The MILF Hunters

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She was about 28, Latina, packed into a short dress. He was in his late 40’s, balding.  They were going to Manhattan Beach, ‘Milf hunting’, she announced, as they climbed into my Uber.

She had taken on the role of ringmaster for the evening, squirming in his lap as she explained the rules to him.

“Number one, Milfs like to be petted.”

“They do?  How exactly?”

“Two fingers. Stroke her hair.  They like to be touched. But not too hard.”

“Are three fingers too many?”

“Five are too many. That’s aggressive.  Rule Number Two: avoid anyone dressed in red. They’re batshit crazy.”

“What about bright colors?”

“Seriously, no. It’s nature’s way of warning you of danger. Number three, I’ll signal you.  If I go like this: (playing with necklace) that means you have ten minutes to close the deal.  If I go like this: (flips hair) it means yes. If I rub my belly, it means I’m ready to go home.  Basically, the lower I go, the crazier I think she is.”

“Got it.”

On the freeway, her phone rang.  She was not pleased. “Why are you calling?….none of your business….why are you going into my computer?…there’s nothing there for you….nothing….I’ll be there when I get there. Don’t call.”

Turning to her companion, she breathily told him, “he’s really obsessed with you.”

The phone call provided some kind of accelerant to the purpose of their evening. The conversation trailed off into wet, smacking kissing sounds for the remainder of the ride.  Who she was to him and who the caller was to her, and how the Milfs fit into it remained a mystery, but I was entertained.

It also occurred to me my marriage was distressingly stable and predictable.

On Sunday we went to Chibiscus for noodles. Obeying an impulse, I publicly violated the Two-Finger Rule with Mrs. UpintheValley.  Cupping her face in my palm, she responded with something tantalizingly akin to submissive purring.  Perhaps the Milf hunters were on to something.

“Darling, I’m so happy….my ramen is here.”

And on that note, two bowls appeared before us, and we commenced to supper.

3 thoughts on “The MILF Hunters”

  1. Like your writing a lot.

    Have you considered Oregon? Sell your 500K house in the favela and look at places like Bend. Nice spot. Seems quite dog friendly and LOT of craft beer.

    I am fortunate enough to have pretty good income, and live in one of the boring clean suburbs on the Peninsula below SF. Boring tract homes from the 70s. Brady Bunch houses for $2M.

    But its quiet, and my neighbors are lawyers, doctors, Ph.D chemists. Not a friendly lot, but plenty of privacy. Rarely do you see kids playing, but there’s no ho stroll either. Mostly mom driving kids in SUVs to schools, soccer, dance, etc.

    But if my extended family didnt live nearby, I’d be out of here. I’d like a friendlier place, more open space, less traffic, lower COLA, lower taxes, better roads, more community (prob 1/4th my neighbors dont speak english well or at all. Mandarin and Cantonese are the mother tongue. Nothing wrong with them, but they’re Chinese. I am American. We don’t have the same ways. Liberals around here would call me a racist or xenophobe, but I dont think less of them, nor am I afraid of them. I just dont have that much in common with them.

    1. I have indeed fantasized about Bend, Oregon. Perhaps I’m obstinate, but the difficulties of living in Los Angeles are part of the attraction of living here. One feels very much in the arena. One is at the crossroads of wealth and poverty, the old economy and the new, traditional California and the Pacific Rim. I feel like I’m living in History, and in my own small way, partaking of it.

      Now if only we could get a bike path or two in Van Nuys, I might be less cranky…

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