Dispatches From Paradise. Shelly Gitlow

inquiring about “cupcakes,” when a voice bellows out of the loudspeaker.

      “The G-Spot is proud to present Miami’s one and only, the fabulous Miss Lilly. Let’s hear it, ladies. Give it up for Miss Lilly.”

      As we applaud, the spotlight hits an octogenarian decked out in a leopard jumpsuit and a pink boa, with yellow hibiscus flowers perched in her beautiful long white hair. But the most impressive thing about her is that she’s wielding a walker, a red polka-dot walker but a walker nonetheless. The place suddenly goes silent. No one can believe what we’re looking at. Anna winks at me. I gulp some Dom.

      All eyes are on Miss Lilly as she shoves the walker out of her way and shakily grabs the microphone stand. She takes a deep breath and looks out into the sea of expectant faces. We’re curious about her poem, but even more concerned about whether she can finish her recitation without having to be resuscitated. Miss Lilly speaks.

      “This poem is called ‘How to Keep a Man.’

      Hear me now and take my advice.

      To hold on to a man, you must be nice.

      When a guy gets hard, he’s ready to go,

      So whatever you do, don’t say no.

      They say men are from Mars and women are from Venus.

      Just thank your lucky stars and suck on his penis!”

      Everyone’s laughing and clapping. I’m uncomfortable and look awkwardly at Anna.

      “She did not just say that.”

      “Oh yes, she did. And that’s one of her R-rated ones. You should hear the X-rated.”

      Part of me thinks she’s obscene; part of me wants to scream, “You go, girl!” Can you say that to an eighty-some-thing? I’d like to be that comfortable with my sexuality before I reach senior-citizen status.

      Two hunky young escorts sporting red polka-dot jockstraps roll Miss Lilly’s walker over and help her offstage. She pats their behinds. That’s something my mother would enjoy immensely. Dear god, what will Claudette be doing at that age?

      “This is embarrassing.”

      Anna smiles. “It’s South Beach. Anything goes.” She grabs my hand, looks at my wedding ring. “What’s that still doing there?”

      “Shark repellant. Any guy that hits on me with this on will just be another Richard. That, I can live without.”

      Anna raises her eyebrows. Am I really ready to be single? Can I do this?

      “You need to lighten up, sweetie.”

      “You’re so right. I’m going to have fun and do whatever I want.”

      “And that would be?”

      “Don’t know yet. Give me a minute to think about it, okay? By the way, this really cute guy moved in next door.”

      “Whoa. That’s so desperate. You can’t go for the first one that comes along.”

      The voice of reason.

      “You’re so right. What was I thinking?”

      I finally have my freedom. This is the first time I’ve ever lived alone. I went from my college dorm to Richard and my first apartment. One of the house stud muffins comes over and kisses my hand. Uh oh. I’m not ready for whatever this is. Anna grins.

      “Happy birthday, Lizard.”

      Great. Before I know it, he’s gyrating and pulling me up to dance with him. Everyone’s watching and clapping. I’m mortified and can’t even remember how to dance, so I sit down. His business is right in front of my face . . . nestled against my nose, now his derriere in a g-string (Holy crap!). I cover my face. Get me out of here! I sneak a look at him. He’s cute and young, and he smiles warmly at me. I half-smile back. He leans down and whispers in my ear.

      “Don’t worry, it’s almost over. And I’m gay.”

      I giggle and suddenly it’s all okay. I take off my wedding ring to wild applause from the DD-cup crowd. The guy gives me a kiss on the cheek and that’s that. I throw my wedding ring into the bottomless pit of my purse and give Anna a big hug.

      “Thanks.”

      “It wasn’t too terrible, was it?”

      “Actually, it was kind of fun.”

      I really am grateful. What would I do without her?

      “Claudette didn’t remember my birthday, and neither did Darcy.”

      “You know you can’t expect anything from Claudette.”

      “I guess I’ll never stop hoping that she’ll act like a mother.”

      “Not going to happen, sweetie. I remember when we were kids and she was away modeling. You’d run home to see if she sent something for your birthday.”

      “Never did. And didn’t even call.”

      “She’s not going to change.”

      “You’re so right. But Darcy?”

      “Come on. Cut her a break. It’s her first semester at school. That can’t be easy for her.”

      Of course she’s right, but I’d like everything to be perfect (ha!). I’m not going to obsess about my problems (double ha!). At least for today.

      The next morning I wake up feeling refreshed and energized. Having the bed to myself was fantastic. And not being woken up by Richard’s snoring and farting was pure bliss. I’m whistling as I get dressed. After purchasing a kayak, I go to Books & Books, get a decaf nonfat cappuccino, also known as a “Why bother?” in barista-speak, and grab a Kayaker magazine.

      It’s pretty quiet, but why wouldn’t it be? It’s ten a.m. on Tuesday. Only those of us with charmed lives can do this. And a few soccer moms over there and the guy at that table. As I pass by, I look at his face closely. He’s really cute, even with the gray hair. He caught me. He’s smiling. I sort of smile/nod back. What’s going on with me? Am I turning into my mother?

      “Want to join me?”

      I am so not ready for this. Should have put on some makeup. I don’t respond quickly enough, so he fills the space.

      “You kayak?”

      “Just bought one, but I haven’t even tried it out yet.”

      “Cool. Good luck.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Come on, sit down. I’m a nice guy.”

      “I’m sure you are, but I should read this.”

      He shrugs. I give him a stupid, pinched smile, sit down at another table and open my magazine. I choose a spot where I can sneak a peek at him every so often. A young woman displaying her DD’s in a tube top comes up behind him and starts to massage his shoulders. He’s into it. I guess it’s his girlfriend. She must be all of twenty-two. What’s it to me?

      I look up from my magazine. He smiles and waves. Maybe she’s not his girlfriend. I smile back, take out my phone and call Claudette to guilt her for forgetting my birthday (a totally useless endeavor, but what the hell).

      “Hi, it’s me.”

      “Can’t talk, busy giving head.”

      “But . . .”

      She hangs up on me. Oh well. That’s my mother.

      I pull into the driveway and unload the new kayak from my Jeep, remembering that just yesterday I was