Trailer Park Queen

The boys had it the worst. They shopped under their mother’s shadows, wearing what their mother’s picked out for them, a single look that screamed that their daddy was rich and would never fail to bail them out later in life — even if later was tomorrow, their daddies would be there to catch their sweet baby boys.

And the boys stuck with this look for the rest of their lives: khakis, long sleeved Polo shirts in the winter, short sleeved shirts in the spring. After college they added a navy sports coat, a seersucker suitm and an array of “fun” ties to wear to their first jobs at local banks or their father’s law firm.

And for the life of Etta, she had no idea why her own mother thought one of those boys would make a good match for her. She couldn’t stand them in jr. high or high school. Truth be told, Etta couldn’t stand boys, Etta preferred the company of other women. Her mother was the type of woman who always got her way, no matter what kind of fight of her late-father would put up.

Etta’s mother was eternally right no matter how wrong she was. Doretta ‘Etta’ Holwick was the furthest thing from being a lesbian and Doretta Holwick belonged with Oliver Irwin. They sat across from each other at a burger joint, not the best in town, the best one in town was across the street, In-n-Out, but Oliver Irwin didn’t like the oil they cooked the meat in.

Not because of morals. Not because of dietary restrictions. Because his pallet was refined, fine-tuned enough to taste the difference in all cooking oils, and he did not like the one In-n-Out used. It offended his refined and delicate pallet that called his mouth home.

Etta couldn’t pry her storm gray eyes away from Oliver’s teeth, they were stained the same color as a wall in a home of a smoker for sixty years. She picked up a French fry. “Do you smoke?” Etta asked him, her mother hated smokers, if he smoked, her mother would drop him.

Oliver shook his head of gelled back dark brown hair, his deep brown eyes were as serious as the coronary that would no doubt take him. He was twenty-four years old and already climbing towards three-hundred and fifty pounds and that double patty, bacon burger that sat sweating in grease was not helping his future one bit.

Neither was her meal, but at least her burger had colors aside from brown. Greens, whites, reds. “My old man does, but I will never touch tobacco,” Oliver finally said. “Shit shortens your lifespan like you would not believe!”

“As does being almost three-hundred pounds and eating a greasy bacon burger,” said Etta under her breath.

“It’s been years since we’ve seen each other,” he grinned. She rolled her eyes. They had gone to the same high school together, and when they graduated, Oliver went to law school in New York. Etta’s family couldn’t afford college for their daughter, so she stayed in the trailer park. She became a domantrix at a local dungeon in smog covered city just beyond the canyon’s reach.

Now Oliver was back in town, and he had ran into Etta’s mother at the grocery store and now she sat at a table across from him. He watched her dip her French fry into the cup of ketchup and eat it. Oliver frowned. “Dear, please, people are looking!”

Sure, the little boy across the way was watching Etta, but she was pretty sure it had something to do with her curly green hair. Lots of kids loved her hair. But Etta couldn’t see anybody else looking. “What are you going on about?” She drawled.

Oliver lowered his voice the way someone would when they were embarrassed and leaned in closer to Etta, not in the way that made her reel back as if he had gone in for a kiss, but in that way when you needed to tell someone they had toilet paper trailing off of their shoe after a visit to the washroom. “You just ate a French fry with your hands,” he whispered.

Her eyes bugged and she bobbed her head in agreement that yes, yes she did just eat a French fry with her hands. “Yes, I did, how else was I supposed to eat one?” Etta asked Oliver.

A chuckle appeared on his greasy lips and he shook his head. “I was really hoping the educational connections you have through your uncle would have washed away your…you know,” Oliver said in a voice that made her want to reach across the table and slap the facial hair off of his face.

“My what?”

“Your trailer park upbringing, your redneck tendencies, neither of which is very becoming of a lady,” he said.

“Who said I was becoming a lady?” Asked Etta, dipping another fry into the crimson ketchup and sliding the salty potato sliver into her mouth. It visibly bugged Oliver, so another came as soon as the first was swallowed.

He bit his lip and wondered if his car had vinyl seats, would she leave a shine upon them? “You are a beautiful woman, a woman I would love to have on my arm,” he said.

She glared at him with a face that had a smudge of mascara beneath her eyes. “I’m not a fashion accessory.”

It had been a number of years since Oliver had seen her and she had seen Oliver. Etta was still a beautiful woman. Long, lean legs that rounded into a nice ample rear, moving up from there you hit her large round breasts where he had often pounded his sausage to the idea of suckling from her rosy pink nipples.

The only things he would dare change about Etta was her choppy and wavy green hair, her black make-up, and that grating drawl that rolled off of her tongue.

