I was in the middle of doing laundry. It was hot outside, over a hundred degrees, which wasn’t unusual for this part of the Valley. Even though it was cool inside the house, my body was just as hot as it was outdoors. I’d been running nonstop since six that morning, first a blow job for my husband, then rousing my teenage sons from sleep, getting breakfast together, sending my boys off to school and my husband off to work. Once they were gone, I threw on a baby tee, some jean shorts and sandals, and made my morning rounds: dropping off dry cleaning, stopping at the grocery store, then on to Costco for some household supplies. I returned, cleaned the house, and then started on the laundry. Next up was a quick dip in the pool, and after that I was going to meet one of my girlfriends at the Burke Williams Spa in the Sherman Oaks Galleria. We were treating ourselves to an afternoon of pampering before our kids and husbands came home. I desperately needed it after such a busy morning.
I placed the last load of clothes into the washer, and then searched through a large basket of freshly laundered delicates for my favorite bikini. I changed into it, tossed my old clothes into a nearby hamper, stopped by the kitchen for bottled water, slapped on some sunscreen, and headed outside.
I swam over to the floating lounge chair and climbed onto it carefully, lest it overturn. I stretched out and closed my eyes. I floated like that for a long, much-needed moment, my body deliciously heated by the rays overhead, my left foot dangling in the cool, soothing water. I fell into a light sleep for who knows how long, until I was awakened by a sound at the back gate. I opened my eyes but couldn’t make out what it was. I raised my hand to my forehead to minimize the glare. A tall, handsome young man in a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals was coming inside, carrying a long-handled leaf skimmer, a vacuum, and supplies. It was our pool guy. Our very sexy pool guy. I hadn’t realized it was his scheduled day to clean the pool.
He came over and stared down at me, his surprise undisguised.
“I didn’t think you’d be out here,” he said. “You’re usually in the house.”
“It’s hot today,” I said, my hand still arced over my face to block out the sun. I scanned his body from top to toe. My eyes lingered over the front of his pants. Was that the beginning of a growing bulge?
“I forgot you were coming,” I said, my eyes still on his crotch. The sun was beaming too brightly for him to notice exactly where I was staring.
“Today’s not my regular day,” he explained. “My ten o’clock class at Pierce College was canceled, so I wanted to use the time productively.”
“Oh,” I replied, wondering if the moisture growing between my legs was from the sight of his hard, lean, muscular body, was sweat, or was maybe from the water lapping up onto the sides of my chair.
“I figured I’d come over here. You were the client I wanted to service first.” He caught himself, embarrassed. “I mean, you know…” His words trailed off.
“Oh really?” I asked. “You want to service me?”
“Yeah,” he said with a half-shy, half-bold grin. “You’re my favorite client. I’m always excited when it’s time to do you. Um, your pool. You know.”
The bulge in the front of his pants was definitely growing. It had clearly formed a tent. He casually placed his hands in his pockets and ballooned the material outward in an attempt to hide the erection. I chuckled to myself.
“Why am I your favorite? Like you said, I’m usually inside. You hardly ever see me.”
“Oh, I see you,” he said. “I catch glimpses of you through the sliding glass door as you run around in your cutoff shorts and clingy T-shirts. Sometimes I stop what I’m doing and stare. I can’t help it.”
Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. “I didn’t know you could see inside that well.”
“You can.”
I glanced at the sliding glass door. I could see quite clearly, from the kitchen and family room all the way past the foyer to the front door. How had I never noticed this before?
He pulled his hands out of his pockets, no longer attempting to camouflage the tent. I lowered my hand, playing with the water. I was definitely moist from excitement. I wondered how far I should let this conversation go.
“So what are you going to school for?” I asked, deciding it was best to change the topic.
“Did you know that I won your house in a bet?” he replied, ignoring my attempt at diversion.
My face flushed red.
“Excuse me? Won my house? What does that mean?”
“That came out the wrong way,” he stammered. “What I meant was, all the guys at my job wanted to do this house. We put our names into a betting pool to see who would get it. I won.” He said this last statement with beaming pride, like he had hit the lottery.
“Why would you guys bet on something so silly?” I asked, startled by his confession.
“Because,” he said, “you’re the hottest mom… um, I mean, the sexiest housewife… I mean…”
I waited to hear how he was going to get himself out of this.
“You’re the hottest chick in the neighborhood,” he finally blurted.
I laughed out loud. “Okay, now you’re bullshitting me,” I said. “And I wouldn’t exactly call myself a ‘chick.’ I’m thirty-seven, which makes me more like a hen. Maybe even an old one. Besides, there are plenty of gorgeous girls running around here that put me to shame.”
He stepped out of his shoes and sat on the side of the pool, his strong, taut calves dangling in the water.
“None of them can touch you,” he said. “Your body is out of control.”
“Really?” I asked, now very turned on.
