As a middle aged woman who lives in the same house as her adult stepson, every day is an exercise in resisting temptation. Luckily, last night was WrestleMania 32, which is like the Super Bowl for adult stepsons who live at home — so Darren was too distracted to fuck me.

I’m pretty much the only woman Darren interacts with, and thus, his only realistic opportunity for sex. For my part, a younger man with hands rough from LARPing is welcome attention. Sometimes when I’m in the kitchen stirring my General Foods International Coffees Café Francais, I can feel Darren watching me and I just let him. Yesterday our mutual attraction reached a boiling point: I wanted to climb over the kitchen island, lift up my corduroy jumper and put his pony tail right in my mouth.

I’m not a wrestling fan myself; I don’t know if the WWE is good for anything but stopping a 36 year-old, throbbing sex sponge of a man from going to town on his 49 year-old step mother, but I would like to thank the organization nonetheless.

The Undertaker, Dolph Ziggler, the Dudley Boyz — a day ago I would have heard these names and laughed outloud at their total irrelevance to adult life, but this morning, as I lay next to my husband, my engorged vagina aching for his son’s uncircumcised penis, I had these “men” to thank. Their pinfalls, superkicks and stereo splashes kept me from making a huge mistake. Because Darren, like most wrestling fans, is enraptured by this hamfisted, children’s choreography to the point of zoned-out drooling.


The 364 days between now and WrestleMania 33 are going to be tough. Maybe Darren will get a job and an apartment soon and stop this torture.

But I don’t think that’s what will happen. I think I will probably fuck my stepson.

 

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