You never really understood why they called it Desperate Housewives. Desperate for what? Now you know. Desperate for hot sex against a wall with a ripped young gardener, that’s what. Desperate for a fumble in an alleyway with a horny student. Desperate for steamy windows in the back of the car with the neighbour’s lodger. Desperate for plain and simple sexual badness with a younger man, basically. You don’t know how or why it happened, but it has crept up on you, this undeniable lady-lust for the newer model.
You see them wherever you go. They come round to fix the dodgy light in the kitchen and to trim the hedges. They serve you lunch at your local. They are in the field where you walk the dog. You fancy your nephew’s nice friend from university recently. And your husband’s cousin. You didn’t used to notice this generation so much. Now they are EVERYWHERE. And they’re hot. When did they get so hot? Men your age when you were that age were all kebab-fat and nicotine fingernails. They had smelly hair and wore the same clothes every day and made jokes about Gary Glitter because it rhymed with shitter and they thought jokes about arses were hilarious. This new breed looks good. Really good. They’re charming, they’re stylish, they have proper haircuts in proper styles. They’re clean. You sound like your grandmother.
And you can’t help thinking how easy it would be. You’ve seen The Graduate. You know what MILF means. All men want a fuck, right? Just a note passed discreetly as you pass in the bar, or a text message with instructions: “My house, 10am, Tuesday. I’ll be waiting for you in the bedroom.”
It’s not just you either. It’s happening to all the women you know. Now, on those interminable Girls Nights Out, when groups of young men enter the room, you get all silly and start quoting those two fat old women on French and Saunders. “Young man!” you all guffaw and shriek, just loud enough so they can hear you. You get chatting to one and ask him to guess how old you are and actually let yourself feel chuffed when he lies and tells you you look younger than you are, even though he knows how old you are really because you are friends with his mum.
And there it is. Mum. You’re a mum. A MILF maybe on a good day, with plenty of make-up and lighting, but MILF starts with Mum. And even if you got the younger man in the sack, you’d still have the stretch marks and the saggy post-breastfeeding boobs to prove it. You wouldn’t be Mrs Robinson, all ballsy and in control. You’d be Mrs You, all worried about the state of your bikini line and whether the neighbours could hear. And suddenly the familiar comfort of the older man – the one you had the kids with –feels like the only thing you are desperate for.