A few months ago, my brother introduced me to the acronym MILF–Mom I’d Like to Fuck. Do not ask me how I could live in America in the 21st century and not have encountered this idea before. Apparently young straight men have been engaged in MILF-spotting for years, panting over women whose hips have more than recovered from the ravages of childbirth. I suppose that, since I don’t make a habit of paying attention to the pasttimes of young straight men, I can be forgiven for missing the trend at first, but apparently “MILF” has become part of our national lexicon and I am woefully behind the times.
In any case, in the apartment below me there is a DILF. He can’t be more than 37 or 38, and he has gorgeous eyes and a great body. His wife, according to my brother (who is also my roommate), is a MILF, but I really can’t be bothered to register her presence when he’s around. I mean, I’m sure she’s nice and all, but I don’t see any way she could appreciate his unique gifts as deeply as I do. And doesn’t he deserve that?
He has two children, whom I’ve never met but who are obviously loathsome simply by virtue of their being children, so of course our liaison couldn’t be anything more than a dalliance, something on which we could both look back forever with equal parts satisfaction and regret.