The M.I.L.F. Man

Richard

Richard. Dear God.

He greeted me on the large, flag-stoned porch of his massive manse (my English teachers would all foam at the mouth over this clumsy consonance) standing almost military straight and tall. Ralph Lauren, top to bottom.

His house was nestled against the highest peak in a gated community strategically strewn across the face of one of Tucson's largest mountains so that none of the residential roads could be reached without using a hairpin-shaped main street that wound up, around the top of the mountain, and then back down to the heavily guarded gate.

I suppose a truly dedicated criminal could find a way up, but the cacti and critters one would encounter on the climb would be fearsome. And they had drone surveillance, too—not just cameras, but actual drones were sent up periodically.

Richard, a Ken doll of a man with buzz cut salt and silver hair and stern, aquamarine eyes, looked like a person who would choose a community like that. And would build a formidable fortress like the one towering above us both.

It had two huge doors that had been brought up from an old Mexican cathedral—there were many "statement pieces" in that house that had been shipped long distances. His marble sinks, big bowls placed upon somewhat Grecian pedestals, were studded with gemstones and tiny veins of what looked like gold and had been sent all the way from Italy.

Even the ceiling beams were brought in from elsewhere. He had a thing about old wood—I'd heard others talk about "reclaimed" wood, but not as lovingly as Richard, who'd had experts scout around small Southwestern towns for old houses that hadn't rotted too badly.

I could just see some of those confounded Mormon farmer faces watching some city slicker root through some old barn or shack on the property. Must've gotten quite a kick out of it. And made them pay dearly for that old, chewed up wood.

I tried not to yawn during the little tour of the castle he gave me, but I was mightily glad when he circled back to the living room and "the business at hand."

He sat in a chair beside the couch he'd nodded me over to. Right ankle perched perfectly on left knee as if he'd practiced the pose in a mirror.

"I don't believe in homosexuality," was the first salvo—a staunch declaration indeed. "I believe in...behaviors. Behaviors which can be...difficult to control."

There was a pause to read my reaction. I made sure there was none.

And so he placed his hands on the arms of the chair betraying nothing in return and said, "As my first sexual experience was an unfortunate one, I was tremendously confused early on. I was not so much...attracted to men as simply accustomed to men. However, at this point in my life I am not so much confused as...deeply disappointed in the direction our country—most countries—are headed. One can choose to be of any gender, any...sexual preference—you, yourself, are..."