the same) about who won big, about the shows.

  Sherilee, the showgirl I most admired, would come in every night, and I would compliment her on her hair or her outfit or whatever. She was always so sparkling and exotic looking that I really envied her. One night she came in looking miserable—she had a black eye and other bruises. I was shocked when I saw her and decided to take my break to see if I could do anything to help.

  She was glad to have a listener and easily revealed her whole story. It seemed that she had been dating a married man and his wife found out and hired someone to beat her up. The guy was supposed to do a lot more, but after he roughed her up a bit and blackened her eye, he started to feel bad and couldn’t go on. She knew this because he didn’t just run away. Instead he sat down in her living room and began to sob and apologize to her for having hit her in the first place. Then she took pity on him and they began to really talk. It seemed that they had a lot in common and both really just wanted to find someone to love, and Sherilee was thinking about going away with him to start a new life. Only she wasn’t sure if she should give up her career.

  It was clear to me that I wasn’t qualified to give advice to someone in a predicament as crazy as this, so I didn’t try. I just listened. Eventually she came to her own conclusions, and looking over at me, she smiled. “You know, I really want to thank you for being so nice to me. It makes me see how valuable love and attention really are, and I’m going to do something for you.” With that she took out her keys and handed them to me. “This is for my apartment. It’s paid up through the next month, and I know how much you always admired my clothes and wigs, so I want you to have them. I’m going to take a chance on this guy, on a clean start, and I don’t need them any more. You’d look real pretty in something fancy.”

  With that she wrote the address down on the inside of a matchbook, just like a character in a movie, handed me the info, leaning close to kiss me softly. And then as she turned to go, she whispered, “Go see Dr. Goldstein—he did my tits and he can give you a set men will kill to touch.” I stood there, watching her go out the door, holding the matchbook in one hand, the keys in the other and with the stupid expression I usually wore planted on my face.

  The upshot is that I took her advice, although not immediately. I went to her apartment and found all the stuff she said was there and wow what fun trying on all those clothes. And you know what—I didn’t look half bad, even if they were way too long, and I was way too flat-chested. I tried on a platinum wig and a silver dress with gold beads and looked in the mirror to discover that I was no longer the plain misfit I’d always been but a glamorous woman just as fabulous as Sherilee. Whoever said that clothes make the woman was no dummy.

  With the vision of myself as a platinum haired dazzler in my mind, I marched out of Sherilee’s an
d right into the first beauty parlor I could find. It was the first time I had been inside one in my life. I told them to bleach my hair, and they did it. I spent the whole day’s tips on the job and walked into the house planning to astonish my mother with my improved looks. She took one look at me and gasped in shock. And when I explained that it had cost me my wages but I thought it was worth it, she sneered, “Francis-Fauna, you little fool. Do you really think that you can hide your plainness behind that trampy blonde hair?”

  I was definitely willing to try, and at that moment I realize that my mother had a stake in keeping me plain and unappreciated. Maybe I wasn’t as bad as I had thought all along. Sherilee had said I would look good in a dress up clothes and she was right. Maybe I could keep on improving myself and maybe I could have friends and a life. Maybe Mother was wrong. Maybe Francis Senior had left because of other reasons than me.

  I went back to Sherilee’s and gathered up her stuff. I made calls and eventually managed to sell it all at a good price. For the first time in my life I had cash of my own that I was planning to spend on myself. It felt great. And when I went to see Dr. Goldstein and he showed me just what he could do with my boobs, I knew that I had found the solution to my insecurity. I told him to make them as big and firm as possible and he did just that.

  When everything healed and I was ambulatory again, I just couldn’t believe the change it made. I looked in the mirror and someone interesting looked back. Everyone at the coffee shop was stunned, and even though my mother did nothing but criticize and castigate me, I felt great. I looked as good as she ever did, probably better, and my tips increased to match the size of my bust.

  One day a guy came into the coffee shop and began to compliment me on my looks. He asked if I had ever been a stripper, and I could only blush in response. He gave me his card and said that he could put me in the best show in town if I were interested. I took the card but that seemed about as likely as mechanical engineering for my future.

  Things grew worse and worse at home. Mother never had a kind word for me, although I noticed that she did begin to wear makeup and take more pains with her own looks. It didn’t matter, though, because she made it clear that I was a poor imitation and would never be more than I had started out—the reason my father walked out on us. Once she even said something about the fact that she knew no one else would ever love me—at least not as much—and why couldn’t I be satisfied with my life with her. It was then that I reached for the card in my wallet and called Mr. Greaves for an appointment.

  In twelve months, I went from an inexperienced, tongue-tied virgin to the most popular stripper on the circuit. The audiences loved me and I loved them. It’s the greatest feeling in the world to be admired and appreciated, and when I was on that stage, revealing myself to all those men, I felt flooded with love. They would whoop and applaud, would throw money and phone numbers, would see me as a desirable, sexy woman, someone they wished they had enough nerve to meet.

  At first, I slept with them all. It was a major thrill to be desired in that way. But it was a funny thing—nothing much happened inside me. The men came and went and I felt little or no thrill from the sexual contact we’d shared. It was nowhere near as exciting as doing my act. It was only in those moments of glory enshrined on the stage as a female goddess that I received pleasure. I came during each performance, and I wondered if that was the secret to my success, if my ability to have an orgasm while dancing and removing my clothes somehow transmitted a sexual buzz to my audience of which they were consciously unaware.

