The M.I.L.F. Man

Sloppy Seconds

I got "white girl wasted" later that night.

I actually detest that expression for obvious reasons—at least I hope they are. But as you may remember from the very first installment of this story, it is an apt description of how the women behave in the bars I frequent. And I was behaving just as badly that night.

Bellowing belligerently at the sad little band they'd booked. Slapping the asses caressing my crotch on the dance floor and paradoxically somewhat dismayed that no one slapped me back for it.

Honestly, what are they thinking, these women who twerk you to the brink?

That we're thinking, "Well, I do believe the future mother of my children has just backed into my life," when they do that? Though our poor, hormone-addled brains can make spectacular mistakes when we're close to a cum.

But I was only thinking that I hadn't heard from Cielo. The cock being butt-massaged so ardently swelled not for the twerking girls, but throbbed, alas, for the girl that got away. In fact, the slaps on the rump were born more of frustration about that than the sexual frustration each new twerker hoped to relieve for me out in the parking lot or...wherever they did the deed as a rule.

They seemed to like this maniacal me—that scares me, too. I'd always been quite gregarious when "in my cups," but that night I was particularly wild and far more willing than usual.

And so when I landed, guffawing, upon Ama's lap in the booth she and her little clique had commandeered she snatched away the last tequila shot I'd ordered and said, "I'm cuttin' you off, son." And one of the white boy ballers in the little circle of student clients she'd come out with went, "hear, hear old chap," in a vain attempt to "mimic" my accent.

She had little gatherings from time to time, reserved for the "big tippers" on campus. Basking in the heat of the glares as her "cam buddies" walked past all the other women to get to her.

They'd heard she sometimes randomly picked one fan to get "up close and personal" with. It wasn't so as far as I knew, but it filled up that booth and a few tables beyond.

So I stared at the "hear, hear" one and said, "You do know it's me she's thinking of while you're wanking away."

"Okay, it's Uber time," Ama said. "That face is your meal ticket, bae boy. I'll get the Rover home."

"But I need to talk to you," I whined, hauling her up by the hand—she waved off her hands and let me drag her to the bar. Where I bleated, "Should I call her?" Rather pitifully, too, but I didn't care how I sounded.

"You're outta control, son! What the hell—"

"I'm going absolutely mad! I am—should I call her? God, how do people do this—why do people do this?"

She slid her palm under my chin, raised my eyes to hers, and said, "Okay, this is going to be brutal..."

And as my heart rose up into my throat, she let go, sighed...and told me, "Well see...last year all that protesting and whatnot almost got her deported. In fact, I think she's still fighting it. But...well, this prof who's into all that shit, too—look, it's not a real marriage, it's just—"

I repeated "marriage" as if I didn't know what that word meant. Mostly because I knew all too well what it usually meant but couldn't let it mean that in this case.