“Really. If I didn’t know you were married with teenagers, I wouldn’t even believe you were over twenty-five.”
I made slight paddling motions with my hand, the motion gently inching the lounge chair his way. The sun blazed down across my breasts, my loins, and the tops of my thighs, stirring my desire even more.
“I don’t want to be twenty-five,” I said. “I knew so little at that age. I’ve got experience now, lots of it. I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything in the world.”
“I wish you’d share some of that experience with me,” he said, his voice thick. His right hand moved boldly to the tent in his pants as he ran his palm across the hardness. I could see the outline of the head of his cock. He clearly wasn’t wearing any underwear.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
This situation was careening out of control.
“Nothing I haven’t done whenever I think about you running around on the other side of that sliding glass door.”
His eyes were on mine now. Even the sun couldn’t come between our gaze.
“So would you?” he asked.
“Would I what?”
“Show me some of your experience. I’m an apt pupil. At least, that’s what my professors at Pierce always say.”
My lounge chair floated closer.
“What do you want to know?” I asked. My voice was so soft, it was nearly a whisper.
“Everything.”
I was hot for this guy. Me. Married me. Me with two teenage sons who probably thought their mom was busy making the beds, not preparing to roll into one with someone not much older than them. After all, he couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two, just seven years older than my fifteen-year-old. What was I thinking? He was way too young for me to even consider.
But he was so hot. So sexy. Right in front of me for the taking. How could I not take advantage of the moment?
I floated closer, now within arm’s reach. He massaged his crotch blatantly, running his hands up and down his shaft, still trapped inside his cargo pants.
I slid off the lounge chair and into the water, walking slowly toward him. His eyes were on my body as he dry-jacked his dick.
I stood between his legs, removing his hand from its preoccupation.
“Let me show you a better way to do that,” I said.
I unzipped his cargo pants and reached inside. His cock was thick, solid, and long. I groaned with pleasure just touching it.
“Omigod,” I muttered.
“Does that mean you approve?”
“Most definitely,” I said as I pulled out his thickness, lowered my head, and encircled it with my mouth.
He threw his head back.
“Oh geez…”
I took him in deeper, all the way down to the balls.
“What the fuck,” he breathed. “I’ve been dreaming about this. I can’t believe it’s actually happening. I’ve been wanting to…”
“Sssshhh,” I said, momentarily removing his dick from my mouth. “Don’t talk. Just feel.”
I feasted on his young hard meat, relishing the taste of his skin. I slurped and sucked up and down the shaft, taking it in all the way to the back of my throat.
He grabbed my head with both hands, pushing it down farther. I kept taking him in. I gently massaged his balls as my tongue kneaded his cock. The pressure from my jaws sucking in produced a pussy-like tightness that made him scream.
“Sssshhh,” I repeated, this time with his hot rod still in my mouth. “The neighbors might hear.”
I sucked and massaged, massaged and sucked, my own pussy welling with excitement as I dined on his dick.
His hands moved from my head to the string of my bikini top. He untied it. The wet top fell down, unleashing my heaving breasts.
“Unbelievable,” he whispered.
He reached out for their fullness, rubbing the nipples between his fingers. The feeling made me dizzy, almost drunk. I let go of his rigid shaft and pulled his cargo pants completely off. He took off his T-shirt, revealing a perfect, rippling six-pack. Holy mancocks. He was a god.
He stepped down into the water with me and lifted me onto the side of the pool where he’d been sitting. I parted my legs.
“Eat my pussy,” I commanded.
He thrust his face into my wetness, pulling my bikini bottom down with his teeth. He reached around my back and undid the rest of my bikini top with a singular motion. It fell into the water. Perhaps he wasn’t as inexperienced as I believed.
He pressed his mouth against my clit, his hot breath steaming my skin. He flicked his tongue across it first, then fastened on and began to suck, his arms wrapped around my thighs, opening them wider.
I closed my eyes as he worked me with his mouth, my body tingling all over from the pleasure it gave.
“Put your tongue in my pussy.”
Eager to oblige, he thrust his hot red tongue inside me, darting in and out, lapping at my building juices.
“You are so fucking hot,” he said around my pussy lips. “The guys at work would never believe this.”
“And they’re never going to know,” I said.
“Never,” he insisted as he nibbled at my labia.
I lay back against the concrete as he continued to flick and suck at my nether region. I rubbed my hands across my breasts, squeezing them together. I leaned up, flicking my tongue across my nipples.
He opened my thighs wider, his face completely pressed against my flesh, drinking, sucking, and breathing me in.
My hand found its way to my clit and I began to rub—first softly, then hard and fast—while his tongue did swan dives into my cunt.
The phone began to ring inside the house. It was probably my friend Lisa calling about meeting up at the spa. I ignored it. A ringing phone couldn’t compare to the way his tongue was ringing my body right now.
