My Own Licorice Pizza

It wasn’t unusual for me to get looks from men, of course. I was no stranger to the wayward glance “in my day.” But lately, it had been feeling less frequent. Or maybe that was my own paranoia about aging. About not being able to “compete” with the girls who were a decade younger. And I had been asking myself: why would I want to? Men had never done that much for me—least of all sexually. So why should I care whether they were still interested or not? Maybe because, ingrained within every woman’s fundamental core, there was this unshakeable belief that her entire sense of aesthetic self-worth could only be gleaned from men. 

It was taught from day one, existed on a cellular level: be attractive to Them. That’s all that matters. Well, I was done worrying. Had decided that, if nothing else, I’d gotten enough dick in my life to make up for any I might not get in the future. But what never occurred to me was that I had now advanced into an age bracket that made me attractive to, of all beings, boys. Something I never would’ve guessed or imagined on my “journey” into Mrs. Robinson territory. Because, apparently, that was still a thing—even if the boys of the present didn’t even know the reference. I wasn’t even sure they would be aware of something as au courant as Licorice Pizza. Because Paul Thomas Anderson wasn’t exactly “relevant” to the life of someone on the younger side of the Gen Z spectrum. Anderson was, after all, a Gen X director who appealed mostly to male millennials that wanted to believe they were “cinephiles” yet had probably never even seen Vampire Hookers. Which is sort of what I was feeling like as I walked down the street to get back home. Ordinarily, I would’ve been driving because, well, this was Southern California and nobody walked—in L.A. or otherwise. 

I happened to live in one of those “outskirt neighborhoods”—it doesn’t matter which. They’re all the same: cookie cutter. And that’s fine. It’s what I wanted: bland and drab. Especially after so many years of scandal. The problem I didn’t account for, though, was being far too “standout” in such a milieu. That’s why the boy in question was quick to home in on me. For, although I’m fond of narcissism, it surely couldn’t have been based on my physique and general hotness alone. Like a peacock, I must have attracted him with the bombast of my style. My proverbial plumage. On that day, I was in a bright pale pink corset dress with ornate allover ruffles on the skirt. I had accessorized with a coordinating parasol (I loathe that indefatigable California sun) and black ankle boots. 

Funnily enough, because of my disdain for people in general and youths in particular, I had spotted the boy and his friend about a mile away and crossed to the other side of the street to avoid any form of interfacing. And, right when I believed I had been able to pass them without incident, Boy (as I shall refer to him henceforth), called out, “Hey! I like your umbrella!” Too gauche to call it what it was: a parasol. He himself was dressed rather flamboyantly for the area—in pink track pants that bore an allover Gucci logo (clearly screen-printed) and a wife beater with the word “CHODE” written on it in a Gothic font across the chest. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to advertise that he had a chode or was just being supportive of the many boys that did. Either way, I shouted back, “Thanks!” and tried to keep walking. To no avail. “I can let you borrow my pants if you want! They match your umbrella!” he insisted. 

From the looks of him at this vantage point, I would’ve guessed him to be, at the oldest, thirteen. I replied, “I think those look better on you—but thanks anyway.” Yet he still persisted, proceeding to cross the street to get closer to me. “You’re wrong about that. I think they’d actually look best of all on the floor of my room after you’ve taken them off.” His friend snickered in the background. I found myself trying to hold back any palpable reaction, for I had never encountered the scenario of being the pedo like this before—at least, in former situations, I wasn’t the pedo. Now I knew what it must be like for inherently perverted men when an underage girl taunted them with their off-limits pussy. Boy’s dick was definitely off-limits… so why was I so tempted to take him up on his offer? He could sense these urges churning inside of me based on my hesitation to immediately rebuff him or simply walk away. He grinned and said, “It’s okay. My parents aren’t home.” He then motioned to his friend and commented, “And him, he’ll never tell a soul.”

I was torn by my previously untapped lust and my paranoia that he was just trying to lure me into a To Catch a Predator setup. Like many before me, I gave in to the side that was lusting. 


After we ditched his friend, I began to better fathom the risk I was taking—to even be seen with him so overtly. Maybe random passersby would just think I was his babysitter. That would be for the best. As promised, his parents were not home, and he lived in an extremely palatial two-story abode that I estimated to be about 4,500 square feet. It was nothing compared to what I had been able to purchase on my middle-class income. They were clearly upper middle class living beyond their means. As most felt they had to in America.

He offered me a Cherry Coke, which I thought was odd in its specificity, as though something about watching me drink it fulfilled a kinky desire for him. I sipped it slowly and then he took my hand and guided me upstairs to his room. Somehow, he seemed more worldly in these moments leading up to our tryst. As though he knew exactly what he was doing and had done it a million times before. But once the pink track pants did come off and he had awkwardly removed my dress to unveil my glorious globes, he reverted to the little boy that he was. Yes, the erection was there, but he had no idea what to do with it. He was overwhelmed, like his synapses were firing back and forth at lightning speed and he might explode any second as a result. That’s when I put the dress back on and said, “Darling, you know what? Why don’t I give you my number, and you can text me in about five years when you’re ready… if you still remember me by then.” 

He sighed heavily, knowing he had fucked up his chance to bone by not maintaining the veneer of confidence that had gotten me into his room in the first place. “I won’t forget you. How could I?” 

“Pretty easily, I would imagine. There’ll be many girls after this.” 

“You think so?” he asked hopefully.

I nodded. But not wanting to make him feel too arrogant, I added, “Yeah, women are desperate for anything resembling a straight man.”

He glared. “Well, thanks. I guess.” 

I smiled. “Take care, Boy. Maybe I’ll see you around.” He watched me walk out the door with longing in his eyes, his dick still semi-hard, but getting softer by the second. As I let myself out, I had the misfortune of encountering his mother, who, indeed, looked so much like me that I almost did a double take. She blinked at me, not sure how to react to my presence. “Hello?” she offered pleasantly enough. I guess I didn’t look as threatening as I actually was to her little boy’s innocence.

“Oh hi. I was just dropping off a… book to your son. I’m his friend’s… sister. Mindy.” No, my name is not really Mindy, but it was the first sexless name that came to mind. 

“What friend?”

“Mrissfern,” I mumbled and started to continue down the foyer in a hurry. “I really must be going. You have a lovely home!” I slammed the door shut before she could think to call the police on me. And yeah, I really wish I hadn’t seen her. Because I knew then that Boy’s interest in me had nothing to do with my own appearance, and everything to do with his mother’s. For fuck’s sake, it’s like no matter what age they are, they all just want their precious mommy. Goddamn Oedipus complex can’t be tamed.

Nearly understanding the full weight of what had happened, I schlepped the distance home with my parasol held high and closed the blinds as soon as I got inside. Despite what a cringeworthy day it had been, I still needed to masturbate. 

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