The M.I.L.F. Man

Y que?

Actually, we didn't have time for a real honeymoon. We were nearing the middle of the spring session at the U and I was student teaching, too.

So, we'd sort of decided to take off somewhere over the summer possibly. Didn't really matter to us that much. We felt like an old married couple already.

We just went back to the loft and did the same thing most people do on a honeymoon. Except I'm not going to lie, I think we could've made it into that Guinness Book of World Records if they had a witness freaky enough to come over and count the "cums."

No, for real. Making it "official" hit us like some kind of mega Molly or something. We managed not to make a scene in the limo again on the way home, but after that...I mean, it's almost not physically possible—or advisable—to bump fuzzies as much as we did that weekend.

After a while we honest to God didn't even know what time or day it was anymore. My butt hit the remote at some point and when the big screen went on, I squinted up at it and said, "Whoa. I'm teaching a class in like...six hours..."

And then we both just busted out laughing because we were laying there on the floor buck naked trying to recover from some stuff so freak nasty that I almost wasn't sure I should be student teaching anybody's kids.

I know they can find some pretty sick shit on their cell phones any time of the day or night now but the stuff we'd come up with might've made a porn star yell, "Cut!" Or injured somebody, maybe.

That's why when I hobbled into the kitchen a few hours later, Chas chuckled, handed me a big mug of that café au lait he makes better than anybody and said, "I never really appreciated the term 'walk of shame' until this very minute..."

I didn't even try to think of a comeback. I just eased my aching ass down in a chair as gently as possible while he whipped up this fluffy frittata I love. He just drops a beaten egg into a saucepan with all this melted butter in it. And as it puffs up he dumps in some toppings, covers the pot and seconds later I'm digging into this big ball of velvety goodness.

He'd started making them at that shelter where all the ladies fell in love with him that first time I took him there. Beat the old microwave eggs we used to serve them by a country mile. And you could make them just as fast.

His specialty is quick, easy, healthy meals—all fresh ingredients, no preservatives. I mean, the man makes his own mozzarella. To grate over the pasta he also makes from scratch. Only way I could "one up" him would be to find a way to lay my own eggs. But they'd have to be those weird brown ones, though...

I dashed a splash of Louisiana hot sauce and sighed. "I gotta meet with that crazy woman who got all pissed about the books we're reading. Talk about a buzz kill."

And of course, he just had to ask, "Are they naughty books?" And do his Groucho Marx brows.

"To some people they're very naughty books. About brown people doing rather impressive things BC." I did air quotes for that "BC" quip.

And he laughed and said, "Ah! The course about pre-Columbian cultures—very clever! But I honestly cannot understand why they're being such absolute shits about this. Those kids are responding to you! They should be bending over backwards to keep that going given that people actually shudder when I tell them you deliberately chose to do your student teaching there."