While consumer sentiment has been deemed by the unwashed masses to be moving away from the cougar standard after a brief period of popularisation, a night with your mother has convinced this lonely reporter that the era of the MILF is not dead but alive with the passion of a thousand burning suns. It was thought that we were entering a phase of MILF decline with younger women upping their game and the popularity of Cashmere Mafia and Lipstick Jungle leading to average older women they could get with the youth of today ? clearly deluding themselves.
What these second generation MILFs just didn't grasp, is that a good MILF adheres to a beauty standard brought about by a crushing loneliness, not tarts seeking a cheap symbol-play. A classic cougar puts on the makeup and keeps all areas tight and firm to attract a younger male (or female) and by doing so alleviate the boredom of their crushing pedestrian lives (a personal fetish of mine). The nouveau-skank merely did these things to call themselves a MILF.
Your mother rejects the latest wave of wannabe wonton sex goddesses and instead displays what made the MILF such a great force in the first place. A quiet, crushing desperation.
From the moment we met at the motel six off the interstate, to the post-coital drag, your mother proved to be not only a sexual but philosophical thrill. The night began, as most do, with the promise of passions to come. This reporter did not hold many hopes for the skeezy woman he met at the bar earlier that day but her appearance at the same bar by night made an impact that I had not felt for quite a while. The sight of your mother walking into that bar, with pink soft lighting bouncing off her home-job hairdo -she clearly didn't have time to go to the beauty salon- was a most thrilling one indeed.
Her hair cascaded off her time-worn shoulders, where the years of sun damage were clearly visible. She wore a low-cut top which looked like it had bought from the Wal-Mart bargain bin, in fact there was a mustard stain on it. The top stopped short of her navel, giving the casual admirer a cheeky peek into the effects of motherhood, with caesarean scar and muffin top in full view. She wore a short velure skirt which made some of the more affluent men spit-take their 50 dollar Tom Collins. Her fishnet stockings torn in several places, it was clear that this was the effort of a desperate woman, a woman in need of physical and emotional contact.
We went to dinner that night, ordering the finest cuisine the 9.99 all-you can eat buffet could conjure. As the hooch flowed, it was apparent this was the pre-cursor to the main event. This sexual sparring had me thinking 'Why are we bothering here?', but it during these times that her true crushing loneliness started to show. As the revelations and truths drained from us as the hooch from the bottle, she started to tell me why exactly she was doing this. Her life, it would seem had been effected from the years of ineffective motherhood.
"My son's such a tool. I try to see the good in him, I really do. But when he hollers at me from the other side of the house for more Cheetos I die a little inside," she said taking another healthy swig of an indeterminate liquid.
"When he was young, he seemed like such a normal kid...you know? He went to little league games, got into scrapes and bruised himself playing football in the park. These days the most injured he'll ever get is a nasty case of carpal tunnel. Either that or stab wounds from when I stab him....I think about that a lot."
It was during these exchanges, during this supposed meandering before the main event, that the true essence of her milfdom shone. This was a bored and frustrated woman trying to forget her troubles for one night by hooking up with a dodgy man on the turnpike. This my friends, was a MILF.
I don't think, at this point in time it bears to tell you in too much detail what happened that night in room 206 for you already know. We made passionate love all night, where she recalled positions that she had not tried since college. Like a woman possessed, she was determined that all her frustrations be brought out through this erotic confrontation with her demons.
"I hate my son! I hate my life!" she yelled. "Fill me with youth!" she moaned.
This was truly a woman trying her best to break the world record for most smouldering and passionate act of love achieved in one night. Not like the nouveau second generation housewives, your mum truly exemplified what it means to be a MILF.
It is not about the cheap hairdos, or the fishnet stockings or even the cheap hooch and strange encounters in dirty places and dirty minds. It is not about the status symbol of hooking up with a younger man. It is certainly not about Larry King.
What it is, and what your mum represents, is about the frustrations of a woman brought to the end of her rope by either an unsatisfying husband or ingrate child. It is about these frustrations being channelled into acts of ecstasy. This, is why younger men go for the older women, It is not all of the Botox beauty of aesthetic considerations but the crushing loneliness and seething anger which manifests itself in the act of dirty, dirty motel love.
