MILFY HEAT: An Erotic Mom and Son Taboo Story

The weather matches my mood.

Hot and bothered.

A blanket of heat has smothered Alabama for weeks, breaking records and bodies. Roses wilt in my (award-winning) garden. Most of the country-club moms have retired their Lisi Lerch hats until Labor Day. Sweating is the equivalent of social hara-kiri, and you can’t set one foot in public without layers of deodorant and damp powder down your shirt.

Most so-called Southern belles are taking refuge in their Airbnbs on the Gulf and bitching on social media about global warming. My refuge is in the freezer section of Walmart. Hell, I’ll participate in who can find the best Cut Water deal.

I’m sitting on a smudgy barstool at home with the air conditioning cranked down to Celsius-cold, staring vacantly into a bottle of Jose Cuervo Reserva de la Familia, thinking sexy thoughts about a bartender I fired back in the day.

Aaron had a banana in his pants the size of a baby arm and a heart of gold—but it was too late. I’d already said my “I do” to Michael Lang—the third-most-boring man in the world—who for some inexplicable reason married a woman with a clown-car-sized vagina. An ex-beauty queen with the libido of a heat-stricken panther, no less.

Yeah, Mike—surprise. I’m the worst.

The thermometer reads “hellfire, damnation, and disappointment,” which matches the thirty-nine-year-old reflection in my White Claw.

Beads of condensation gather on the glass like sweat on a testicle. My cut-offs are drooping after a day of gardening, my legs are propped on the island, and the triple-braided belt I found at Forever 21 is the only thing keeping these suckers above my hips.

Tonight is TV night. American Vice.

The cutthroat drama about a devilishly handsome former Marine turned mob enforcer who wears a garbage bag like it was made by Gucci and has a drinking problem to match mine. He wears a wire, cleans pools on the side, and throws the occasional Molotov cocktail. It’s on FX, but it should be on a porn channel. The writing is unicorn-level magical—and all three of us are obsessed.

Which is why my ass is in this kitchen, counting down the minutes to 10pm like an eight-year-old on Christmas.

A hand claps down on my shoulder, making me jump and momentarily lose focus.

“You make more noise than a hand job, sugar.” My husband’s drunken laugh filters into the kitchen from the living room.

I stifle a groan and slide off the stool.

Mike has been on the XXL La-Z-Boy for two hours, watching CNN, and drinking Coors banquet from a frosty mug. His preferred color is beige. I’m willing to bet vanilla is an aphrodisiac in the Lang family tree.

“Don’t be jealous, Mike,” I call back. He responds with something that sounds like “Hee, hee, chugga-chugga,” but in a Fred Flintstone voice that makes me shiver.

Not with desire. I pop open a fresh White Claw and take a big swig, shuffling over to the living room in bare feet.

I’m in a cutesy strawberry-patterned sundress that hits me mid-thigh. Pink straps tie behind the neck, crisscrossing in the front to create an open back and clever boob