My Husband's Dirty Little Slut
Most of the wives were good girls, but not me. In 1962, my husband, like most men from our quaint little neighborhood, took a job at the new factory in town. And, like most women, I drove him to work and dropped him off so I could have the ’57 Bel Air to do errands, such as grocery shopping, or getting my hair done at Rosie’s House of Beauty. Every morning, a parade of wives sent their men off to work with a hug and a kiss before getting in their cars to go about thei...
