GramGram's Got a Cooter...

GramGram's Got a Cooter...

I desperately wish my headline had misplaced an "S" and that my grandmother had discovered a scooter rather than a working vagina.

But I'm not that lucky. And neither, apparently, are a few men that I don't even want to pretend exist.

The moral (or lack thereof) of this post is that Nana's naughty. It's a truth I don't want to acknowledge. Ever. At all. In any measure or degree.

But I promised y'all the unadulterated truth (a pun you'll appreciate by this post's end), and I'm going to give it to you (which is ostensibly a phrase with which my granny's well acquainted.) Before I delve into my GramGram's sex life, however, I feel I should provide a wee bit of a background about the woman.

She's crazy.

That's it.

That's the background.

Oh, and she has a history of calling at the asscrack of dawn to tell me about whatever happens to be rattling around her broken brain.

When I was 20 or so, she telephoned around 6 a.m. and called me a "puta," which is Spanish for slut. About a year ago, she telephoned again, once more before the sun had risen, and started sobbing about her hunch that organic farmer/author Joel Salatin was dying because he hadn't posted on Facebook for two weeks. And then, about a month ago, GramGram telephoned yet again, within the usual time frame, and told me that she'd cheated on my deceased Gramps.

For those curious how a conversation like this progresses, the shit goes down like this:


Me: Mpfff? What? Hullo?

GramGram: Bekah! I'm glad you're awake! I've got something important to tell you!

Me: Are you okay?

GramGram: No. I'm not. Have you ever heard of sexual addiction?

Me: Um. Yeah. I've heard of it. Why?

GramGram: About 20 years ago, I had a co-worker, and he had sexual addiction, so I started reading books about it, and I really think people have sexual addictions. Do you think it's real?

Me: Do I think sexual addiction is real? Um, well, I guess. I'm not current on the academic literature or anything, though.

GramGram: Well, you're addicted to soda.

Me: Wait. What?

GramGram: That's how you got your tumor, remember?

Me: I didn't get my thyroid tumor from drinking soda, and I wouldn't say I'm addicted, but okay...

GramGram: I've seen you drink soda. You're addicted. And Dr. Oz says soda can cause cancer. Anyway, I don't think I have sexual addiction.

Me: Well, that's good.

GramGram: And who am I to judge if someone has sexual addiction? I'm addicted to coffee, and that makes me piss my pants in the super market.

Me: When did you piss your pants in the market?

GramGram: Oh, awhile back. But back to sexual addiction. I don't think you should judge people who have it.

Me: When did I judge someone for sexual addiction?

GramGram: You probably judge me because I have so many books about sexual addiction. And your grandpa's parents judged me when he and I first got married.

Me: For a sexual addiction?

GramGram: No. Because they thought that I flirted with anything with a penis.

Me: Okay...

GramGram: Well, no wonder I was chasing after every man who would give me a second look. Your grandpa's parents kept taking all our money to support their alcohol addiction.

Me: Okay...

GramGram: I don't think alcohol addiction is real, though.

Me: Alcoholism isn't real, but sexual addiction is?

GramGram: Dr. Phil said sexual addiction is real and that it can be caused by other negative factors in your life, and I can believe it, because when your grandpa and I were so poor that I didn't even have a rocking chair, I slept with another man. It just wasn't fair that his parents were taking all our money when we couldn't even afford a rocking chair.

Me: Excuse me?

GramGram: We couldn't even afford a rocking chair.

Me: I heard that part.

GramGram: Oh? The affair? Yeah. I had one. Sexual addiction, though... I've never had it. Sometimes I wish I did. I have more of the problem of sexual anorexia. There are two sides. I wish to hell I was somewhere in the middle.

Me: Okay. So, back to this affair... Did Gramps know about it?

GramGram: I think he suspected, but I never told him. When he was dying, he asked me if I had any regrets, and I told him I didn't.

Me: You told him you have no regrets?

GramGram: Well, I regret that we didn't have a rocking chair.


Unfortunately, I can't screen GramGram's calls. My parents live in France most of the year, and Gramps passed a few years back. Since GramGram has lived on her own, she's been in multiple car accidents, almost started a fire, fallen for a few online scams, had an emergency appendectomy, and accidentally poisoned her cat.

She also got involved in Internet dating, landed herself a creepy stalker, accidentally hit on a married man, continued flirting with him after she learned his marital state, and tells me regularly that she thinks she's going to pop over to bar, drink some beer, and see if anyone digs what she's dishin'.

Ignoring her just isn't an option. I mean, what if she falls on a random penis and can't get up?

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Helpful side note: Do not ever, ever, ever even consider under any circumstances Googling "sexy grandma."

I was just looking for a fun image to accompany this post, and I ended up having to bleach my eyes after my computer ambushed me with a picture of an old lady fisting herself.

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True story: Life would be super swell if we all embraced our OMG side instead of living a Facebook-friendly existence. So, let it out. What's the worst thing your grandparents have told you? If you were writing a horror story about old people, what would be the plot? Feel free to disclose details. You're safe here.