The M.I.L.F. Man

Richard

"Cis. Male."

"They've got you talking like them, though."

"My pronouns are 'he' and 'him,'" I said. Smiling just to piss him off more.

But he relaxed, actually. Asked, "And you've never been with a man?"

"I've been approached. But I haven't actually had sex with a man, no."

He brought his hands up and pressed the fingertips together lightly in front of his chest.

"Well, you see I have no interest in men who like men. I have no interest in effeminate men. In this, I am told I am not unlike some homosexuals whose dream in life is to be adored by what some still somehow manage to call a real man—does that set your teeth on edge? Your generation tends to trigger easily."

I smiled and said, "So far so good."

"Wise ass. A British wise ass, apparently—that I particularly like. I cannot hold a decent conversation with the average American at this point. Nor do I wish to, having given my life to serving and protecting them only to find myself watching the country slide headlong into fascism as if it were some sort of...fashion trend."

Now that part I liked and agreed with—the part about fascism. So when he rose to head for a huge bar nearby I relaxed a bit.

"What's your pleasure, son?" he asked me, standing proudly behind the bar and in front of more liquor than most club bars have. Thousands of dollars worth...

"I...think I'll go easy. Beer's fine. Or Guinness, actually, would be good."

"I have a few whiskies I'd like to introduce you to should things go well. But that's a good first choice."

He returned with a picture-perfect glass of Guinness. There is an art to getting just the right creamy "head" on top. And I would've bet money that Richard had practiced diligently whether he liked Guinness or not.

He was the sort who'd know how to make "the perfect" everything. Who would tell you that James Bond's "shaken, not stirred" martini would actually be shit. Though for the record, I feel that Bond-style martinis are colder, smoother and more evenly mixed...

"We will have dinner shortly," he told me, as he took his seat again. "I had it brought from my favorite Indian restaurant. The Brits love their Indian food."

"Did you live there?"

"Unfortunately, no. I've...spent a great deal of time in Eastern Europe. And Southeast Asia. I'm a relic of old, reviled wars—CIA. And...well...that kind of thing."

"Fits."

"Not anymore. Not for quite a while. I was...involved in a somewhat unfortunate incident which put an end to all that. And yes, it was something to do with what I mentioned early on. I found my niche, so to speak, in Southeast Asia. Places where one can...have almost anything, sexually speaking..."

"So I've heard."

"And of course...in my line of work...well, they were a security risk, my...sexual predilections..."

"Yes, I imagine they would be."

He gave a firm nod, and said, "So! I retired early and comfortably and what I require, at this point, is someone young, straight and intelligent who satisfies my need for male...energy, without requiring—well, let me just be blunt. I will never touch you and you will never touch me unless very specifically directed to do so. And it will never be sexual. Not...in the usual sense."