Bonnie the MILF
By Ryan Chang
I was 19 and tender. I’d just moved back to Orange County after a six-month stint in New York City, freshly broken up from my first girlfriend, who was six years older than me. We “clicked.” We could sit next to each other, mute and comfortable, for hours. We had amazing sex. But she had a career to start. I had freshmen orientation.
I was depressed. I felt alone. I was on 10mg of Lexapro. My high school friends had either moved away to school or I’d stopped talking to them once I was in New York. I spent most of my time trying to not feel depressed. I worked at an espresso bar in Newport Beach. I smoked a lot of weed. I masturbated while superimposing my ex in the porn videos I watched.
I met Bonnie at a health food restaurant in Huntington Beach. She was a server. I was really awkward when I talked to her, but after three months I knew where she’d gotten most of her jewelry–in Albuquerque, a place she regularly visited because of a sister; she only bought turquoise from the Native American craft markets on the side of I-40. I knew that she only wore vintage clothing and that she called her braids “plaits.” She was youthful. She laughed at my jokes. Her voice was frail like thin glass. I was enthralled.
Bonnie reminded me of my ex. My ex also wore vintage clothing and Native American turquoise. But Bonnie is a little wrinkly, I thought, and the skin on her face and arms seems to be loosening. Her skin is worse than normal for a 25 year old, I thought. Maybe she has a condition, or something. She is not older than 30; I can handle 30. She is definitely not older than 30, I thought. I missed my ex. I would’ve done anything to get back to her. But I also wanted Bonnie badly.
I decided to ask Bonnie while I was driving to the restaurant. I was stoned. We were outside smoking cigarettes on her ten-minute break. I couldn’t look her straight in the face; I was nervous that she could tell I was stoned. Somehow, I managed to ask her, my eyes half-shut, calves shaking a little. She said maybe, and asked me for my phone number. We exchanged numbers, I said “see you later” and wobbled towards the parking lot. After 30 seconds I realized I had gone to the wrong end of the parking lot, unsure if I was grinning to myself because I finally had a date or simply because I was really stoned.
I didn’t eat at the restaurant for four days. I was nervous that she wouldn’t call, that I made a mistake. A part of me wanted to tell her No if she called. Was I that desperate to ask my waitress out? She called on a Saturday. We would meet up on Tuesday.
I got to her house five minutes early. She was outside smoking a cigarette, looking paranoid. When I called her name she looked at me but didn’t recognize me; it was dark. I said it was Ryan and waved her inside. She threw the cigarette onto her lawn and walked towards the car, looking to the right and left of her, like she was escaping. She got in the car. We looked at each other like two strangers sharing a seat on the subway.
We listened to The Smiths and nodded our heads idly. She told me a story about seeing them on their first US tour. At a stoplight, underneath a lamp post, I noticed her wrinkles were deeper than I’d thought. How beautiful her eyes were. How the crow’s feet made them bigger and rounder, and permanently sad. How the lines in her forehead made her look forever worried that something would not come.
She is not older than 35, I thought. I can do this, I thought.
_____
We went to a vegan Vietnamese restaurant in Fountain Valley. I thought we were going to have easy conversation, but I realized it wouldn’t be. She was not serving me. I was not a table. She was a real person outside of the restaurant. She asked me what I was “about” and I told her that I was going to school for writing. But lately, the writing had not been going well. I’d been having some anxiety. I surprised myself by how confident I sounded. If I was going to fuck her, then possibly date her, I needed to show her that I was mature and that I was not 19.
She looked me at gently. She said she knew what I was going through. Her own anxiety had gotten so bad she needed a Klonopin in the morning to stop shaking. She couldn’t drive on the freeway anymore because it made her shake so bad, even with a Klonopin. She kept one in the coin pocket of her jeans for emergencies. Xanax in her bag if she needed extra help. Did I have checking rituals? She needed to touch her keys four times before she left the house. She always wore her jewelry except in the shower, because she needed to put them back on in order of first-adorned.