“I want you to fuck me,” I said.
“I want to fuck you,” he replied, raising his head from between my legs. “I’ve been wanting to fuck you since Day One.”
“Then you’ve got a lot of fucking to make up for,” I said.
I stepped down into the water, facing him.
“I’m going to plant my arms on the side of the pool to steady myself,” I explained. “Then I want you to grab hold of my legs and raise my hips so they’re perpendicular to yours. You do know what perpendicular means, right?”
He grinned broadly. “I told you, I’m an apt pupil. And I’ve always been an A-student in math, especially when it comes to angles.”
“That’s a good boy,” I said with a smile.
I backed against the wall of the pool, and then placed my arms on top of the edge. I braced myself.
“Okay, now do it.”
He stepped closer, lifting my legs until my entire lower half intersected with his. His dick jutted hard and rigid between us.
“Now,” I began, “I want you to slowly—”
He cut me off. “Um, I think I can take it from here.”
Still holding me steady, he grabbed his dick with his right hand and guided it until he was perfectly centered over my extra-wet love hole. He rubbed the head up and down against the entrance, taunting me, sending shocks through my body, and then plunged in deep, all the way to the bottom.
“Oh my God!” I screamed.
“Sssshhh,” he whispered with a wicked smile, grinding his dick into me. “The neighbors might hear.”
He gyrated his hips into mine, his cock digging deeper and deeper, excavating my insides. He pulled nearly all the way out, then thrust in again, pumping slowly at first, then faster and faster, the waves and splashing water compounding the sensation of his shaft moving fluidly into and out of my body.
The phone in the house began to ring again. The spa was so far off my radar right now. Lisa was going to have to wait. I couldn’t imagine getting anything at Burke Williams that could top what I was getting right now.
I bucked wildly against him, unable to hold back my squeals of delight. The threat of release grew into a hot, glowing ball of intensity deep inside me as he pounded my pussy again and again. Pool water splashed around us as we thrashed against the wall.
“I want to cum,” I moaned, my breath coming quick. “I can’t take it. I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for me, sexy mama,” he coaxed. “I want to drown in your juices.”
He banged me rapid-fire, jackhammer-style, his youthful body a bottomless well of vigor. I wrapped my thighs tightly around him as my love walls began to quiver. The quivering quickly turned to powerful spasms as I gasped and shook against him, wrapping my legs around him tightly.
“Oh! Oh! Oh,” I cried.
He unleashed another flurry of rabbit-quick pumps, banging against me as my orgasm swelled upward through my pelvis, then outward, from my pussy through my thighs, all the way down to my toes, which clenched and curled with absolute delight.
“You like that?” he urged, still pounding me, causing a fresh wave of spasms to course throughout my body. He moved as close to me as he could get, grinding and stirring inside my pussy with his hardness. I let go of the edge of the pool and threw my arms around him, hanging on. He squeezed me tight and moved farther away from the edge, thrusting harder, fucking me with a desperate, gluttonous passion, as if he was trying to fuck me to oblivion, as though he had something he needed to prove.
I came again, unexpectedly, a tidal wave of ecstasy rushing through my entire body. I held on for dear life, my chin on his shoulder, my breathing short and erratic. He was murdering my pussy, beating it senseless with the barely legal monster between his legs. I gasped and sputtered, pool water sloshing into my mouth.
“Don’t worry,” he said, still thrusting. “I’ve just gotten started.”
He carried me toward the shallow end of the pool, his dick still rock-hard, planted inside me. He walked up the steps, out of the water, and carried me over to a nearby chaise, his throbbing cock inside me the whole time. He laid me down and resumed his business, this time pumping with hard, slow, deliberateness as he sucked my nipples and tasted my tongue. I wrapped my legs around him, my hands on his ass. I was trying to pull his whole young body inside of me. I wanted to feel every inch of his exuberance, wanted to drain him like he was the fountain of youth. I bucked against him, hungry for more, as our tongues twirled and our wet bodies slapped together. I came again. Hard. He thrust one last time, then threw his head back and let out an enormous moan.
“Unnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Give it to me,” I urged, my nails digging into his ass. “I want all of it. Give me your cum!”
He writhed and bucked, his thick, gooey richness filling my entire tunnel. He pulled out, glancing down between my legs at the creampie oozing from the entrance of my swollen, beaten slit. I reached for his dick, pulling him toward me. I sucked the creamy fusion of my juices and his spunk from the entire length of his meat.
The phone began to ring again.
“She should be super-pissed by now,” my husband said, laughing.
“She’ll get over it,” I replied, lapping him clean. “If it were her, she would have done the same thing.”
Lisa knew all about the MILF-and-the-Pool-Boy game we liked to play, even though my husband’s “arrival” today had not been planned. She and her husband often played games as well. What woman didn’t want to be reminded that she was still hot, even after kids and years of marriage?
