Hitting On A MILF Almost Got Me In Massive, Irreparable Trouble

Karl Karlson9 years ago

“Damn Karl, are you majoring in hot pockets or hamburgers?” my old buddy Brett laughed. Since he became a cop, he’s become used to people laughing at his jokes. It’s probably from the 16-year-olds he pulls over’s fear and shame more than anything. Unfortunately for my friend, I fear only nuclear war, and forfeited my shame about halfway through pledgeship. It didn’t help that the only humor came from his fat face asking the question.

“Brett, the only reason they gave you an SUV is because squad cars don’t have shocks rated for hippos.”

Being a goodhearted dingus, he chuckled it off with a pat on the back and another pitcher ordered before heading to the john. I surveyed the establishment for some honor worth tarnishing. If I had to be stuck here, I’d at least have some fun with it.

The hometown bar loses most of its luster after the fake ID years have passed. Between the bikers in the corner, the occasional familiar face to avoid, and a whole mess of degenerate townies, I see the future I might have faced if it wasn’t for the beauty of education. It’s a sobering revelation, so I pour another beer. A woman enters and approaches the bar. She looks to be in her late thirties, maybe older, wearing a tight t-shirt that rides up just enough to show off her tattoo. The leaping dolphin immediately takes my mind off thoughts of dead-end jobs and lives unlived. The lack of a ring sends it to dirty places. She looks around as if in search of someone, so I decide to make my acquaintance.

“Hi, I’m Karl. Would it be too forward if I bought you a drink?”

She smiles one of those half smiles where you’re not sure if the answer will end with her calling you daddy or a slap to the face. My gamble results in the former.

“Vodka soda. Hold the soda.”

A played out joke, but I halfheartedly laugh anyway. Something about a trashy older women with fake blonde hair sparks my sense of humor. We talk the typical “from around here” bullshit that ends in a question of what the other does. She tells me her oldest went to college for a semester before dropping out. I could care less that her kid is almost my age, and something tells me it doesn’t bother her either. We’re plowing our way through our drinks, something that is scientifically proven to result in further plowing later. As her inhibitions fall away, she asks me how long I’ll be in town for. A couple weeks, I tell her. Just long enough to see some people.

“Long enough to see more than that, I’d say,” she replies with a hand on my thigh. She’s a feisty little minx, and it makes me bold. As I open my mouth to ask the ultimate question of where we’re doing this, tragedy strikes. It takes the form of Brett, back from what had to be the longest public poop in history.

“Mom? I didn’t think you’d be here until later. I see you’ve met Karl.”

My back straightens as my lower region slumps. She plays it off well, turning around immediately to greet her son. Thankfully, his sharp policeman’s eyes are a little hazy and don’t catch on to the fact that his loving mother just had her hand dangerously close to my scrotum. The lips that were mere moments from feasting on my tube steak kiss him on the cheek, and she immediately switches to a typical maternal figure. My mind once again drifts to missed opportunities, and I order another drink from the hovering bartender. If he wasn’t such a professional, he’d likely be doubled over in laughter.

An hour and a few drinks later, they bid me goodbye. As I order an Uber and finish my beer, the smiling bartender approaches.

“She left this for you. You’re a fucking animal, dude.”

Ten digits and a name with a heart over the “i.” It seemed that not every chance was gone after all..