A lot of guys don’t like meeting the parents of a girl they’re seeing because they want to make a good impression on their future in-laws, or at least possible future in-laws. I’ve been there, but having survived single into my mid-40s, one might imagine that I’ve met a lot of chicks’ parents when it was clear to me marriage wasn’t going to be in the cards.
Normally, I don’t like meeting the parents of a girl I’m seeing for a different reason – it usually just seems like a fraud, like my intentions are a lot more than just schtupping their daughter until I can either upgrade or the daughter moves on due to obvious lack of intent to commit on my part. After all, like most guys, no girl hot enough to make me temporarily insane enough to want to marry her is willing to date me for more than a couple of weeks, and even those opportunities are few and far between. So, I’ve met a lot of parents of girls I was seeing in particularly uncomfortable situations.
Once, as a second date, the girl arranged for her parents to join us to see some really lame comics at a comedy club. They laughed their heads-off at the jokes largely centered around the paucity of teeth in Arcadia, Florida. I’d rather have had to fake enjoying foul-smelling sex – at least when I’ve had to fake enjoying sex, my back wasn’t facing the stage, I wasn’t expected to pony up for two rounds of overpriced cranberry juice I didn’t want, and I was naked.
There’s been other weird parent-meetings. Another girl I’ve dated has invited me to Christmas dinner at her mother’s house twice - and both times there was another dude there that also thought he was her date for the evening. The endless, self-serve dinners turn into a contest between us as to which of us is going to most gingerly fill his plate with seconds.
And of course, there are always those awkward moments where the parents inquire as to future plans that ain’t ever going to happen.
I hate meeting the parents. I especially hate meeting the parents after only two dates. But when a guy is in his mid-40s, both dates occur almost entirely in bed, the girl is a hooker, and she invites the guy to her 21st birthday party, well, a guy needs to make an exception, especially when he writes a sex-blog. Even a guy like me, that hates meeting the parent(s).
Here she is:
Yes, those tits are real – remember, she’s only 21 – now – those are young boobs.
The birthday celebration was to consist of two parts, as Tori (real alias) explained to me when she arrived at my crib Monday night. The first, the “formal” part, was to occur at 5 PM on a Saturday (this past weekend) at her mother/father’s house (Tori explained that her single mother is also her father). Her parent was going to prepare a traditional Filipino meal. The second part was clubbing, which was going to start at 11. “More bisexual 21 year-old hookers,” I thought to myself, “out for a night on the town drinking legally together for the first time,” I added to myself. “You should come,” she stated.
I almost did cum – right then and there.
In the days leading up to the party, I had to figure out what to get Tori for a present. One problem with dating girls you’ve dated as hookers, as I’ve been known to do, is that the $200 or so charge for the sex is a limitation on how cheap the present can be. Last time Tori came over, she charged me $220. The $220, which didn’t even include the usual added price tag of drugs and/or alcohol since she doesn’t do drugs and didn’t want a drink, was well worth it – we went two long rounds over the course of 4 1/2 hours, punctuated by two hours of spooning – but it meant that a $20 birthday present wasn’t going to cut it.
Now, one of the benefits of dating hookers is that they’re usually easy to shop for. Anything sex-related – lingerie, belly chains, even molds of my penis. Today’s nympho-escorts can easily drip-drench a half-dozen pairs of panties a day – they generally arrive at my crib juicy in anticipation, and leave even juicier, in no small part due to generous applications of Wet Platinum lube – so they particularly welcome new thongs, which in my experience can even bring a more appreciative reaction than the many-times-more-valuable cash “gift” for the session itself.
But this situation was a bit more complicated – Tori’s mother was going to be there when I gave Tori the present, and might even be watching when Tori opened it. Clearly, I had to tone it down – no penis mold - and decided Victoria’s Secret was the perfect store, and some sort of fragrance a perfect product, to strike that balance. After all, Vic Secret is in mainstream malls, yet the only Vic Secret girl I ever dated had also been an escort who I’d met at a 2-on-2 afterparty (as an aside, I’ll never forget the first words she ever spoke to me, while I sat next to her on a couch sandwiched on the other side by my then-girlfriend, whose idea it was to swing that night - “I like cum – just not on my face.”).
The afternoon of the party I went to a high-end mall. The mall, including the store, was particularly crowded, almost exclusively with people, mostly young, many of whom were heavily-tattooed, who look like they don’t work serious jobs for a living (strippers? escorts? drug dealers? foreclosure rescue consultants?), and many of whom I presume were maxing out their credit cards in preparation for filing bankruptcy or enrolling in debt settlement programs. Nonetheless, as expected, soon after entering the fragrance section of the store and perusing the Dream Angels shelves, I was approached by a sales girl, a fairly-hot early 20s Latina.
Sales Girl (SG): Can I help you find anything in particular?
DJ: Yes. I’m trying to find a gift for a 21st birthday, but its complicated. We’re in that awkward stage where our relationship is going from hooker and john, to boyfriend and girlfriend and,
SG:
DJ: so I can’t just get a cheap present, cause when you pay someone $200 for an hour, you can’t just get something cheap for like $20.