Luckily, we both had husbands who loved making us feel that way.
MILF: Mother I’d Like to Fuck. If that’s not one of the funniest, most clever postmillennial acronyms to hit the scene, I don’t know what is. The term, obviously, refers to a woman who is someone’s mother, often but not necessarily married and of a certain age—usually in her thirties, forties, or fifties—but is still considered very attractive and sexy. Yet another term with a similar context has emerged on the scene in recent years—cougar. Let’s be clear: MILFs and cougars are not the same thing. The term cougar suggests someone predatory and desperate, hungrily seeking the young and vulnerable. A cougar may or may not be a mother. She is typically single. She may or may not be sexy. She is just a well-seasoned older woman looking for young meat. But a MILF? She is one hot mama!
MILF fantasies are popular because MILFs are usually just going about the business of being themselves, but exude a knockout quality that catches the attention of everyone around them, from their children’s friends to their husband’s buddies and their own colleagues and friends. The bottom line of the message they give off? Sexy is sexy, age be damned.
Among the most high-profile examples of an attractive woman paired with a younger man on the pop-culture landscape are Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher. Demi is usually referred to as a “cougar” who managed to snag one of Hollywood’s most eligible young bachelors. Ashton has sometimes been painted as a naive and unsuspecting fly who got ensnared in her cunning web. I personally think this assessment is about as wrong as it gets. I’m guessing that when Ashton and Demi met, she saw a handsome man with his head on his shoulders, who was mature beyond his years and very shrewdly building his empire. And perhaps he saw a gorgeous woman who was the complete package: sexy, accomplished, intelligent, fun, and devoted to her children. Maybe he wanted to know more, maybe she did, too, and once they got the chance, maybe they realized here was everything they had been looking for in a mate, age be damned.
Ladies, even if you’ve never heard the term MILF before—or if you have and you never liked it—consider its inherent complimentary nature. It really is a compliment. Oh brother, I can hear you already. You don’t believe me, do you?
But Vixen, there’s nothing complimentary about some stranger saying I’m someone they’d like to fuck!
Oh really? There isn’t? Because I’d happily take being considered fuckable any day of the week over the alternative—a MIWTWATFP (Mother I Wouldn’t Touch With A T en-Foot Pole). Not only is that second option undesirable, it’s practically unpronounceable! But being called a MILF? Heck yeah! It means I’m doing something right. I don’t just work out for my health, you know. Wait. I mean, I do, but that’s not the sole reason. I also work out because I like looking good. I revel in the fact that taking care of my body and appearance makes my husband both more attracted to me and proud to be the man who was able to win my love. After all, what woman doesn’t want to feel as if she was The Big Get? Men love having bragging rights. Your husband wants other men to consider you fuckable, which is why the idea of a sexual romp with a MILF is so alluring. If your husband’s got a MILF on his hands, it increases his stock, the implication being that he must be some kind of fierce to have pulled a woman like you, a woman who spat out a passel of babies, runs the household, has a fulfilling career, and still looks like she just stepped off a runway. There’s nothing wrong with being just as proud of your outer sexy as you are of your inner vixen.
Mind you, I’m not suggesting that you suddenly start donning cutoff shorts and baby tees on the regular. Preserving your sexy is one thing. Suddenly turning into a homespun Pamela Anderson is another. Yes, your man wants others to see you as fuckable, but most men don’t want you flaunting said fuckability in front of their friends and the public at large. Save the skimpy outfits for the actual MILF fantasy we’re about to discuss, not for everyday wear around the house… unless, of course, that is your and your husband’s thing!
Think about it: Here is a woman who has given birth to one or more children, children who are possibly now adults, but she has managed to take care of herself and maintain a level of attractiveness that inspires lust and envy all around. That’s what being a MILF is. The term gives a whole new meaning to the phrase motherfucker, which, when you boil it down to its most rudimentary truth, is exactly what your husband is, if you have children.
Since you’re married with children, why not go all the way and introduce the MILF fantasy into your relationship? Why not go ahead and officially join a club of which you’re already sort of a member?
Come on, you hot mamas! Let me show you the way!
Of course, none of that was meant to be offensive to cougars. Sometimes the unplanned circumstances of life have a way of bringing out the cougar in all of us. But that’s not our thrust here. By pointing out cougar characteristics, we are distinguishing them from those of a MILF, which is what this fantasy is about. What we want to focus on now is turning you into the kind of woman men salivate over. Not some young sex kitten or a desperate housewife. We’re talking a real sexpot. Who needs Halle, Heidi, or Angelina when you’re about to step out as the ultimate MILF?
