by Marie Simas
I’m ashamed to admit that I became a bit of a user. Not a user of drugs—a user of friends.
If my buddy wasn’t willing to lie for me, she wasn’t worth my time. I went through “best friends” like girls go through pantyhose—a new pigeon every six months. I didn’t give a rat’s ass. Everything about my life sucked and I was prepared to do anything to get the fuck out of my house.
That meant finding girlfriends who cleaned up nice but were secretly filthy, filthy whores. Tammy was one of those friends.
Tammy and I were both sophomores in high school when we became friends. Tammy was a chubby blonde virgin. She was an only child and lived with her parents in the richest part of town—on the golf course. My father LOVED Tammy —he thought she was a wonderful influence on me.
She was actually a total bitch. Tammy was conservative, bigoted, and felt an enormous sense of entitlement. She was cruel to animals and she shoplifted. Like I said, a total bitch.
I’m not sure of her religion. She may have been Jewish or Protestant. She wasn’t Catholic—I knew that for sure. No self-respecting Catholic family would be without at least one bloody crucifix and one Virgin Mary statuette in their house.
I’ll always remember her cats. She had two beautiful longhaired Persians. They were both declawed, which was something that I’d never seen before.
I asked her, “Tammy, what’s wrong with those cats’ paws? Why do they look all smashed like that?”
“They’re declawed.”
“What do you mean? You took their claws out? What if they get outside?”
“They won’t. They’re inside cats. And this way they won’t ruin the leather furniture. It’s expensive. I would never own cats that had claws. They would just ruin all my stuff.”
No one in my family would ever spend $300 to remove a cat’s claws. If a cat was clawing on something you didn’t want it to, you either threw a shoe at it, or you tossed the cat outside. Problem solved. Growing up, we were as practical as we were cheap. Besides, I thought that declawing a cat was barbaric.
Anyway, Tammy and I started hanging out—I went to her house a lot. My father always let me sleep over—no questions asked.
Jackpot!
I met her parents only three or four times. Her parents were chubby, white, and blonde, just like Tammy. The whole family looked like siblings. It was creepy. I don’t know where the fuck they went, but they were never home.
During the course of our friendship, Tammy decided that she was going to lose weight. So she stopped eating. She simply stopped. She would drink a glass of orange juice in a day or eat only a basket of strawberries. That was it. She was consuming fewer than 100 calories per day. Of course, the weight melted off. She went from 200 pounds to 140 in three months.
She threw away all of her “fat clothes” in favor of a new wardrobe—a gift to herself for a new body. I was shocked when I saw the price tags on Tammy’s new clothes... an Esprit shirt for $50, Guess jeans for $70, Nike shoes for $87. I never had any new clothes. I used to buy clothes secondhand and then lie about it. My grandmother and my uncle bought clothes for me sometimes and I took really good care of them so they would last forever.
I was jealous. Tammy wouldn’t let me borrow her clothes because she said I would “stink them up.”
She weighed herself every morning, afternoon, and night. Every day, she went into the bathroom, peed, stripped off her clothes, and weighed herself naked. I never actually saw her naked, but she told me that was how she weighed herself.
“Why do you take off all your clothes? What difference does it make? They only weigh a few pounds.”
“You’re stupid, Marie. I always weigh myself like this. That’s how you’re supposed to do it. You don’t know anything about dieting. Just shut up.”
I have to admit, she looked pretty good. She didn’t exercise at all, though. Not even walking. Tammy hated exercise and wasn’t going to do it. So her body looked a little strange in places. As she got thinner and thinner, she started wearing more revealing clothes. But her breasts didn’t look very good as she lost weight.
One asshole commented on her little saggy breasts one time. I didn’t say anything—but I laughed. Tammy turned beet red and just before she stomped out of the classroom, she shot me an icy glare.
