Geriatric H*es: He Gave Me Herpes and a Cheesecake, Now I’m Wearing His Ring

 Eighty years old, fresh press, titties sitting right, and all I wanted was a damn slice of white chocolate cheesecake. Instead, I walked out the Cheesecake Factory with a sore on my back end, a fine white man up in my business, and a diagnosis I can’t even say out loud without rolling my eyes. Herpes. Yeah, I said it. Caught it like a damn bouquet. From a man young enough to be my bad decision and bold enough to keep coming back for more.

Now I’m inflamed, infected, and knocked up.

Tell me I’m too old. I dare you.

Michael:

I knew she was trouble the second I saw her: eighty years old and hotter than any twenty-year-old I ever touched. That body? Lived-in and lethal. That mouth? Should come with a warning label. I gave her herpes by accident. She gave me attitude on purpose. Next thing I know, we’re back in her bed, trading fluids and life lessons.

And now? She’s pregnant.

Yeah. She’s got the bump.

And the baby.

I don’t care what year she was born. That woman belongs to me now.