By incorporating this kind of fantasy into your marriage—especially if you are, in fact, a woman of a certain age and not just pretending—in addition to stoking the fire of your relationship, you might also find your self-esteem getting a much-needed boost. Once you and your husband realize that being a wife and a mother don’t have to preclude being the object of sexual desire, then you’re free to roam territory that may have long been abandoned after children, marital responsibility, day-to-day chores, and time constraints entered the picture.
No territory ever has to be lost. Marriage and aging should be the beginning of exciting and adventurous sex, not the end. This fantasy reaffirms the idea that a woman growing older should be seen as ripening into full, fragrant fruit, not as withering on the vine, beyond desirability and usefulness.
As Confucius once alliteratively said: “Man who make MILF make more merry than most.” Okay, so maybe he didn’t say that, but it makes a whole lot of sense to me!
In what has proved to be an interesting turn of events, your man—your normally very reserved and conservative beloved—somehow stumbles across this book in a bookstore (or on his iPad, Kindle, Sony Reader, et cetera), buys it, quietly reads it all on his own, then brings it to you one evening to discuss some of the fantasies. How impressive and forward thinking is that? Men usually have to be coaxed and encouraged to do certain things, but in this case he’s the one with the initiative. Girl, if you didn’t know it before now, your man rocks! Let’s give him a rousing hand!
Not too heartily, though. Hold on a sec. This is a book of erotic fantasies for advanced and adventurous couples. Most women won’t have to press too hard to get their men to indulge in sexual role-playing they’d probably be game to do anyway. This book is a great way for a whole lot of husbands who want to put some of the fire back into their relationships bring it to the attention of their wives, so while we applaud those who pick it up on their own for being proactive, it’s not exactly like leading an unwilling horse to water and forcing him to drink. This book of suggested fantasies is exactly the kind of water most hot-blooded men with half a sex drive—if given the “go” sign—would be eager to chug.
So yeah, your man brought you this book. Notice I didn’t say bought you this book. He bought it for himself, then brought it to you to excitedly share what he discovered inside. Together the two of you look through it for the fantasy you think will best suit what mutually excites you. For the record, you don’t have to settle on just one. This book is filled with lots of adventurous possibilities—possibilities that are limited only by the boundaries of your willingness and creativity. You flip through the pages. Hmmm… the One-Man Gangbang fantasy looks like fun. So does the Paid Escort chapter, or maybe you could try swinging? No, not swinging. You’re not sure if you’re ready to go that far just yet, if ever. You look up at your husband. He quickly shakes his head. He doesn’t want swinging, either. He knows how slippery that slope can get. That is definitely not an option the two of you will be trying.
But wait… what is this? You notice a group of pages toward the back that are already earmarked, as if to single them out. You flip through to investigate. Ah! It is the chapter on MILFs. You glance up at your husband. He gives a sheepish look, a half smile on his face. Is this the one you like, your expression silently queries. His half smile goes to full grin as he nods eagerly, takes the book from your hands, and points out how fun and easy the MILF fantasy would be to implement. He quotes the chapter’s content from memory, as though he wrote the words himself. He reminds you that he has always had a thing for older women—you’re six years his senior, so you already know this—and he prattles on giddily about how he’d love to see you get into the part of the perfect older woman, someone perhaps even a tad older than you are now, and he’ll pretend to be a teenage neighbor whose parents force him to come over to see if you need anything, um, you know, serviced around the house.
Okay, you think. That sounds doable. You read the fantasy part of the chapter and realize that, yes, this could be quite fun. You could use an escape from the everyday. Some explosive, role-playing sex would be just the thing. You scan through the rest of the chapter, taking note of the Vixen Tips. Your eyebrows rise with alarm. Your husband quickly emphasizes that you are definitely a MILF, not a cougar. You sigh with relief. You’ve never been a woman who aggressively pursued men, so you wouldn’t be comfortable pretending to be that kind of woman. But a MILF? Yeah. You’re a MILF, for sure. You take pride in your sexiness, and men other than your husband constantly find you attractive. Playing that kind of role would be an easy transition, a great way to ease yourself into trying out a fantasy for the very first time.
Oh, and look. Your man already has the details of your adventure worked out. He informs you that, in your MILF fantasy, he is going to be the one going after you. Your character won’t be making the first move. You like the sound of this. Yes, you tell him. You’re definitely in!
Your husband hugs you and gives you a high-five. You didn’t know people still gave high-fives, but apparently your husband is among the diminishing few that do. He wants to do the MILF fantasy tomorrow, during the day, when the kids are in school and the two of you have the house all to yourselves. Is that okay? Tomorrow?
Um, okay, you think. Wait, tomorrow? Isn’t that kind of soon? Don’t the two of you need time to figure out the details and work out the, er, kinks? No, he stresses. You don’t need time! There is no time like the present, blah, blah, blah, he says. The best way to do it is to just jump in. He is even going to take the day off from work, he is that excited about making it happen.
