50, And A Reluctant Porn Star
My mother would have been so proud. Really.
I t’s been a long-held goal of mine not to become a porn star. I was raised in the First Baptist Church of Thomaston, Georgia, and while the only things of substance I recall are miniature glasses of grape juice, squares of saltines, and a permeating scent of Play-Doh, I’m certain the congregation frowns upon pornography to this day. Yet, against my most fervent wishes, I find myself over 50 and a reluctant porn star.
My mother would have been so proud. Really.
Mother, whose physical beauty did not help my fragile self-esteem one bit, taught me important lessons growing up: how to sit still, goddammit, on a torturously rigid pew while waiting an eternity for the grape juice and saltines; how to apply Revlon foundation without unsightly streaks; how to pin a hairpiece onto a nearly hairless, three-year-old scalp (mine) with almost no scarring and only moderate pain; how to make a superb egg salad and an incredible sour cream pound cake; how to surprise one’s lover by sneaking out the backdoor in nothing but a fur coat and then, the moment said lover answered the front doorbell, dropping the fur. Things like that.
Mother met me for lunch one day when I was still in high school. During the second half of my egg salad sandwich (Mother, who grew up…
