In Praise of Older Women

There was a time when the only music to this fool's ears was the sound of chirping twentysomething girls in crowded bars, sloppily kissing their female pals for the camera and engaging in that time-honored practice of "showing off as much thong as possible without pushing the limits of personal hygiene."

Then there was that summer I became the Hulk. And shit changed real fast.

I should explain. I needed some cash for a trip I was planning, and a buddy of mine was running one of those "spoil the fuck out of your kids with an otherwordly party" places that rents moonwalks, ponies, anti-aircraft artillery and other stuff that transforms an ordinary birthday soiree into a holyjesusgod my pants are on fire sorta thing. And who doesn't love that? Well, besides this guy.

Anyway, the place also had a full complement of superhero costumes, so that Captain America, Batman, or Gene Rayburn could show up if a child so requested. And whenever anyone wanted the Hulk, well, I got to do that.

It was miserable work but it gave me precious cash without a lot of physical labor. And, more importantly, it connected me to a world I'd previously never encountered: the suburban fortysomething mother.

On paper, my job was to mill around and let the kids shake my hand, kick me in the nuts, whatever they wanted. And I had to growl. In reality, I would just kinda stand there, soaking in the sights and sounds of this pulsating sea of sexual angst. And it was a good thing.

First, these women were tight. According to their conversations, they worked out. A lot. Yoga, pilates, jogging, tennis... seven days a week at the gym so they could squeeze themselves into the same $200 Blue Cult jeans that their daughters were wearing. On at least one occasion I fell into a swimming pool while watching Little Joey's Mom bending over at the waist to pick up spilled ice cream.

Second, they talked. About everything. Especially sex. Though I wasn't the person they'd invite over to sit down and have a smoke with them, they didn't have a problem with talking all kinds of sauciness within earshot of my broad, green shoulders. In fact, to them, I was just a bit of scenery... not even there, really, which allowed me to hone in on some very intriguing stuff. Like that hellacious bash in Wellesley, when I came into the kitchen for a glass of soda just in time to hear one mother explaining how her oldest son caught her blowing his college roommate. Actually, all I heard was, "...and Steven walked in just as I was swallowing him," but a little detective work [and the scuttlebutt throughout the backyard] helped me fill in the blanks. Another time, at the same estate coincidentally, four mothers were lounging on the patio, smoking and drinking and casually discussing the pros and cons of 69ing [again, I could only strain to hear so much, but I distinctly recall one mother making a crude fart joke, and the group erupting in evil laughter.]

All I kept thinking as I wandered, half-dazed through this world weekend after weekend was how much I wanted to screw all of these women. Every last one. I wanted them to group attack me, tear the green foam off my body, and suck every ounce of marrow from my bones. I wanted them to throw me in the back of the Lexus SUVs, straddle my face with their hips and let me show them the glory that can be a grossly underpaid Irish dude. I waited patiently as the balloon animal-making clown packed his shit and the moonwalk got deflated, hoping that one, just one martini-soaked MILF would stumble into my arms, ask me for a light and gently run her hand across my chest.

Sadly, they wouldn't have a bloody thing to do with me. I came, I saw, I listened, and I left. But in my mind, I like to think that at least one of those women, while screwing her husband into the wall, is fantasizing about an otherworldly deflowering at the hands of the Guy in the Hulk Suit.