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Truckin'



As a woman, I know what it’s like to live in a man’s world. Oh, men! Who ordered them, aye sisters? Ha! Personally, I prefer a good turkey sandwich.

After a light breakfast of noodles and lettuce (I’m always watching my girlish figure—so shoot me!), I quickly washed the dishes and went, with little light steps, to my bedroom to undress.

As a woman, in the privacy of my own boudoir, it’s perfectly natural to undress—to take everything off, including lacy bra and panties, in front of the gilt mirror. Oh boy! What was I? D-cup? But who’s counting! Ha! A gal’s allowed to be free, isn’t she? To be her own nude self without a stitch on! It’s her boudoir. I rushed to the closet to find my favourite finery. I love it when my gooseflesh cries out for feathers!

Suddenly there was a knock at the front door. I let my family heirlooms flutter to the floor. Who could it be? I wondered coquettishly. Then it struck me like a man’s fist in the solar plexus. Simmo! I’d met the burly truck-driver at the depot last night. I was in high heels while he was up to his elbow in a greasy sump.

But I never thought he’d call on little ole me! I guess I really was his little chickadee. Oh, men! Sometimes they’re better than the whole turkey, neck and crop!

I quickly put on lipstick and eye-liner and some of that powdery stuff with a poufy thing and some girls’ underwear and stockings and a slinky dress, and I tra-la-laed to the door and flung it open.

Simmo staggered back with a sharp intake of breath. “Jesus Christ…” he muttered in a provocatively masculine way.

Now, as a woman fast approaching her sexual prime, I’m not immune to the charming habit some men have of worshipping their sweethearts. It can make them quite tongue-tied. It’s a well-kept girl-secret, but a gal often has to make the first move. So I reached my lacquered nails out the door, clutched his manly brawn, and whisked him into my parlour.

Oh boy, burly Simmo had it bad! Cupid had shot him more full of darts than my mother’s favourite pin-cushion. Stumbling over chairs and crashing into sideboards, he somehow managed to keep whispering sweet nothings. Finally, he promised to make an honest woman of me if I’d just give him his sump plug back. “Simmo!” I cried, standing back for a moment to redo my lippie. “There are some things a gentleman just shouldn’t say to a girl”—I pocketed the lippie and showed him my re-done girl-grin— “unless he says pwetty, pwetty pwease.”

Simmo started to cry—which can happen sometimes, and can be beautiful. But the funny thing was, when he left later that evening, he refused to take back his sump plug. Men! Go figure!

This story was written by Jack Tilley, who is in the sky with imitation diamonds.
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