Now you’re finally getting excited, almost as excited as he is. You jump up, about to head to the bedroom to go through your closet to find a sexy, mature outfit for the big event. You need attire an older housewife would wear, but something provocative, not frumpy and unappealing. Not too Penthouse Forum, I’m-sitting-around-waiting-for-you-to-show-up-and-fuck-me, but not classic June Cleaver, either. That would be way too off-putting. It should be somewhere in the middle of those two things, maybe more like Teri Hatcher’s character on Desperate Housewives. Yes, yes, that would work.
Wait a minute… what’s that? Your husband next informs you that he’s got a surprise for you. Another one? Girl, you have the best husband in the world! Turns out he already stopped and picked up some things on the way home tonight, just for this very occasion. He purchased some mature and sexy clothing for you to wear, exactly the kind of attire that, once you put it on, is certain to get him off. He picked up a youthful outfit for himself as well. A khaki T-shirt and some cargo pants, since that’s what the teenage boys are wearing these days.
Look at that. He just saved you some work. You don’t even have to go through your closet now to put together something to wear for the fantasy. All you have to do tomorrow, your husband points out, is put on the getup he picked out for you and wait for him to show up. It is going to be fun, fun, fun, he promises. He is going to love you, literally, like he’s never loved you before. Er, rather, like you’ve never been loved before. Or something. Whatever. It’s going to be a whole lot of never-had-before loving, that’s for sure. That he can promise.
You fling your arms around your husband’s neck and give him a long, sensuous kiss. He has never been this proactive about anything. Ever. This book of fantasies just might be the best thing that has ever happened to your marriage. It is exactly that, by the way, particularly when implemented properly. But we’ll discuss that in a minute. Back to you. Back to this. This is about to get really interesting. Let’s take a look.
You wake up the next morning and get the kids fed and off to school. Your husband is already gone, having exited the house before anyone else in the house was awake. That’s cool, though. You discussed this very thing the night before. It is all part of the plan, his already-mapped-out itinerary for how this fantasy would go down. Once the kids are gone, you head upstairs for a long, hot shower. Your stomach has butterflies, like the very first time you went on a date with your husband. In a way, that’s what all of this is. You and your husband are rediscovering each other. You are trying something new, something fresh, and something hot, after years of being stuck in the routine of day-to-day life. Your somewhat uptight husband is finally letting down his guard. The wildest part of it all is that he is the one who prompted the whole thing. You giggle to yourself as you stand under the stream of water and let the bubbles from the fragrant body wash rinse away. He is the one who wanted a fantasy. A MILF fantasy, of all things. He didn’t want to fantasize about being with some impossibly young twenty-year-old. He wants to engage in a fantasy with someone older, someone mature. Someone like you! You giggle again and touch yourself down there, thinking about what lies ahead. You quickly pull your hand away. Best to leave that to your husband. Let him do all the work today. You put your hand back, noticing something. You glance down. Your bush is out of control. Oh no! That will not do for today. Just because you’re playing an older woman doesn’t mean you can get away with having a yeti camped out between your legs.
You step out of the shower, drip your way over to the medicine cabinet, pull out your tiny trimming scissors, and step back under the water. You begin snip, snip, snipping, trimming your trim into a nice little triangle. You place a light amount of Nair around your bikini line to take care of the excess. Then you get an even brighter idea. Why not give your husband a treat? Since he was proactive enough to encourage you to introduce a role-playing fantasy to reinvigorate your marriage, why not be proactive and do something for him? You’ve heard your friends talk about their Brazilians, landing strips, and clean-shaven mounds, but you’ve never dared to do anything like that. Who has the time to maintain such a thing? The upkeep, to you, has always seemed like it would be too much for any woman with half a life to handle. But hey, today is a new day! Why not go with the new? And just like that, you decide to do it. You contemplate whether to smear some Nair on your mound to remove the remaining hair, then decide against it and reach for a razor. A few strokes of your mound and careful maneuvering in the areas around your labia and near your butt later and… voilà! Your hoohah is as clean as a baby’s. You step out of the shower again, wipe away the steam from the bathroom mirror, and check yourself out. It is so fresh and so clean-clean. It’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous. Oh yes, your newly hairless peeper is going to blow your hubby’s mind!
You dry yourself and slather soothing oil over your body, taking special care with your newly clean-shaven lady parts. You spray a light fragrance into the air and step into the mist, letting it fall lightly onto your body.
You head into your bedroom in search of the outfit your husband selected. There is a handwritten note on your lingerie chest. Your husband must have put it there before he left this morning. You never even noticed. You pick it up. Look in the back of the closet, the note says. You rush over, excited to see what he got for you. You burrow past the dresses, suits, slacks, and blouses hanging in the way. There it is: a shopping bag way in the back, shoved into a corner. You reach your arm all the way in, pull it out, and take it over to the bed, dumping out the contents. There is a white Playtex 18 Hour bra, oversize white panties, a full slip, a boxy floral dress, support hose, a pair of clunky black shoes… and a wig. A gray wig. Gray. WTF?
