Dir: Joey Silvera
In the four years since my eldest son was born, I've been eagerly awaiting my kids' starting school so I could attend parent-teacher conferences. My mother worked the night shift in a factory and was never able to be involved with PTA. I always wonder if she would've gone to some of the meetings if she had happened to meet a swell fellow suitable to be a father to my sister, brother, and me. Maybe she preferred to remarry, rather than live the rest of her life in celibacy.
Judging from the variety of pornographic storytelling I've closely examined and reviewed over the years, a lot of romances spark in the schoolhouse. I've always thought PTA meetings would be a good place to creep out on hot MILFs and have the type of sensual lovemaking that you only see on the internet, films that capture the magic of stuff like a woman sitting in a urinal.
For years I've imagined what that first PTA meeting with my wife would be like. A room full of lonely, deprived, and depraved stay-at-home moms in nothing but thigh-highs and garter belts, with hopes of a sexy, suburban orgy breaking out in my kid's cafeteria. Instead I was handed a steaming heap of reality on a plastic tray to be washed down with expired USDA milk: There are no MILfs in the suburbs. Only porkers. Sadly, my wife had to work the night of our first PTA meeting, so I didn't even have her cleavage to get lost in. I texted her, "Wish you were here." I then basically mentally raped the chalkboard for 90 minutes. And she wanted it. If she didn't, why would she dress like that? GREEN MEANS GO!! GREEN MEANS GO!!
I kid. Rape is no laughing matter. Especially the rape of a chalkboard. I imagine if you really went for it, the slate could sever a man's penis. (Note to self: invent an antirape IUD that cuts dicks off.) But even less funny than rape and MILFs is wearing an ill-fitting superhero costume to your son's school Halloween parade so all your new PTA "friends" can see if you live up to your coffee cup's WORLD'S GREATEST DAD boast.
It's probably worth mentioning that I recently lost 40 pounds and am currently struggling to buy clothing that fits me properly. Last January I was a 38-inch-waist wastoid; today I'm a 32. What size is that in a Robin costume? Not sure. My wife guessed a medium.
Unbeknownst to me, the Jokers at the costume website sent me a size small; I somehow fit into it without taking heed of the size labeled on the tag until later. I checked after noticing the atomic wedgie I was feeling, how my balls were perforated by the hiked-up crotch and how my manhood seemed stapled to my inner thigh. But I just chocked it all up to how superheros wear their outfits.
"I can see your junk," my wife informed me when she saw me dressed up for the first time. "It's really bad."
I was all jammed up. The parade was about to begin, and I had to be Robin. We were a superhero-themed family. My two-year-old was going as Batman; I had to hope no one would notice my mistake. Or my penis.
Of course, they noticed. The first mom I spotted, her eyes went right for my package. She dick-checked me. "Wow..." she said with a hungry smile, "I really like your costume."
This was not the sexy PTA encounter I had envisioned. I spent the rest of the evening with my cape wrapped around me, hiding my cock, telling children I was a masked magician.
After that night I've been thinking that being a superhero, with all the spandex, latex, chains, and whips, is just a front for some sort of devilish secret sex party. I hope it's a lot hotter than a PTA meeting.