Your mom.
I used to date your mom. It was right after we met. You left your iPod in my car. While you were at work, she called and asked if she could retrieve it.
“Of course,” I said. I offered to drop it off at your place.
It was late on a Tuesday afternoon that summer. I arrived, in a sweatshirt and tee, around four, and she let me in. I dropped your iPod on the coffee table in the living room, and the next thing I knew, she was upon me.
The following hours were a blur of childlike mischief and forbidden lust. The next few weeks were a haze of secret sexting and x-rated video iChats.
I didn’t know we’d become such close friends. I didn’t know she’d come to mean so much to me. About a month into our budding friendship, your mom said we couldn’t see each other any more.
“My child is the most important thing in my world.” she said. “As long as you two are friends, we can’t be together. It’s dirty and wrong.”
I went down on her for an hour.
“That can’t happen again,” she insisted.
And she was right. She left me that cold Friday night, and I haven’t seen her since. I wish I could say that it was worth it, sacrificing my relationship with her for my relationship with you, but you know what they say about comparing apples with fucking your mom.
It’s just no comparison, friend.