She was 39. She’d worked at the restaurant ever since it opened 20 years ago. She’d even gone to my high school. Later, I would find out that she was in an on and off relationship with a man named Bill who wore his moustache like Tom Selleck. Bonnie looked at me warmly and slightly coy. We ate cold vermicelli.
I panicked quietly in my head. I felt bad for her. I wanted to give her $50 for dinner and a cab, then just leave. I was scared.
We kept talking about our anxiety. I was so nervous about the end of dinner. What should I do? I felt like I’d led her on in some way, and I was responsible for seeing it through. I suggested she come back to my house–my mom was out of town–to share a bowl and a six-pack of Miller Genuine Draft some people had left from a house party earlier that week. She beamed.
_____
We sat on my bedroom floor cross-legged across from each other, divided by the six-pack. We listened to Meat is Murder on vinyl, and I asked her about high school, what it had been like for her. “Normal, I guess,” she said, exhaling, “lots of beer.” We giggled.
I didn’t want to fuck Bonnie anymore. Or kiss her. She was not a MILF, a cougar, a puma, or anything anymore. I wanted her to leave. She looked so tired in the yellowed light of my room. I felt fucked all around.
“You’re cute,” she said, opening another Miller Genuine Draft. “I’m glad you asked me out. I was nervous, you know, I don’t go out on a lot of dates anymore.”
I looked into my empty can for a while. “You’re cute too. I’m glad we got to go out tonight,” I said into the can. We stared at each other for twenty seconds or so. Then I kissed her. We made out for a minute while the record blipped. Her lips were thin. They felt worn out.
Her whole face trembled. What am I doing, I thought. I wanted to pull away. I told myself to keep going, at least make it a good kiss. When I did pull away, her eyes were still closed, her lips smiling, her whole head slightly shaking.
I told her that was really nice, but we can’t do this. “I’m too young for you,” I said. She looked away. I lifted the needle but didn’t flip the record over. Finally, she said, “but we can still be friends. You can show me new music, and books, and movies. We can still hang out.” She looked defeated.
“Sure, yeah,” I said, “let’s definitely do that.”
It was about 2 A.M. I said I’d better get to bed and stood up. She stayed on the floor. “Can I sleep here? It’s late. I just want to go to sleep,” she said. I mumbled something, and she followed me to the bed. We kept our clothes on. After a minute of lying on our backs, she climbed on top of me, and started grinding against me. I kissed back for a bit. Then I stopped her. “I can’t,” I said. “I can’t.”
We slept with our backs to each other.
_____
When I dropped her off, I said I’d call her or see her at the restaurant, whichever came first, but I never did. I erased her from my phone. I avoided driving by the Coffee Bean where we’d had coffee. I never went back to the restaurant. I pretended that what I’d done was innocent. A bad call. Misjudgment. Whatever.
I thought she would understand because she was so much older and see that I’d fucked up and done something immature and wrong and rude. I felt like I’d hurt her. I didn’t expect her to open up to me the way she did. I didn’t know what to expect, actually. I thought I wanted to meet someone older because that was my “type,” but now I know I just wanted sex to prove to myself I was still good enough for my ex.
She called me two weeks later. I had the day off from class and work. It was in the afternoon. My blinds were shut, my pants were down, phone on the table, a teen-themed porn playing at a low volume. The phone rang, and though I’d deleted her from my phone, I recognized her number. My erection waned. I paused the video. I stared at the phone for some seconds. I picked up the phone.
Why hadn’t I called, she wondered. I said I’d been busy with school lately, midterms were soon. We would hang out soon; spring break is coming up. Hope you’re well. I’ll probably see you in the restaurant. I’ll call you soon. Bye.
I pitied and judged and lied to Bonnie to avoid pitying and judging and lying to myself. She really wanted to be friends. After that call, I thought I could be her friend, that I just needed time away from the situation to “man up.” But I ended up realizing I didn’t want to be her friend. I was too embarrassed with myself.
I sat for a bit, looking at my wrinkled penis. I sighed. I resumed the video. I never called.