SG: Makes sense
DJ: and its more complicated than that, since her mother’s going to be there – I can’t get a thong – and probably already isn’t going to like me at first sight since I’m more than twice her age, but my girl is young – so I want to get her something that young chicks like, too. So, I’m thinking fragrance, so is this a good one?
SG: I was going to say: no. Definitely not that one. That’s for older women.
DJ: OK, good. I’m glad you told me. Hmm. What about the one that’s the hot chick smell? You know which one I’m talking about?
SG: No.
DJ: Hmm. I thought you guys made the one with the hot chick smell Well, is there a PINK perfume?
SG: Yes, over here….
And so it went. I picked up a few items with the PINK label, including a perfume in a funky sack, a makeup bag, a candle, and a package of temporary tattoos, many of which were half-off, and the total came to only around $40.
Since Victoria’s Secret only wraps things which prominently advertise the name of the store, I then needed a gift back to go over the VS bag. After picking one up at American Greetings, I had another thought, though: since nearly all of the items I picked up at VS were half price, the total cost was too cheap. If Tori returned the items, or if, being in the core VS customer base she knew about the half-off sale, I would come across as cheap, not something you want a hooker to think of you, especially one willing to go multiple rounds over the course of four hours for the price of an hour. Time running out on being able to figure out a good physical present, I decided I’d better head over to Nordstrom’s and pick up a $50 gift card, the envelope for which served the additional purpose greeting card, so $4 was saved.
Told the 5 PM party would be running on Filipino time, which meant that most people wouldn’t be arriving until 6 or 6:30, I timed my arrival to be on the later side, but ended up running slightly behind, got a little lost, and showed up a couple of minutes after 7, parking my car exactly at the same time as what turned out to be her 50-something Filipino aunt, who had pulled into the spot seconds before. There were suspiciously few cars near the house, which I had expected would be ensconced in a virtual festival. The aunt and I greeted each other, I introduced myself, and we proceeded to the front door together, first greeted by a sign telling us to remove our shoes, and, seconds later, by Tori and her mother. Tori laughed and blurted, “I really didn’t expect you to make it,” and for a second I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to be allowed entry, but I was.
As it were, the aunt and I were the first guests, and the only other people there were Tori, her mother, and her mid-50s Latino step-father. Thankfully, Tori’s parent and her husband were significantly older than I, or at, thankfully, their Hispanic heritage at least made them look older. The house was shabby, with sheets covering most of the upholstery, even most chairs, and there were handwritten signs on loose-leaf paper throughout the house. I soon learned this was all because the house had very recently been a low-end assisted living facility. The aunt and I were immediately escorted to a living area, where I was seated next to the aunt in front of a large karaoke screen featuring what I assume was the Manila skyline. Within seconds, the aunt, and then everyone else, asked me if I was going to sing karaoke, and the aunt passed me the mike. Having not fucked Tori enough to be willing to sing in front of her without fearing harm to my image, and having neither consumed enough alcohol or dropped enough acid to want to sing karaoke in a house of strangers aside from my two-time sex provider, I declined over repeated objections, and the aunt proceeded to sing a series of morose songs, including Clapton’s Tears in Heaven. It felt more like a funeral, or at least a 90th at an A.L.F., than a 21st birthday party.
Tori soon advised me that 10 people from Ohio who were expected weren’t going to be able to make it. Despite the aunt singing karaoke, I was way too much the center of attention of a party which I had expected to be large and which I was only planning to drop in on – and the food – an array of Filipino specialties – wasn’t even ready, now more than two hours after the party’s official start time. I had to keep turning down offers of alcoholic beverages, including a beer shoved in my face by the step-father even after I declined it, and to keep turning down offers to take the karaoke mike.
Finally, after what seemed like two hours but was only about 15 minutes, the food was ready, and most of it was quite good, albeit barely recognizable – probably a good thing since the fish in the only Filipino restaurant I’d ever eaten in was served with the heads. By then, three more people had shown up, two guys and a woman, all white, weird, apparently Midwestern, and well into if not past their 50s, and I chatted with them, too, though it was a bit dicey when one of them asked me my connection to the party. “I know ,” I said, looking at her. Tori quickly blurted out, “we’re friends.” Unfortunately, during the conversation with the weird ones, I inadvertently left a strong hint as to my relatively advanced age, when one of them said, “you look familiar” and I responded with my standard joke, which goes over a lot better with chicks in a club than it did at the party:
DJ: You watch MSNBC?
Weird guy: Yes Ah, maybe that’s it.
DJ: You’d have to really be into it. I was on twice, 9 years ago.
As if that weren’t enough, it wasn’t long before the weird woman of the group, apparently taken somewhat aback at the relatively advanced age of Tori’s apparent date, asked me my age – at the same time “guessing” I was 37, a number at which I usually take offense even though I’m almost a decade older. I responded with my standard, usually line-of-conversation-stopping joke,
“I’m actually EIGHTY-7″
“You are not,” blurted one of the weird guys.
