Some men prefer dolls.
Curt’s hand stroked Marilyn’s thigh, and, as I bowed, I noticed a long leather strap bound Curt’s wrist to Marilyn’s ankle. She wore black stockings which made her long legs appear alive and winsome, as shapely and arousing as any escort we had ever served. I straightened up abruptly, meeting Curt eye-to-eye. “Don’t be shy, boy. I won’t bite you! It’s our anniversary and we decided to go out on the town. My wife doesn’t drink but I’ll have a martini with two green olives and a lemon twist.”
MARILYN BY CLARA JONES 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 76
I can recite every dish on the menu in perfect French. My father, a Nigerian immigrant, is a line cook at Greenbriar, the most famous resort in West Virginia, where he met my mother, Dolly, a dishwasher from coal country. Dad’s name is Lamumba, but the chef calls him Peanut since George Washington Carver’s slave cabin was in Pineville where dad met Curt Warner. Dad was too slow to be a running back but Curt was a national treasure—dad’s idea of a…