Dispatches From Paradise. Shelly Gitlow

you’re like a teenage boy.”

      “I took a lot, just for you. Te adoro.”

      Why didn’t he say I look like a teenager? It’s all Dr. Grant’s fault. Having the swine flu is no excuse for canceling my Botox appointment. Getting back to business, I kneel down and start pleasuring him, but something’s not quite right. He’s breathing too hard. I yank the goat mask off and see that his face is bright red and contorted, and not in a good way. At all. Alphonse clutches his chest and keels over onto the floor.

      “Fonsie? What’s wrong?”

      No response. I slap his face. Nothing. I feel his wrist. There’s no pulse. What do I do?

      “Damn it to hell. Where’s my phone?”

      I run to the other side of the room and retrieve it. The tango music is still playing. I dial 911.

      “Help me, please. I think my boyfriend had a heart attack or something.”

      “Listen to me, ma’am. Calm down. I’m going to tell you exactly what to do.”

      “Me? He needs a doctor, you idiot.”

      “There’s no time. If you want to revive him, do what I say.”

      “Okay, okay.”

      “Pinch his nose, cover his mouth, and blow.”

      Those beautiful full lips. This is so weird.

      “Push down on his chest between the nipples.”

      I hope I’m doing it right. How many people do CPR naked? Probably a lot more than you’d think. Can you believe that while this is going on, I get another call? Shit. It’s Richard. I’ll have to call him back.

      “Are you getting any response, ma’am?”

      “He’s out cold. I did everything you said. I guess that’s it.”

      “I’m sending an ambulance, ma’am. Don’t give up.”

      Swell. I’m barely able to get on my bra and panties and cover Fonsie’s privates with the goat mask before the EMTs arrive. At least we’re decent. Of course, the EMTs are adorable and have amazing bodies, but I restrain myself. They try and restrain themselves too, from laughing, but I see the looks that pass between them. They can’t believe what they’re seeing. Guess what guys? Mature people have sex too.

      “We’ll take it from here, ma’am.”

      I hate when people call me ma’am, especially cute young men. It makes me feel ancient and not sexy at all. I put on my clothes as they try and perform a miracle on Fonsie. No dice. One of the cuties looks at his watch.

      “I’m calling it, Jimbo. It’s 4:26.”

      When they announce his time of death, reality sets in, and I break down. One of them comforts me and holds me in his strong arms, in a totally professional way, of course. After a minute, he pulls away. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think he was hard. I have that effect on most men.

      They place Fonsie on the gurney and cover him with a sheet. I discreetly retrieve the goat mask because I deserve a memento. I run after the EMTs as they take Fonsie out, tripping in my Jimmy Choo come-fuck-me mules. I look ridiculous, but I don’t care. As they put him into the ambulance, I kiss him good-bye and cry. Then they drive away. That’s it. What am I going to do? I really liked him. And I think he was really into me too.

      I’m getting too old to look for a new man. It’s tiring. Although the Internet certainly makes it easier. You can check out at least six or seven guys a day. And even if they’re not good candidates for a relationship or “fuck buddy” material, they might be perfect for a quickie, or at least a free meal.

      Not that I’m looking to settle down forever. I’m definitely not the marrying kind. But it would be nice to have a little security, especially monetary. I’m so bad with moolah. I made a lot when I modeled, but I blew most of it on clothes and drugs. At least I enjoyed myself. Some people never have any fun.

      I better call his kids. I hate them as much as they hate me, but they are his children.

      The funeral is horrific. The only saving grace is that I’m wearing a gorgeous Chanel suit, topped off with a vintage black hat and veil. I had to. I don’t see Dr. Grant until tomorrow. The heinous children, roly-poly Carmen and stick-up-his-butt Luis, are pretending I don’t exist, which is ludicrous. I’m wailing rather loudly. I will not be ignored.

      Naturally, people are looking at me and discreetly asking them who I am. They’re too embarrassed to introduce me as Alphonse’s girlfriend, ladyfriend, woman, or anything else that would give me the status I deserve. So they shrug and pretend not to know me.

      I shouldn’t be so hard on them. They lost Alphonse too. And there must be something good in them. They share his genes. Wait a minute. I take that back. They’re adopted. They’ll pay for treating me like a nobody.

      I’m sitting with a bunch of Alphonse’s students. They’re mostly women about my age, all blubbering and blowing their noses. I smell way too much perfume. And that heavy makeup doesn’t cut it either. The clothes are matronly at best. I smile at the one with the brassy blond teased helmet-head sitting next to me. I haven’t seen a hairdo like that since I was a child.

      “Were you one of Alphonse’s students?”

      She pats my arm, as if we’re old pals.

      “Yes. For many years. He used to say I was his star pupil.”

      “Oh really?”

      She nods emphatically and winks. Were you servicing her too, Fonsie? And the rest of this pitiful crew? There’s no point thinking about it. I’m sure he loved me the most. And I was faithful to you, Fonsie . . . pretty much. Anyway, these bitches look like they could be my mother, so what am I worrying about?

      A middle-aged guy sits down next to me. He’s not bad looking and has on an expensive suit. I acknowledge him with a sad half-smile and nod. He does the same. I move a little closer to him. He clears his throat uncomfortably and sidles away from me. A much younger woman sits down on his other side, and they hold hands. They have matching wedding rings. She’s pretty, a perfect trophy wife. Oh well. I guess he won’t be my next. And sadly, I’m too old to be anyone’s trophy wife, even though I can still turn a head on a good day.

      Later that night, there’s a knock at my door. I look out the peephole and guess who it is? Carmen and Luis, looking like, well, death warmed over. Carmen has no fashion sense whatsoever. She’s sporting elastic-waist baby-blue pants and a top with a wild animal-print theme. It’s painful to look at her. But if I had to dress that lumpy body, I don’t know that I could do much better. Luis is thin and resembles Alphonse, although not nearly as handsome or well built. At least he doesn’t make me cringe.

      I’m in a beautiful ecru peignoir set, perfect for the occasion. I open the door and usher them in, with a grand, sweeping gesture and a welcoming smile.

      “I’m so glad you came. We should be together at a time like this.”

      They look at each other but don’t respond to my magnanimous greeting. I’m doing my best to be kind and sympathetic, but I can feel the tension and hostility coming from them. I try and hug them in a motherly way. They act like a dirty bum in the street accosted them. Something tells me this isn’t going to go well.

      “Why don’t you sit down? Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

      “We’re not here to socialize,” says Fat Carmen.

      Like I want to hang out with her. Give me a break. She is such a loser. She thinks she’s hot shit because she drives a big Cadillac, but I know