DJ: “How come nobody ever believes me?!!!!! Just cause I look this good?”
Weird guy: “Come on.”
DJ: “I turn 88 in December – I was born in 1921. I go to the gym every day …”
After what seemed like eternity, but was less than an hour, Tori grabbed a purse and started for the door, telling her mother she was just going down the block for a few minutes to the store. The two bickered back and forth in front of everyone about whether Tori should leave. Seeing it as an opportunity to bolt the party, and suspecting in fact that Tori was going to be gone a long time since she had earlier said she had to pick up a friend 45 miles away, I quickly decided I would use her exit as an opportunity to leave, but before I could say a word, Tori asked me if I wanted to come with her, an opportunity I seized – I think I was half-way up off my chair before she could finish the question.
I got in Tori’s beater with her, but after we had gone further than the nearest convenience store, my suspicions that I was in for a long ride I didn’t want, or need, to be on (since the clubbing part of the party was presumably still on) were confirmed. Unfortunately, by then, Tori was already on the phone, with the friend, telling the friend we would soon be there, grossly lying about how close we were. She then started defensively asking a series of questions obviously in response to suspicious questions asked by the friend upon hearing my voice. Adding two-and-two, I surmised that the friend on the other end of the line was the suddenly-on-again fiance she had told me about last time she was over when he was off and I’d inquired about the ring on her ring finger. Before I could confirm my suspicion, she confirmed my suspicion, “, my fiance that I told you about.”
“His name is Tyson, and he needs a ride?!!!!,” I thought. Uh, oh – not THAT Tyson!
Now I really wanted to get out of the car, but she wasn’t responding to my hints to hang up the phone so I could tell her to turn around and drop me off back at the house so I could spare myself a 45 minute ride with her angry fiance - a fiance already angry about her being late, already angry about her having an unexplained middle-aged guy in the car. A fiance who could get angry about all the other things he was already angry with her about in their rocky relationship. A fiance who could get a lot angrier if they had a blow-up and she blurted out that I happened to be one of her johns, and that she awoke me from deep slumber just a few nights before for a round two which ended with sperm all over her face and breasts. Besides, I’m claustrophobic and didn’t want to have to sit in the back seat.
I met substantial resistance. Tori insisted that I continue on. She explained that the only was she was able to assuage her mother to let her leave the house was by bringing me along, which probably meant one of two things: either her mother wanted me out of the house badly, or her mother considers Tori still to be too much of a child to drive to the corner store alone – a far more disturbing possibility even though her family effectively vetted her for me as being legal age by throwing the party. After about another mile I driving, I managed to talk Tori into turning around and take me back to the house, convincing her to drop me off a few blocks from the house and that I’d quickly drive away so her mother wouldn’t notice.
On the way back to the house, Tori asked me what club she should go that night. I told her where I had backup-planned to go and meet friends, but she said they couldn’t go there because Tyson is underage. , “even clubs where people didn’t wear clothes.” Not that an engaged chick would ever cheat, Gail Collins if you’re reading this, but Tori enthusiastically responded,
“I’ve always wanted to go to one of those swinger’s – is that what they are called – swinger’s clubs?”
DJ: They are a lot of fun. The best one I’ve been to is down in Lauderdale.
Realizing that might be a bit long of an out-of-town trip for an engaged chick to have to explain to her fiance, after a short silence I added, “but there are a lot of good ones around here, too. Maybe next weekend we’ll go and celebrate your 21st birthday that way.”
Tori: OK, but you have to promise me that you won’t let Tyson know. He’s a country-type guy, real traditional, and he wouldn’t approve of anything like …
DJ: No problem. Mum’s the word
Seconds after Tori dropped me off, I received a text from a petite, married, 50ish Colombiana I had met about six weeks ago at a club, dirty-and-booty danced with for hours to the extent of hands-on-penis-and-vagina rubbing, and taken out a couple of times after, but to no sex avail, other than French kissing in that same mall parking lot. “Hey,” she texted. I called her immediately back.
DJ: You back from the Dominican Republic?
MW: No, I’m in New York. That’s why I thought of you.
After some small talk about the weather and such,
MW: So, you don’t like me?
DJ: Not true. I like you.
MW: Then how come you don’t call me? Because I don’t order sandwiches?”
DJ: No
MW: Then why?
DJ: I have needs .
MW: Well, I was going to come over to your apartment the next time we went out. I’ll tell you what – I can see – I can see that you are a free-type guy who doesn’t like to be tied down. We be friends. Next time I will come over to your apartment. I promise. Next time I will come over.
DJ: So when will you be back again?
MW: Sunday
DJ: OK – I’ll call you after you are back. Talk to you then and enjoy the rest of your trip.
MW: OK. Bye.
Gail Collins and Cokie Roberts, ye of the angelic sex (see Take Me Out to the Sapphic Sex Romp ) if you’re reading this, that makes two women that are planning to cheat with 5’9″, mid-40s, mid-level government-employee me in one week. Imagine that!
Now to figure out which swinger’s club to take Tori to …
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