In Her Words
I Married a Pornographer Part 3
Over the hill and on to the MILF
One idle Los Angeles eve, as I lounged on the lawn with a magazine and a Corona, the huz arrived home bearing salmon, asparagus, and Haagan Daaz.
“You’re amazing,” I said. “How was your day? How was the MILF?”
“Not bad,” he replied, “a little disgruntled.”
Months into my husband’s job as the cinematographer for a reality TV show about porn stars, I had adjusted (to the extent that I was capable) of my man returning from a day of trailing, say, Johnny Gun, or Hilary Spanks, or in today’s case, a scene with Amber so-and-so – a MILF, which, for anyone unfamiliar, is the affectionate acronym for: Mothers I’d Like to F&*%.
“The thing I don’t get,” I said, “is why not MILTFS?”
“Doesn’t have the same ring, I guess,” he said. We moved into the kitchen to prepare dinner as he went on to fill in the details of the day’s performance: Bored housewife meets strapping plumber. Drain unclogs. Shower sex ensues.
“Ah, yes,” I said. “A classic.”
“How was your day?” he asked.
“Less titillating,” I said. “Eight hours of transcribing focus groups about credit cards. So why was Amber miffed?”
“Well, she was a huge star in the ’90s” he said. “A big deal, and now all she gets hired for is MILF work.”
“Well, in the porn world it means she’s over the hill.”
“Right, no market for old beaver,” I said. “God Bless America. How old is she?”