Tammy felt like I should have defended her. But what was I going to say? “Hey man! Her microscopic saggy tits aren’t any of your damn business?” Tammy was so upset she didn’t talk to me for the rest of the week.
The extreme dieting finally caught up with her. Her hair started falling out in clumps. At first, she believed it was her chemical perm and swore never to get another one. She also began fainting. One time, she passed out in the shower and cracked her front tooth.
When I saw her afterward, she was crying.
“Just look at it! My tooth! Oh my God! Oh my God!”
“I doesn’t look that bad... your dentist will be able to fix it,” I offered.
“I already WENT to the dentist! It was all jagged before— he already fixed it! Bwahhhhh!” she wailed.
Oops.
Tammy had worn braces for four years and was quite proud of her teeth. Now one front tooth was uneven. She cried the rest of the night.
It wasn’t enough to make her stop dieting. She just got better at knowing when she was going to faint.
Eventually, Tammy’s new body caught the attention of Ricky Jones, the local grease-monkey playboy. Imagine the perfect douchebag stereotype....
Ricky drove a cheap muscle car (a crappy used convertible mustang—four-cylinder). He was twenty-six and only dated high school girls. No college aspirations, of course. Ricky still lived with his mom, who was divorced three times. He worked at the local drugstore.
What a catch.
Ricky loved plucking virgins, and Tammy was the perfect target. I knew what was going to happen from the beginning. But Tammy wouldn’t listen to any warnings from me. So, I actually encouraged the relationship. It allowed me to get out of the house even more, since Ricky always liked to double-date with one of his douchebag friends. I never had sex with any of his buddies. They were all gross.
Tammy lost her virginity to Ricky within three weeks of accepting his first invitation. During that time, Ricky often slept at her house. Like I said, her parents were never there. Usually, Ricky brought a few friends. Sometimes other girls would be there. We usually drank and some of them would smoke weed or drop acid. I just wanted alcohol and cigarettes. I was experimenting with clove cigarettes at the time and my favorite drink was Zima, a fizzy malt liquor designed for girls.
We would all walk down to the beach and light bonfires and stay up until 4 a.m. It was a fun time for me.
Tammy and Ricky dated for four months. He eventually tired of her, as I knew he would. He dumped her unceremoniously, using the old, “It’s not you, It’s me...” line.
Tammy was crushed, and completely inconsolable. One night, Tammy drove to Ricky’s house in the middle of the night and leaned on her car horn. She woke all the neighbors and they called the police on her. This happened numerous times after that. She was so upset that she started to gain the weight back.
Ricky refused to take her calls. He started fucking another high school girl, a whorish senior who was on the wrestling team. Tammy confronted her in the hallway one day.
Girl fight!
It was over quickly. Tammy didn’t exercise and she couldn’t fight for shit. She couldn’t defend herself against a toddler, much less some dirty foster care skank.
A few weeks later, Tammy found blood in her pee. She went to Planned Parenthood. Her blood test was positive for gonorrhea. They gave her antibiotics.
Even that wasn’t enough to deter her. She still tried to win him back. Old bad boy Ricky. She begged, she sent letters, gifts... she did everything she could think of.
He ignored her for seven straight months. After that, Ricky started calling Tammy, but only for sex. He would come over, fuck her and leave. By
then, Tammy had gained most of the weight back and I knew her self-esteem was in the toilet.
I couldn’t stand to be around her anymore. She was a bottomless pit of misery and I had plenty of my own. I just couldn’t absorb it. So I picked a fight with her one day and that was it. She apologized to me a week later, but I was done. She didn’t have anything that I needed anymore. Now she was just a needy bitch. So I told her to go fuck herself.
Tammy wanted to “get revenge” against me for being such a bitch and not accepting her apology. She sat in front of me in Spanish class. One day, she took off her jacket. Her bright idea was to wear a dumb t-shirt that said “BLOW ME” on the back. That was it. That was her big comeback. I just laughed. What a dumbshit.
