I can’t cook for the life of me. So my mom cooked for me when I was younger. Which is pretty normal, but what wasn’t was how my friends came over to eat at our house. I wouldn’t mind because I thought it was because my mom made really good food. I soon found out I was the kid with the hot mom.

I never really saw her that way, and quite frankly, it was weird to think my friends even found her attractive. I knew she was a beautiful woman, but not… Well, sexy? Then again, I was her child. Anyone that found their patent attractive was weird, and I was no exception to that rule.

When I asked them why, they just told me that she has a cute face.

Really?

A cute face?

That’s all?

Not her long bronze hair that illuminated an orange glow when the sun hits right? Not the fact that was considerably fit for her age? Not her flawless skin that marble statues envy? Not her retrousse C cup titties that she carelessly wanders around the house with without a bra? Not her coquettish wink when she makes an inside joke? Not how she hides her beautiful smile behind her hands when she gives a light chuckle? Not the fact that her thicc mommy thighs could crush a watermelon? Not the fact that I want her to sit on my face and give me a second baptism? Not the fact that I dream about going back inside her womb to cook a little longer like an easy-bake oven?

Fuck you Michael and Theo, you guys have shit taste.