  I started focusing more on the audience and eventually would pick out one specific man in the crowd, usually the best looking, and someone I knew would never have noticed me prior to my transformation. I’d gear my whole show to him and watch him get turned on. That in turn would increase my excitement. After the show I’d dress in something revealing and walk over to his table. Often I’d go home for the night with him. But then it was just one-to-one and it was never better than the first time with Tony Greaves.

  Tony made me want to be a stripper by making me enjoy taking my clothes off. He understood all about me, about my feelings of low self-esteem and fears of total unworthiness and he managed to use that to make me want to impress him. If he unbuttoned my blouse, I would tremble in embarrassment while he moaned appreciatively about my beautiful breasts, soft skin, wonderful feel, delicious taste. It was amazing. I never realized that there were so many different items on which a woman could be complimented and I looked forward to each instance in which he would push me farther and then coax me to like it with his extravagant praise.

  You would have thought that sex would have been just as much of a thrill as walking around topless for Tony’s pleasure, but it just didn’t work out that way. I guess if he had been training me to be a nymphomaniac it might have worked out better. But he wanted an exhibitionist, and that is what I became.

  I never breathed a word to Mother about my new life. She thought my schedule at the coffee shop was irregular, and if I spent the night away, I told her I took a double shift. I had more than enough money to give her the equivalent of my waitressing salary and to open a savings account for myself with the rest. I had learned that it would be better if I stuck to the same mousy style of dressing that she had taught me, and for a while I lived a double life.

  I would leave the house in my cotton shirtwaist and go to the club where I didn’t need even that. Later on I might go out and so I kept a wardrobe of clothes more suited to my stripper personality, with leather skirts, garter belts, clingy sweaters, and the sheerest of blouses through which I could display my bountiful boobs.

  I wore them to tempt whatever man was nearby. And if he had the nerve to reach out and fondle me in public, so much the better. Anything that took place with someone watching was a turn on. Unfortunately, few of them had that kind of nerve. They were usually more tongue tied than I had been in my former incarnation. And if I spoke and let them see that I wasn’t the dumb bimbo they’d expected, it got worse. My boobs had the power to enthrall, but unfortunately they also managed to turn most men into stuttering schoolboys. What could I do but smile and be understanding—I knew what agonies they were suffering, and although that inspired kindness in me it hardly proved to be an aphrodisiac. I wanted to meet a man who wasn’t intimidated by my boobs and then maybe he could make me come in private. I kept looking and hoping but I had no luck at all.

  And then Mother found out about my work as a stripper. She discovered my bankbook, came down to the coffee shop to ask me about it, learned I hadn’t worked there in a year, and my double life unraveled. When I got home, she flew at me like a vicious, rabid animal, calling me a tramp and telling me that I would have to live by her rules if I wanted to live in her home. Why didn’t I just take a typing course and become a secretary if I wanted a better job, not something degrading like exposing my body—my surgically altered body—to strangers.

  I pushed her off of me and staggered out of the house. My first stop was at the local school where I inquired if they had a typing program. Indeed they did. I signed up for it, paid for it, and asked for an envelope which I addressed to Mother after inserting the receipt. They said they would mail it to her. I figured that if somebody in our family was going to learn to type, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me. Then I went to see Tony. I explained that I wanted a change, that I couldn’t take it there any more and he suggested going to Los Angeles where he had a contact who could set me up in private shows for parties of businessmen and other rich, important guys. I thanked him, cleaned out my dressing room, went to the bank and withdrew my savings, climbed into my car and headed west. I never looked back.

  The miles vanished and the distance between me and my past grew as steadily as time and space. I thought about my life, such as it had been up until then and formulated a theory: this could be a completely new start. I didn’t have to be Francis or Francis-Fauna or even Fauna if I didn’t want to be any more. I could be whoever I cho
se. I now had killer looks. I had long blonde hair and boobs the envy of everyone. I didn’t have to be poor, shy, tongue-tied Francis any more. This was my chance, my rebirth, and it was up to me to make the most of it. I could be a loser, if I wanted to continue on the path begun for me by my mother, or I could be the person I created, bit by bit. Gradually things began to look bright and my future loomed ahead like the city that waited for me at the end of the road.

  Delilah

  Of Biblical Proportions

  I love my little pussy more than anything in the world. Before I found my little pussy I was lonely and unhappy all the time, and now I feel content and at peace. The problem is that I am a Fat Woman, and that means that to the men of this town I am invisible. There’s this guy, Kevin Samson, who comes into the video store where I work, and we have this amazing rapport. We can talk for hours about this movie and that, and often I let him rent movies for less money than I am supposed to. I’m crazy about him, and for a long time I figured he might be my destiny. After all, my name is Delilah and he could my Samson—any night of the week he could be my Samson.

  Kevin comes into the store once a week or so to rent movies, and we always have great conversations. I give him the low-down on the best movies to see and why they’re interesting, how they fit into the scheme of that particular director’s work or that particular actor’s career. And we have these fascinating exchanges. Kevin is so interesting and charming and friendly, and I know that he senses a special bond between us. But he never does anything about it. He rents his movies and he leaves. For a while I thought that he would be the one guy to see that I am a wonderful person, fascinating, and filled with joie de vivre, lively, and yes, even sexy, because I am all those things. But I guess he just sees me the way everybody else does—as a Fat Woman.