He was still the Oliver she had unfortunately always knew, still that greaseball horn dog of a high school boy sneaking hentai DVDs onto campus, begging the lesbian cliques to let him watch them do their thing to their girlfriends. Smelling of bacon fat and 7-11 coffee Oliver was a short man covered in hair, but he had gained a lot of weight since high school.

He had never been skinny, he was always a chubby guy — and height and weight of someone never much bothered someone like her. Etta’s first girlfriend had been a pudgy 280 pounds, but damn it, if she weren’t the softest and most fun thing to eat out! He had come back to Copper Canyon weighing in at over three-hundred pounds, and a wet and greasy McDonald’s bag in a hairy paw.

Her first girlfriend had been twenty pounds lighter, but she didn’t shove her face full of cheap and greasy fast food. She at least tried. Oliver’s own man breasts were bigger than Etta’s, she always liked her breasts, but being seen with a man with bigger tits than her own kinda made her embarrassed. “Have you talked to your uncle about him sending you to college?” He asked.

Her uncle was rich, an engineer, who had all sorts of connections in all sorts of fields. Etta’s mom wasn’t rich enough to send her to college, but her uncle had no problem sending her of to USC for her to pursue higher education. A secret she kept from her regular slaves who sat under her heavy steel toed boots was she was taking courses — even if just to be better at writing Star Trek fan fiction, she was even taking a course in Klingon. Etta’s higher education seemed like something her slaves would mock her about, the nerdy domme. She preferred being known as the Bitch with the Boots.

And while Etta knew that Oliver wouldn’t mock or make fun of her, something deep down in her told her to keep her black painted lips zipped about her higher education. Just keep her words kind but distant. Etta shook her head and shrugged. “Ah, no, I have no interest.”

He looked her up and down the way a man might look at a plastic sheathed menu with a rumbling gut. Oliver smiled a knowing smile and nodded his head. “Ah, but no education won’t make you a lady,” he said. “Just because you stay home, pregnant, taking care of kids and cooking for your husband doesn’t make you a lady.”

“Who said I wanted to be a lady, Oliver?” She nearly snarled to him. “Who says I wanna stay home, being pregnant, taking care of some snot nosed brats and cooking for some no good husband?”

“Says the slit between your legs!” Etta dropped the French fry onto the red tray on the table in front of her. Oliver’s eyes tick ticked back and forth and he let spread across his fat face a sheepish grin. He blotted at his lips with a napkin. “My apologies for the outburst, your mother never said you were so stubborn.”

She screwed her face up, why was he talking to the off-white supremacist golden ghoul with the confederate cornsilk hair? “Why were you talking to my mom?” She asked.

“Because I want her blessing,” said Oliver.

“Her blessing to eat a burger and fries with her daughter?”

“To marry you.”

“Whoa!” Cried Etta, slamming her hands down onto the silver topped table. She had thought about marriage before with her first girlfriend, and while they hadn’t lasted, she often dreamt about one day getting married to the domme who had the run of the dungeon cell next to hers. She was one hot chick, but she was so sweet and so kind.

Freak-Ella was a beautiful goddess, a beautiful woman. She never failed to make Etta’s heart quiver when she heard those venomous verbal lashings she gave to her slaves. Freak-Ella had long legs that rounded into an even nicer and more ample ass then Etta could hope to have.

Her breasts mesmerized her and all the slaves lucky enough to serve Freak-Ella for the night. She had short red hair, emerald green eyes and a pair of ruby lips that barked out orders for her slaves to obey.

Etta knew she had no chance with someone like her, but she’d take her chances over marrying a man, especially if that man was Oliver. “I know, shocking right?” He asked. She nodded her head of green hair, shocking was one word for it! “That someone like me, a lawyer with an NYU education would want someone like you.”

“Now wait a damn minute, what does that mean?” Etta hissed. “Someone like me?”

“A piece of trailer trash who speaks like she’s from some backwoods community that doesn’t have indoor plumbing.”

She lived in a trailer. In a trailer park. Etta drank beer. She shot guns. Etta blasted country music on her bike. But she was also smart. Etta was in college working to become an engineer. She wanted better than what her parents could provide for her. Etta grabbed the red plastic tray and got up, tossed out the half eaten burger and the rest of her fries and ketchup.

She stopped back at the table and opened her purse. Etta reached in and grabbed a ten dollar bill. Her meal had been $7.97, but she didn’t want to ask him for change or go digging for change.

Etta placed the ten dollar bill onto Oliver’s plastic tray. “Keep the change.”

He twisted around as she sauntered out of the diner, pushing open the glass door and out into the parking lot. Etta climbed onto her motorcycle and peeled out of the lot. By the time she had climbed onto her bike, Oliver had come up to the glass doors and watched the scene play out. He swooned, he sighed. “What a woman!”