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“Hey, hey.” Tom walks over, raising his hands, then comfortably rests his elbow on my shoulder. “Cue the Mom jokes, Benny.”
“Speaking of which…” I add purposely, just to annoy Tom, “… this party you’re dragging us to is for your mom’s sixtieth. I’m all for a good time, Tommy, but cougars ain’t my style.”
Benny instantly curls his fist, covering his mouth while he hides his laugh, purposely goading Tom.
“Nice try, momma’s boy. You’re going. Mom has plenty of divorcee friends. Isn’t that your style anyway? Preying on the broken-hearted?” Tom carelessly points out.
He has a point. I’m known for my inability to hold down a relationship because I hate being tied down, and all the women I have spent time with carried enough baggage to fit into an A380. Cheating ex-husband, gay boyfriend, and worst of all, kids. No thanks.
“I’ll compromise,” I humor him. “I’ll stay till the cake is cut. Give your mom one dance if she wears that low-cut purple dress with the rhinestones, and only if your hot cousin from Florida is there.”
“Fuck you,” he mouths in return. “I don’t know what Mom’s wearing, but it ain’t that dress. Pass me the goddamn brain bleach. And my cousin is nineteen. We’ve been down that road, dude. Stay away.”
I move closer to Benny and place my arm around his shoulder. “If I’m going down, then you’re going down with me.”
“Fuck the both of you. I’ll be there only till six. I’m not dancing with your mom. And you better keep your granny on the other side of the room,” Benny warns Tom.
“What’s wrong with Granny?” Tom cries, pretending not to know that ‘Granny’ has wandering hands with a fetish for pinching asses. “You know… fuck you both. You better be there. That’s all. And Noah, make sure you bring your mom.”
The two of them whistle, only riling me up more. See, here’s the thing about my mom. She’s young—forty-four to be exact. Got knocked up at sixteen to her college boyfriend, who vanished into thin air when he found out. Unlike Benny and Tom’s moms, mine is young, and according to them, has the body of a thirty-year-old. And just because they like to fuck with me, they also add she has the tits of an eighteen-year-old.
To them, the joke never gets old.
They’ve been my best friends since junior high and yet still, to this very day, they crack jokes about my mom and her body like it doesn’t bother me. It fucking bothers me, all right. No one—and I mean no one—talks smack about my mom.
“Screw you guys.” I throw the ball back at Tom, challenging him to a half-court shot. “Your shot. You get it in, I’ll attend your mom’s lame party and bring my mom.”
“And your mom will wear her slutty black dress with the open back?”
Son of a bitch. “Just shoot, will you?”
Tom moves to the center, positioning himself in line with the ring. Raising his arm, he practices his shot before releasing the ball. We all watch, eyes wide, waiting in anticipation as the ball flies through the air, then touches the back of the ring before falling through.
Fuck.
“Woo!” Tom cheers, running up and down the court like a lunatic. “See you Saturday night, boys.”
***
The party dragged on forever. Divorcees, drunk on cheap wine, dancing the Nutbush. Benny—being the di
ck he is—abandoned me well before the cake and dancing. One minute he was by my side trying to avoid being groped by Tom’s granny, and the next minute he’d disappeared.
I ended up pulling a Benny, slipping out and leaving a drunken Tom to fend for himself. Plus, I think he was this close to hooking up with one of his mom’s friends. He’s always the first to admit he has a fetish for older women—specifically MILFs—so this comes as no surprise.
Then, I had to take care of me. I was itching to get laid. It felt like forever.
Okay, that’s a lie.
I have a life that most men fantasize about. A lifestyle filled with beautiful women, begging to be fucked, every which way possible. Letting go of any inhibitions. Sometimes in the act of revenge, and other times, just to fill the empty hole in their life.
It’s not like I purposely find these women. They seem to have a way of finding me. And I happen to be very intuitive. I’ve spent years studying women’s body language. Learning what each move means, when to strike, and when to walk away because their eyes begin to flash love hearts.
I have mastered the game.
And this game, the thrill of the chase, it’s become too easy. Almost, predictable.
I mean, I don’t even have to try anymore. Where’s the challenge? The back and forth flirtatious gestures leading to witty banter, the two drink minimum, a promise to call, the exchange of phone numbers—goodbye.