She started having all-night parties at her house. She slept with a lot of different men. One night, she had sex with two brothers, Chris and Mitchell. Not at the same time, but on the same night. They were both sleeping in separate bedrooms at her house. Tammy crept into one bedroom and fucked Chris, and then went straight into Mitchell’s room and fucked him, too. They both bragged about it afterwards.
There were a lot more rumors, most of which were probably true. Despair does funny things to people.
Her once-perfect grades suffered, and she barely graduated with a C-average. She ended up at Chico State, the shittiest four-year college in California.
I heard she was happy there.
The Dirty Hug
1989, AGE 16
My father had lots of family living in the Bay Area. My paternal grandmother had nine siblings and many of them emigrated in the seventies and settled in Central California. I never met my father’s parents, but I have a lot of cousins and extended family on Father’s side. I don’t socialize with my father’s side of the family anymore, but when I was a kid, we visited them a lot.
Father had two aunts, Anna and Beatrice. They were identical twins, both redheads. I could never tell them apart. Even now, if I had one of them in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to tell you which one it was.
We visited them often. I was always bored at Aunt Beatrice’s house. Her husband Mario hated my brother and me. Actually, he hated kids in general. Mario yelled at us, and told us not to touch anything. He was such a prick.
I asked my father if I could stay home, but he insisted on dragging me there all the time. Usually, I brought a book when I was forced to go there.
“Dad, please let me stay home. I’m so bored over there.”
“They’re family! Nothing is more important. What are you going to do, sit at home in front of the boob tube?”
Father always referred to TV as the “boob tube.” That’s because our TV was one of the old models with a dial on the front. It had glass tubes inside, which my father replaced often. Very old school.
When I became a teenager, my father continued to take me over to Beatrice’s house. Amazingly, the once-sour Mario started becoming friendlier toward us and hugged my brother and me when we came over. It was nice. He even invited us to watch TV in his bedroom. So we did. It was a respite from the endless boredom of adult chatter in the living room.
Then, when I was sixteen, I went over to Beatrice’s house without my little brother. Father was in the living room and I was watching TV in the bedroom. Mario came into the bedroom and sat down on the bed next to me. He started touching my hair.
Mario was an old man, at least sixty-five. He was thin, dark, bald, and covered with liver spots. He looked like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. He continued making small talk and eventually he closed the door. Still, I didn’t suspect anything was wrong.
He asked me for a hug. I got up and hugged him. Instead of hugging me, he turned me around. Mario jammed his erection into my butt. He kissed my neck, grabbed my breasts under my shirt, and cupped my vagina. He tried to shove his hand down the front of my pants. I was frozen... what the hell was happening? Wasn’t this asshole related to me?
“Shhhh! Shhhh! Don’t say anything! This is our secret!” Mario whispered, his bony finger pressed to his lips. I heard my father’s laughter in the living room.
I was so shocked, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even say no. I broke away and ran into the living room, heart pounding in my chest.
As I ran out of the bedroom, I heard him hiss, “Oh, you’re going to be like that, eh? Little bitch.”
I sat next to my father, who was still talking to Beatrice like nothing had happened. I asked if we could go home and he blew me off. The rest of the night, Mario stared me down, daring me to say anything. I just looked at my feet. Hours later, we went home.
I didn’t say anything to my father. I was so ashamed. I begged my father not to take me back over to Aunt Beatrice’s house, but I didn’t tell him about the assault. He dragged me over there again and again. I sat right next to my father the whole time.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I confessed to my Father in the kitchen. My little brother was there. I was crying—my father was planning another visit to Beatrice’s house.
“I’m not going back over there!”
My father stared at me. “What’s your problem?”
“Aunt Beatrice’s husband tried to have sex with me! H-he grabbed my boobs and—he grabbed me down there.” I sobbed.
My father looked down for a minute. He frowned.
