The M.I.L.F. Man

Exclusive Encounters

I had imagined a far sleazier scenario. Perhaps a clandestine meeting in the back room of some foul-smelling titty bar or...well, definitely not in an actual office. In an actual office building.

And absolutely not in one of the few high-rise buildings in downtown Tucson--the tallest and most elegant of those few. I was rather glad I'd gone business casual for the occasion even with such low expectations.

But the male receptionist who gave me a playfully salacious once-over set a different tone entirely. Before clicking a headset to say, "Your 11 a.m. is here," and beckoning me toward an artfully wood paneled double door.

The woman who rose to shake my hand as we entered through those doors wore an ensemble purchased from, say, Chicos or JJill. But the jacket slung over the back of her chair was a Chanel I recognized from Ma Mere's collection.

Her hair was rather carelessly cut—a laughable observation coming from a man who washes his hair with hand soap from time to time out of sheer laziness. But I am my mother's son, as much as I hate to admit that aloud. So I notice things like that.

To redeem myself, let me say that one of the many things I love about Tucsonans is that they almost deliberately choose to have no "style," per se. They wear whatever the fuck they feel like wearing, a practice I was happy to adopt.

I'll never forget the time some local reporter asked a woman at some sort of chichi charity ball what she was wearing—meaning "who" as in "which designer"--and she shrugged and said, "Clothes!"

Yass queen...

Anyway, Katherine Kelly, proud owner of that Chanel jacket, sat me down and offered me, in a New Yorkish sort of voice: "Coffee? Tea? Water? Something...stronger?"

And when I said, "I'm fine, thank you," she took a seat behind her very impressive ebony wood desk and asked, "How in heaven's name did we miss you?"

"Beg pardon?"

"We spend a lot of time on campus."

I smiled and said, "And I don't. So..."

She swiveled to and fro a few times in her big black leather chair and then asked, "That accent—where's it from?"

"Everywhere."

"Military brat?"

"Ambassador's son, actually. Former."

The eyes lit then. Confirming, as I'd suspected, that the Chanel had been strategically placed. And my answer had made me a "Chanel" she might be able to place strategically, too.

She told me so, in fact.

"We recruit on campuses because our clients want something...more..."

"Than..."

She gave me this cagey smile and said, "I think you know. And I think you have it."

"How do you know Ama?"

She smiled a little more and said, "We have eyes everywhere. Of course, she's not quite our type, but that's by choice. She's found a very lucrative niche—you're how old?"

"Twenty."

"Very intriguing. The baby face with the salt and pepper stubble..."

"I've had grey strands for years. Anxiety, possibly."