Today, a grown man called me ma’am. I’m not talking about a teenager, or even a young man – that’s been happening for years – I’m talking about a fully grown man. If I had to estimate his age, I’d say probably mid to late twenties.
Called me ma’am!
I’m only forty, for god’s sake
Needless to say, it flustered me. It made me take hard look in the mirror, well figuratively anyway, I was on my way out and therefore driving for the next hour, but I seriously considered everything about how I look and carry myself the whole way to Golfsmith. And, I came to a realization.
I want to be a M.I.L.F.
I don’t actually want to be with any of these young guys, most of them still don’t truly know what to do with what hangs between their legs, let alone do the things that I really want done to me, but I do want them to at least want to do it.
I want them to all look at me in my tight jeans that hug my ass and 4-inch boots and think, “Damn, that’s a mom I’d really like to fuck.” Is that so bad?
I don’t obsess about my appearance, but I eat well, I exercise regularly and I only weigh 10 more pounds than I did when I was eighteen – I had a baby, sue me. I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility that men of all ages could look at me and think I was worth the effort.
That ma’am, though. Hell, it just threw me.