You plop down on the bed, examining the items. Is this all a joke? Surely, surely, your husband is kidding. You look at the items again, picking through them one by one. You hold up the matronly bra. It is the correct size. So are the panties, the slip, the shoes, and the dress. Your husband knows your measurements, that is for sure. You have to give him credit for that. Maybe he has something funny planned. Yes! That has to be what it is. Your man has always been a prankster. Of course that’s what this is. All right, you’re game. Why not go along with it? It is a fantasy, after all.
You don the giant panties, put on the bra, slip on the slip and the support hose, and pull on the dress. You step into the clunky black shoes and cram your hair under the wig, fitting it onto your head. You walk over to the dresser, glancing at yourself in the mirror. This is freaking hilarious. What is your husband up to? Wait, there is yet another note taped to the mirror. Put this on. An arrow points to a brand-new tube of fire-red lipstick.
You put on the lipstick, pursing your lips together. You check yourself out again in the mirror. Even though you don’t know where this is going, you definitely make a damn cute granny.
You go back into the living room and begin the day’s chores. That is what your husband wants, for you to act as though you’re just a MILF (albeit this getup certainly stretches the definition) going about the regular course of her day.
The doorbell rings. Your heart races. It’s him. The games are about to begin!
You smooth down the front of the dress as you calmly walk to the door. You look through the peephole. Yes! It’s him!
You open the door and are instantly taken aback. He has a fresh haircut, one that almost makes him look like a little boy. It’s a rather silly haircut, and he’s going to have to live with it for a few days, long after this fantasy is over. He really is going all-out for this. You can’t help but giggle as you study him from top to bottom. He’s dressed in the T-shirt and cargo shorts and a pair of sneakers with white socks that almost come up to his knees. The transformation is downright hilarious. In contrast, he gasps with wonder at the sight of you, his eyes lighting up in a way you’ve never seen.
“Wow,” he mumbles. “You look great.”
Great? Is he kidding? You’re dressed up like a granny.
“Can I help you, son?” you say according to the plan he previously laid out.
“Uh, yes, ma’am,” he stammers. You notice that his stammering is genuine. He seems honestly taken with you right now. “I was wondering if there were some things you needed done around the house.”
“Well, now let me see… oh yes! I do have some dusting that I can’t reach. It’s pretty high up.” You point inside the living room. “On that ceiling fan there and the ledges at the tops of those windows. And I can’t reach up very well on that armoire.”
“I can help you with that.”
“Why, thank you, young man. Why don’t you come on inside.”
You wave him in, doing everything in your power to keep from laughing. Your husband had been adamant the night before about the two of you not breaking character. He wants this to feel as real as it gets; otherwise, he insisted, what’s the point of trying out a fantasy?
Your husband is dressed like an overgrown child. You’re dressed like a granny. How are you going to keep from breaking character? It’ll be nearly impossible for you to keep from laughing your way through the whole thing.
“Where should I get started?” he asks.
You walk across the room to the tall armoire.
“Up there,” you say, standing on your tiptoes. “I can never reach all the way to the top.”
Your husband, your man-boy, is already unable to contain himself. He falls to his knees, grabbing hold of your ankles. He kisses your calves desperately, and then begins to rip the support hose.
“Oh my!” you cry, trying to stay in character. “What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be doing the armoire?”
“I’m doing what I’ve been wanting to do all year,” he says.
Your man-boy picks you up in all your granny glory and carries you over to the couch. He places you down softly, gets on his knees, lifts up the dress, and finishes tearing the support hose away.
He holds the torn hose in his hands, breathing in the scent. You are partly amused, partly horrified. Who knew your husband was such an actor! He was acting, after all… right?
He throws the torn hose down and reaches up for you, covering your neck with kisses.
“God, you’re beautiful!”
I’m eighty, you respond in your head.
With one Herculean snatch, he rips open the dress and the slip, exposing your missile-shaped cones pointing skyward in the 18 Hour bra. He squeezes the missiles together, sucking each one through industrial fabric that was in no way designed for pleasure. There is an enormous tent in front of his cargo pants. You reach out to touch it. He is harder than physics. You grasp that hardness, wanting to release it, but he pushes your hand back, maintaining control.
Your man-boy kisses your stomach, then lower, making his way toward the oversize panties. This is all very strange, but, admittedly, it has gotten you quite hot. You’re already wet just from watching how excited this whole thing has made him.
He tugs at the panties. You can’t wait for him to see your surprise. His surprise. You did it for him. He pulls at the panties, tugging them lower, then stops halfway. He freezes at the sight.
“Noooooooo!” he cries frightfully, filling you with instant alarm. “What did you do!”
