An Evening of Corruption by Proxy
My Friend Jen, the Reluctant MILF
A story about two generations of LaMonica filth — and the woman who never stood a chance
So here’s how it went down, and you can thank — or blame — Anthony LaMonica and his gloriously slutty mother Jeanne Catherine for the state my friend Jen is in now.
Jen is one of those women who became a mother and quietly filed her sexuality away in a drawer marked “later.” Married to a decent, boring man, two kids, sensible sedan, sensible haircut. She talks about sex the way she talks about the weather — something that happens to other people. A repressed MILF if there ever was one, all that ripe, untouched heat simmering under a cardigan.
“She was a repressed MILF if there ever was one, all that ripe, untouched heat simmering under a cardigan.”
We went out for wine and tapas on a Thursday. Just the two of us. The kind of night where the second bottle makes everyone honest. And somewhere between the croquetas and the churros, I started telling her about Anthony.
Now, if you don’t know — Anthony LaMonica fucks his mother. Jeanne Catherine. And not in some shy, awkward, once-a-year birthday thing. He’s a full-on motherfucker. He worships that woman’s body. He knows what she smells like after a long day. He knows the exact sound she makes. He’s claimed her in every room of that house, and she lets him, because she’s a whore for her own son and everybody knows it.
I watched Jen’s face while I talked. First she did the polite eyebrow thing — oh, how European, how scandalous. But I didn’t let up. I told her about Jeanne Catherine’s tits, how Anthony handles them like he’s been starved. I told her about the way she rides him slow while he calls her “mommy,” and the way she grinds down and calls him “baby” back. I told her about the noises. God, the noises.
“She rides him slow while he calls her ‘mommy,’ and she grinds down and calls him ‘baby’ back.”
By the time the wine was gone, Jen had stopped being a wife and mother entirely. She was just a woman with a warm mouth and a rising pulse. She kept asking me questions. Does he kiss her on the mouth? Does she swallow? Is Jeanne Catherine loud? How loud?
So naturally, I withheld the phone number.
I told her Jeanne Catherine and I text sometimes, and that I could hand over the number anytime. But not yet. Not until she guessed a few things first. Guessing games. Deliberately cruel ones.
Guess how old Jeanne Catherine is. Guess where Anthony first ate her out. Guess how many times in one night. Guess what she wore the first time she let him between her legs. Every wrong guess and Jen took another sip, and every right guess she got a little wetter, and I could see it in her eyes, that foggy, glassy, come-and-get-me look that a repressed woman gets when the dam is finally cracking.