Wet Willy

by Erica Anderson

Middle school boys are gross. Rule number one: keep your hands to yourself.

I taught seventh grade for years—that age where teachers are still considered cool. One day, my class clown did a flyby, shoved a wet finger in my ear, and yelled, “WET WILLY!”

The room froze.

So did I.

I didn’t yell. I used my scariest calm voice.

“Hall. Now.”

Out there, I explained that you never touch anyone—especially not with wet fingers in someone else’s ear hole. His head dropped. I sent him on two laps so the class would think he was doomed.

He wasn’t.

It was gross. Also kind of funny. And he processed social cues differently and was still learning boundaries.

But still.

Wet Willy was a one-and-done thing.

I grew up where churches sat on every corner and “nobody” drank alcohol unless you drove an unmarked vehicle thirty minutes west of town. When Walmart arrived, it was the biggest news we’d ever had. That was it—no malls, no restaurants, no excitement.

Fort Worth was thirty minutes away and felt like another world. Everyone had to go there at least once a week for something.

As a kid in the backseat, I always asked about the place with all the flashing lights.

My mom always said, “It’s a dirty joint.”

Later, I overheard her gossiping with her sister about the people who went there.

Whores.

That was my mother’s favorite word. Every adult female was one.

As I grew up, I began to understand. A whore was a girl, and she was bad. And the place with bright lights was full of them.

Wet Willies was a strip club between our town and the big city. Day or night, the parking lot overflowed with extended-cab trucks and eighteen-wheelers. My town was full of evangelicals and judgment.

Years later, I took off work and drove two hours to stay one night at the house my mom and her sister were renting while my mom was trying to divorce my dad.

Aunt Carol was already divorced.

They wanted the divorce for the same reason.

Money for drugs.

By then, I had accepted that my mom was using. It was too obvious to lie to myself. I told myself it was legal—that her drugs came in orange prescription bottles from clean pharmacies. I convinced myself her mugshot online was the result of taking pills at the wrong time.

My brain could handle those explanations.

That night, my mom and Aunt Carol were dressed up. Heavy makeup. Dark red lips. Low-cut tops. Tight jeans. Boots hanging off their skeletal bodies.

They hugged me goodbye, giddy, and told me not to wait up.

They said they were going to Wet Willies to meet friends.

My mother did not have friends. She didn’t go out. She hated everyone.

I lay alone in my mother’s bed—which happened to be my childhood bed—and cried.

My mind filled with images I didn’t want. Images of my mother doing things for drugs. I knew she wasn’t getting orange bottles with white lids anymore.

I felt dirty.

I felt ashamed.

They came home early in the morning, stumbling. I didn’t look at them. I hugged them, said I needed to get back home to finish wedding planning, and left as fast as I could.

From that day forward, I never looked at Wet Willies the same. It changed names over the years, but I still couldn’t look.

Now in my forties, I still turn my head when I pass it.

I don’t even know if I ever told my sister.

Or my husband.

Still ashamed.

BIO: Erica Anderson is based in Texas. She was a health and science teacher for nineteen years. She now writes full time and is currently working on a memoir-in-essays. Substack: https://substack.com/@messydiaries