Meet My Mom

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Nothing is worse than meeting a delicious specimen who gives you that lustful look, then says, “Oh my god, you’re perfect. You need to meet my mom.” This is how old creepers are created.

Yes, I know I misinterpreted the lust. After 54 years, you’d think I could get that right. My gay-dar works. I can pick up the rotation on a curveball. I can even detect spam mail before opening it. Lust? Not a fucking clue. If she’s hot, she wants me. If she’s not, she’s just being kind. I get that backward often. Hence, I drink alone.

After that sweet-young-thing-loving-me fantasy dissolved, I recovered by making a biological prediction that hot offspring implies hot mama.

“Show me a picture of your mother.”

“I don’t think I have one.”

“Stop. How about her Facebook profile?”

“She doesn’t do Facebook.”

“I love her already.”

“Haha. Let me text her to send me a selfie.”

“OK, now this is important: Tell her to make sure she has decent front lighting and a dark background. Take the picture from a high angle. Don’t make a fucking fish face, and cleavage is highly appreciated.”

“Ew.”

“I know. Fish face makes me testes prune.”

“I mean the cleavage thing.”

“Fine. Boobs not required.”

Ten minutes later the selfie arrived, and Uncle Phil did a happy dance. Quite adorable—her, not my dance.

My next question was going to beg an answer I knew would cause angst.

“How old is your mother?”

“Um, like forty-three, I think.”

“Perfect. I’m eleven years older than your mother. Barkeep, another scotch, my friend. And, make it a dooblay.”

“Why? How old are you?”

“Before I answer that, can you get a selfie from your grandmilf?”

“Huh?”

“Fuck. I just celebrated the fifth anniversary of my forty-ninth birthday. Math doesn’t mix well with martinis, darling. Fifty-four years young. I was born well before selfies and seatbelts.”

“I think you’re perfect.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re funny, and you resemble her ex.”

“Shit. I’ve dated so many women, I may be her ex.”

“Naw. You’re cuter.”

“OK, you need to stop that flattering me thing. I could be your stepfather-in-the-making. A sfilf, so to speak.”

I flexed. She giggled. I took her mother’s number. I filed it while suppressing the obvious fantasies.

I wonder if women ever have fantasies about father/son threesomes. Nah. Brothers? Nah. Cousins? Perhaps. Most female fantasies involve men in uniform or authoritative positions. Two gene-sharing men don’t rank in the top 100. Hmm. Maybe twins, though? Nah.

Here’s how this will play out: I’ll call and ask her out for a beverage. She’ll like me. She’ll ask what I do. I’ll be too honest about that. She’ll Google me later. She’ll gasp while reading my thorny prose, then ground her daughter for setting her up with a relationship retard.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.