The M.I.L.F. Man

Lupita Part 1

She was my mother's age and must've weighed at least 300 pounds.

But she swayed with more soul and grace than any of the little college cuties giving her the side-eye on that dance floor—she was stunning, too. A Latinx Elizabeth Taylor. Truly.

So artfully painted that I did wonder, briefly, whether she might be in drag. Which intrigued me even more.

So I breast-stroked, no pun intended, through all the huffy hussies to join her out there--oh, the glares...

I had, you see, been approached by several of said hussies earlier at the bar. Repeatedly, by a few hoping their persistence would pay off.

Two had been particularly possessive: Linda and Daria, they were called. I'd overheard their names during several rather heated exchanges with other women who'd had the unmitigated gall to squeeze in between them and me.

Linda was from Phoenix. Daria was from...somewhere else. Another country, perhaps. Though it might have been the alcohol that gave her that impenetrable and unrecognizable accent.

Our sole and mercifully  brief conversation went something like:

Linda: Hey.

Me: Ciao!

Linda (Giggling): Are you English or something? People say you're English or something.

Me: My father is. But I was born here. Not in Tucson, but...

Daria: (I have no idea what she said but it ended with an eye roll and a sigh.)

Linda: (After a snort laugh) Jeez, so refined, right? Sorry. God, you're cute, though. (Tickling my stubbled cheek) I love the salt and pepper thing—makes you look distinguished.

Me: It came in that way for some reason. I've always had some grey—

Daria: (Slightly suspicious glare) But you're our age, right?

Me: Well, 20, but the IDs say--

Linda: He's got one of those fancy last names they have over there, too. What is it?

Me: Devillier.

Both: (Eyebrows raised) Wow...

Me: French. Originally. Though the family's lived in England for centuries.

Daria: What's the other one?

Me: (After a pause to figure out which one she meant) Chastain. But I've been christened Chas here in Arizona. Chas Deville—killer stripper name, that. Dead chuffed when I heard it.

Daria: (After a pause to ponder "chuffed") Are you gay?

Linda: Jeezus!

Daria: Well, he's good looking, he talks proper...

Me: Well, that's--what is that you're drinking?

Linda: (Either batting her lashes at me or battling some sort of facial "tic") It's a "flame of love." Martini.

Me: Ah. I've missed that one somehow.

Linda: (Grinning) Oh, my God--before they dump all the booze in, they squeeze the oil out of an orange peel and set it on fire, right? You should-- (Waving frantically toward the bartender) hey! Hey, you! (And then smiling at me) I'll get you one! If this dick head ever comes back down here!