Page 3 of Dating the DILF
“You must miss them, how long has it been since they moved? Six months?”
“Yeah, almost that.” I grimace as I stretch my own hamstrings, trying to loosen them up before class starts. The burn reminds me that I need to renew my gym membership. One yoga class a week just doesn’t cut it. “They love Florida though, so that makes it easier. Every time I talk to them they sound happier than the last.”
Adelaide pulls a bottle of water out of her bag and gulps some down, nodding in agreement. “That would definitely help. Still, how old were you when you started living with them? They’re practically your parents. I couldn’t imagine my parents not living here. Although, sometimes that sounds like a dream,” she says wryly.
“I didn’t live with them until I was sixteen. Mom left me with them a lot of the time, but I was always going back and forth between them and wherever she was living at the time.” The familiar anxiety begins to creep up, remembering those years of tension and arguments. The confusion and dread that weighed me down daily. “When I was sixteen, I’d had enough of it all and I asked Nanna and Poppa if I could move in with them.”
“Not gonna lie, your mom sounds like a legit nightmare.”
I shrug and consider what she said. “She is who she is. I honestly don’t think she wants to be this way, but at this point, I know she’ll never change.”
Our conversation comes to an end when Dee calls for everyone’s attention, directing us to move into child’s pose.
“Hey,” Adelaide whispers. “Coffee after class?”
I pause, envisioning the pile of work on my desk and knowing I won’t get into the office before lunchtime if I go with her.
“Of course,” I whisper back.
Itake a long swig of my beer and try to keep my eyes on the big-screen television that is playing the game above the bar. Despite my best efforts, they keep getting drawn to the table of girls to my left, where a cute blonde has been checking me out for the last ten minutes.
It has been almost a year since my disastrous television experience, which is an awkward amount of time. Too long for every sidelong glance to be a side effect of it, but too short to be able to discount that thought completely.
For all I know, blondie over there might just like what she sees.Orshe’s a rabid dilfie—DILF groupie—which is far more common than you would think, considering how much of an asshole that show portrayed me as.
B.L.—before Lulu—I would have been all over whatever she was offering. I was always on the hunt forThe One. For my happily ever after. Always chasing what my parents had. After my daughter arrived, I realized I don’t have the luxury of messing around with maybes and possibilities anymore.
It was what drew me to the whole shitshow that wasDating the DILFin the first place. What a stupid fucking name. I pick up the bottle and take another long pull of my beer, but the bitter rush of regret is all I taste.
A firm slap on my shoulder pulls my head out of my ass and I can’t stop the grin when I look up and see my kid brother, Grayson, standing there.
“You have the same shitty expression that my last girlfriend had when I took her cat to the groomers and had them shave it to look like a lion.” He pulls out the chair next to me and collapses into it. “She was so pissed, but it was funny as fuck and totally worth the week without sex.”
“You’re a dick.” But I can’t help but laugh when I imagine the look on his ex’s face. She was a full-blown Kardashian wannabe with a huge stick up her ass and she treated that cat like a child.
The waitress comes over and we order a round of beers, my last for the night.
“Who’s winning?” Gray nods toward the television.
“The Bulls are up by five, three minutes left until halftime.”
We spend a few minutes catching up while we wait for our drinks to arrive and I have forgotten all about the girl from earlier when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder and I turn around, only to come face to face with her.
“Hi.” Her voice is low and kind of raspy, in an unexpected way. Incongruous to the girl-next-door vibe she gives off. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but my friends and I were talking and, well, are you the guy from that show?” She points to the table next to us. “My friends are convinced you’re the guy from that DILF show.”
Beside me, Gray covers his mouth to disguise a laugh while I have to swallow down the burn of impatience, the desperate desire to fuck right off and escape her predatory gaze.
But I have no one to blame but myself for this. I let myself get sweet-talked into something with bullshit promises when I should have known better.
So instead, I give her an appraising look and try to decide which camp she falls into. The women who approach me ultimately fall into one of two. The ones who want to rip my dick off and force-feed it to me or the women who want to do much more pleasurable things with it. Not that I would ever give them the chance.
She must mistake my silence for some kind of encouragement, because I feel a light tickle on my arm and, when I look down, I find her fingers trailing along it in a way that is a hell of a lot more intimate than it should be, considering I haven’t spoken one word to her yet.
I guess that’s my answer.
Remembering all the public relations lessons I got before the show, I slip on a mask of professionalism and give her a bland smile.
“That was me.”
