A Cold Glass of Milf

At last I am a functional mom. Having procrastinated at least 8 weeks too long, I am making the necessary trip to the hair salon for my two youngest boys’ hair cuts. As I take my seat and pull out my phone, a well-dressed, actual grown-up man sits across from me.

His grey designer suit matches the sobering echo in his eyes. At first, I look at him with warm sympathy, Did your wife make you bring the kids here after church, so she could attend pilates? I cringe at my cynical impression, but resign to its accuracy. A typical modern-day man with puttering testosterone.

I look at him and recognize his monochrome type. His balls live hidden in his fishbowl iPhone where occasionally he takes them out to fondle them. He sneaks peeks at Internet porn, while exercising his ADHD-quality to quickly react when he erases the Search History from his “family plan,” just before rubbing one out mutely (pre-) his gluten-free muffin each day.

He doesn’t dare ask his wife to blow him, and he imagines fucking his (under-developed and over-sized glass wearing) 20-something hipster secretary from behind when he makes love missionary-style to his sleepy wife on every 3rd Saturday. It is not to say that he has poor character or that he doesn’t love his wife, but his masculinity is suffocating.

He fantasizes about the days when he was allowed to burp and eat red meat rare. He loves to hear homemade explosions and he feels reborn through beer-infused male bonding. But now, in his proper, upper-crust, cookie cutter Victorian, all he can do is report steadfast from 8 to 5, and look forward to the once-a-year rituals that bring his type together (e.g., the Super Bowl).

And I sit here in a stained flannel with two broken buttons, my worn black boots, heavy cleavage rising and falling (thanks to extra boozing weight), and last night’s mascara hanging heavy under my EMO eyes–and he stares. I am an anomaly. He ponders my age. My son sports his preppy, private school jacket, but I look like I have yet to go to bed after a rough night of whoring.

This man in the lobby is obviously now attempting to do the math, and he shifts in his seat glancing at my respective children and then back at me. I have got a couple life lines here and there, and a tramp stamp he notices when I bend over. Pop culture discloses that I am obviously between 35 and 45, and he lets out an audible perplexity in disbelief. Responsible women around here simply do not look like me.

And just as the silent interrogation gets heavier, I drop my purse and a condom falls out. Perfect. I cooly catch his eye as I pick it up. I wink, just to fuck with him. He appears to have not seen a Trojan for years, if ever, but I bet he knows all about the rhythm method. He clears his throat with palpable discomfort.

And at the end of the day, the ironic part is that I too veil my inner self. It is debatable whether the resulting effects in this man were borne like mine. Are they self-infused or forced, and does it matter? Unoriginally, I am but the most mundane analogy: a hardened, distasteful clam shell that holds the possibility of a pearl–should someone present with an ability and interest to handle me in the necessary ways, while affording me the patience it would take for me to eventually shine for them. Tough odds considering the outward book cover I use to advertise, complicating things further.

This poor bastard isn’t doing anything wrong. In fact, he is doing exactly what he is supposed to be doing. Then why—and it happens often—do I feel enormous empathy for his existence?

Maybe I was off-base. Maybe he does fuck his wife from behind while they watch porn together. Regardless, despite his blurry suit and middle-aged loafers, deep down he is a man and men are men–no matter what kind of life they lead. And there is nothing wrong with that at all.

Comically, the man and I get up to pay at the same time. I pause long enough to see myself reflected in his pupils, then I turn away. Shy with a fear that he has heard my judgmental thoughts, I avoid his eye contact. Looking back at him once more, I catch him watching me. And he doesn’t look away. I smile.

Then, as I turn to leave and return to my comfortable sanctity of darkness, he touches my shoulder and speaks to me inches from my face. “By the way, nice tattoo: my wife has the same exact one.”