I cannot sum up with an arbitrary score out of ten, her hateful passion. To do that, would to do your mother an injustice for she, is truly a real classy lady.
Recommendation: Buy her a drink and some therapy
What these second generation MILFs just didn't grasp, is that a good MILF adheres to a beauty standard brought about by a crushing loneliness, not tarts seeking a cheap symbol-play. A classic cougar puts on the makeup and keeps all areas tight and firm to attract a younger male (or female) and by doing so alleviate the boredom of their crushing pedestrian lives (a personal fetish of mine). The nouveau-skank merely did these things to call themselves a MILF.
Your mother rejects the latest wave of wannabe wonton sex goddesses and instead displays what made the MILF such a great force in the first place. A quiet, crushing desperation.
From the moment we met at the motel six off the interstate, to the post-coital drag, your mother proved to be not only a sexual but philosophical thrill. The night began, as most do, with the promise of passions to come. This reporter did not hold many hopes for the skeezy woman he met at the bar earlier that day but her appearance at the same bar by night made an impact that I had not felt for quite a while. The sight of your mother walking into that bar, with pink soft lighting bouncing off her home-job hairdo -she clearly didn't have time to go to the beauty salon- was a most thrilling one indeed.
Her hair cascaded off her time-worn shoulders, where the years of sun damage were clearly visible. She wore a low-cut top which looked like it had bought from the Wal-Mart bargain bin, in fact there was a mustard stain on it. The top stopped short of her navel, giving the casual admirer a cheeky peek into the effects of motherhood, with caesarean scar and muffin top in full view. She wore a short velure skirt which made some of the more affluent men spit-take their 50 dollar Tom Collins. Her fishnet stockings torn in several places, it was clear that this was the effort of a desperate woman, a woman in need of physical and emotional contact.
We went to dinner that night, ordering the finest cuisine the 9.99 all-you can eat buffet could conjure. As the hooch flowed, it was apparent this was the pre-cursor to the main event. This sexual sparring had me thinking 'Why are we bothering here?', but it during these times that her true crushing loneliness started to show. As the revelations and truths drained from us as the hooch from the bottle, she started to tell me why exactly she was doing this. Her life, it would seem had been effected from the years of ineffective motherhood.
"My son's such a tool. I try to see the good in him, I really do. But when he hollers at me from the other side of the house for more Cheetos I die a little inside," she said taking another healthy swig of an indeterminate liquid.
"When he was young, he seemed like such a normal kid...you know? He went to little league games, got into scrapes and bruised himself playing football in the park. These days the most injured he'll ever get is a nasty case of carpal tunnel. Either that or stab wounds from when I stab him....I think about that a lot."
It was during these exchanges, during this supposed meandering before the main event, that the true essence of her milfdom shone. This was a bored and frustrated woman trying to forget her troubles for one night by hooking up with a dodgy man on the turnpike. This my friends, was a MILF.
I don't think, at this point in time it bears to tell you in too much detail what happened that night in room 206 for you already know. We made passionate love all night, where she recalled positions that she had not tried since college. Like a woman possessed, she was determined that all her frustrations be brought out through this erotic confrontation with her demons.
"I hate my son! I hate my life!" she yelled. "Fill me with youth!" she moaned.
This was truly a woman trying her best to break the world record for most smouldering and passionate act of love achieved in one night. Not like the nouveau second generation housewives, your mum truly exemplified what it means to be a MILF.
It is not about the cheap hairdos, or the fishnet stockings or even the cheap hooch and strange encounters in dirty places and dirty minds. It is not about the status symbol of hooking up with a younger man. It is certainly not about Larry King.
What it is, and what your mum represents, is about the frustrations of a woman brought to the end of her rope by either an unsatisfying husband or ingrate child. It is about these frustrations being channelled into acts of ecstasy. This, is why younger men go for the older women, It is not all of the Botox beauty of aesthetic considerations but the crushing loneliness and seething anger which manifests itself in the act of dirty, dirty motel love.
I cannot sum up with an arbitrary score out of ten, her hateful passion. To do that, would to do your mother an injustice for she, is truly a real classy lady.
Recommendation: Buy her a drink and some therapy