“All right,” he said. He took my brother over to Beatrice’s house. I stayed home. That was the end of the conversation.
My father never stood up to Mario and he never told his Aunt Beatrice that her husband tried to sexually assault me in their own house.
I never understood it. Father was such a conservative hard-ass. He always said that all child molesters should go to the electric chair. I guess that rule only applied to pedophiles that weren’t related to us.
A few months later, I finally had the strength to ask my father about it.
“Why didn’t you say anything to Mario? Why did you keep taking me over there?” I cried.
My father replied, “It would break up the family. It’s too embarrassing. You understand.”
That was it. That was his answer.
I told my Grandmother Amalia about it. She was incensed. That summer, Amalia went to a Portuguese festival and had the good luck to run into Mario. My grandmother let him have it.
“You perverted old man! If you come near my granddaughter again, I’ll cut your God-damn nuts off!” Her voice went up higher and higher.
“You filthy bastard! You disgusting piece of trash!” She yelled in front of everyone. Mario glanced around, frantic. How many people heard this crazy old woman? He tried to run away, but my grandmother chased him down the street, yelling obscenities in Portuguese.
I was so proud of her.
Years later, I discovered that Mario had been caught with juveniles a number of times, perhaps prostitutes. These rumors were whispered quietly within family circles. It was just gossip; I never heard the whole story. I guess that’s the reason why Father never doubted that Mario tried to assault me.
I never forgot how my father refused to confront that piece of shit. We just never talked about it. It was another secret that got buried.
Catholic Grandma Rules
I was diagnosed with hyperactivity disorder in 1981, which was pretty rare back then. These days, doctors prescribe Ritalin like Tic Tacs, but back in the seventies, it took a really crazy kid before pediatricians started talking about prescription drugs. My parents refused to give me psychostimulant drugs. So the pediatricians told my father to restrict my sugar intake. No sweets, no caffeine, no chocolate.
No sugar... and I was an addict.
Where do kids go when they can’t get candy at home? They go to Grandma’s house! My grandmother’s house was like a carnival. I got Jordan almonds, little anise candies that looked like jumping jacks, starlight mints, and butterscotch candies. Sometimes I would get black licorice. I never liked the butterscotch candies. They were “old people” candy.
I guess when I’m
sixty, I’ll be wearing an old housecoat with butterscotch candies stuffed into both pockets. A butterscotch candy wrapped in a handkerchief stuffed into a housecoat pocket is the true mark of a Catholic grandmother.
Rules from a Catholic Grandma
1. How many tissues can you stuff into your pocket? Twenty? Thirty? The legal minimum is ten. Tissues are good for wiping noses, asses, and faces. You never know when the bathroom at the mall is going to be out of toilet paper. It’s better to come prepared.
2. Have at least one pair of clean underwear in your purse. Your period could come anytime, anywhere. Also, you could get scared and piss or shit yourself. It would be a real shame to go to the emergency room with shitty underpants.
3. If your waitress puts little jams and jellies in foil packets on your table, it is perfectly all right to stuff them all in your purse and take them home. The same is true for ketchup and mayonnaise packets and any “free” bread that is put on the table. If you are lucky enough to be eating at a buffet, bring along the biggest purse you own.
4. Layer, layer, layer. Put on a bra, then a tank top, then an undershirt, then a shirt, then a housecoat, then a sweater. You won’t be hot, trust me. Okay, in the summer, you can skip the sweater. But the housecoat is not negotiable! Housecoats protect your “good clothes.”
5. As soon as you get home from church, change completely out of your Sunday clothes and put on a housecoat. In fact, your church clothes should only be worn for an hour every week. This means you only have to wash your church clothes once or twice a year. You really shouldn’t wash them more often than that, because they’ll get ruined. You can’t wash wool or silk, so—just put it outside and the wind will “wash” it. Dry cleaning doesn’t work, plus it costs money. Just put the clothes outside on a hanger and they’ll smell better.