“I shaved it,” you say proudly. “I figured since we were having a freaky fantasy, I’d do something freaky that you would really like.”
Your man-boy backs away, livid.
“But this was a specific fantasy! This was a MILF fantasy! I needed you to have hair down there!”
And now you’re confused. You consider yourself a MILF, but you would never dress in the outfit he picked for you. You have plenty of MILF girlfriends and none of them dresses like this, either. You’ve seen movies where younger guys refer to older women as MILFs. Stifler’s mom was a MILF in American Pie, wasn’t she? She wasn’t dressed like this. She didn’t have on an 18 Hour bra!
Maybe you don’t know what a MILF is, after all.
“But I thought…,” you begin.
“Never mind,” he snaps. “It’s over. You ruined it. The first time I ever get the nerve to try something different, you have to go off script and fuck everything up.”
Go off script? What script? He never gave you a script. He just provided a few suggestions for what you should do when he showed up in character. You tossed around a few things to maybe talk about, but there was no script, per se.
Too late. Your man-boy storms away, leaving you splayed on the couch with your skyward missiles, ripped-open dress and slip, granny panties, clunky shoes, gray wig, and tattered support hose. Your fire-red lips were never even kissed.
You don’t know whether to be indignant or embarrassed. Maybe you’re feeling a combination of both. Even worse, your freshly shaved peeper itches. What the hell. No fantasy is worth all this.
What is the moral of this story, ladies? Can you figure it out? First, if you and your husband are going to do a MILF fantasy, make sure you are in accord regarding your definitions of a MILF. Unbeknownst to your Norman Bates of a husband, he had a GILF fantasy. GILF is an acronym for Grandmother I’d Like to Fuck. That explains the outfit he so eagerly picked out for you. Now, as for why your man is fantasizing about shtupping a grandma, well, that is a subject for another time and another book, one that deals with the psychology of the sexual mind and the origins of fetishes. I haven’t written that book yet. And, well, I’m not sure I ever will. If this kind of thing keeps coming up, though, I just might change my mind.
Just for speculation’s sake, however, maybe your man once had warm feelings for an elderly neighbor when he was growing up. Maybe she gave him lots of fresh-baked cookies and other delicious treats and, somehow, in his young mind, the happy feelings he got from those delicious treats transferred into a sort of sexual happy.
Maybe. Maybe not. Hell if I know. I just took a wild stab. Maybe he just has the secret hots for grannies. Sometimes it is what it is.
In the meantime, you’re going to need to turn your attention to that freshly shaven cha-cha of yours. Not because your husband is upset about it. He’ll get over that soon enough. I’m sure he is going to have enough to deal with now that he’s let you “peep his hold card,” so to speak, regarding his whole granny fetish. I guarantee you that once he calms down and realizes he played himself, he won’t be too keen on giving you grief about your hairless hoohah—he’s really into something out on a much farther limb. No, he’s not your biggest concern right now. What I’m talking about is the hell that awaits you once those pubic hairs start to grow in.
This is why most women who remove the hair from that area do so by having it waxed. Shaving only gets rid of the hair at and above the surface of the skin. By nightfall, if not sooner, the hairs underneath will be pushing through, causing the area to itch and possibly develop what is known as pseudofolliculitis barbae, otherwise known as razor bumps. It is not going to be pretty. A bumpy pussy with a five o’clock shadow is a sad thing to witness. You’re going to have to make a decision between two options. You can keep shaving it in order to minimize the bumping and itching. I don’t recommend this, as repeated shaving of your pubic mound can result in distressed and damaged skin not unlike gator hide. Talk about your porn pussy. Well, this is its ugly sister: mangle mound.
The ideal thing to do is the second choice: Just let it grow out. This is the more painful option, but it is the one that will be most effective in getting you back to normal. Sure, it will itch like crazy the first few days as those hairs break through. Just ignore it. I know that sounds like an easy thing for me to say, especially since it isn’t an easy thing to do. It will be hard. Your hand will make its way down there to scratch without you even realizing it. You must be mindful. Vigilant. You have to suffer through. In the end, when your peeper moves past its crazy Brit-Brit stage and is back to its recognizable self, you’ll be grateful you endured.
You can do it. We are women, dammit. Strong women. We have suffered and will inevitably suffer through worse things than growing out a bald pussy.
And if you must scratch (which is highly inadvisable), for goodness’ sake don’t do it in mixed company. What an awful signal that would send. Just let the damn thing grow wild and free. Don’t bother manicuring it at all. Heck, you’ve apparently got that rare breed of husband who likes a woman with a weed-whacker-worthy bush between her legs. And since he is a GILF-chaser (yes, girl, your husband likes granny ass… own it already), imagine how thrilled he is going to be when your pubes turn gray.
Good times, y’all. Good times, indeed.