My grandpa’s second wife was a hot old lady. She was my hot grandma. It only makes sense that her kids would be hot, too.

They were from a previous marriage, so there was no blood-relation between us. I never knew their bio-dad, but he must have been something to make a smokeshow like my aunt.

Aunt Stacy was a stunning woman, with long blonde hair that had that perfect texture that made you want to touch it—straight, but with just enough movement to feel alive. It framed her face perfectly, drawing attention to her features whether she was at the gym or dressed for a night out.

Her face was so symmetrical that it looked fake, with cheekbones higher than my mom on crack and a sharp, elegant jawline leading down to a smooth neck. She had faint laugh lines around her blue eyes, which shone so bright it was like she had actual stars living in her face. And she had this little smirk, like she was always about to say something sexy or hilarious, and you’d just be thinking, “Oh my God, Stacy, please say it, you’re killing me.”

Her shoulders were narrow and delicate but strong, like she could carry your emotional baggage and still look amazing doing it. Her stomach was flat and firm, and her slim waist curved into her hips, giving her a soft femininity despite her athletic build. Her boobs weren’t huge or anything, but they were perfect for her body. They were like, "Look at us—we’re still amazing!" Perky and elegant with a natural firmness, like they had their own support system built in.

Her ass was the kind of ass that made you believe in miracles—so round and tight it didn’t just turn heads—it commanded respect. It looked incredible in anything, like clothes were just lucky to be on her. Her legs were long and toned, with thighs that could crush a watermelon. And when she wore heels, her legs went on forever, and you’d be left wondering if there was even a finish line.

Aunt Stacy was a health nut. She was the kind of person who woke up at 4 o’clock every morning and went to the gym six times a week. She was a marathon runner and a yoga mom, but she made time for weightlifting, too. Not enough that she was big and manly, but enough to keep her body toned and tight. Even three kids couldn’t take the hot out of her. Aunt Stacy was so hot that when she went to the Marine Corps Ball with her son, everyone thought she was his date. If I were her son, I’d make it true.

Her commitment to health didn’t stop at the gym; she was just as strict with her diet, and that self-control was one of the hottest things about her. While the rest of the family was eating pizza, Aunt Stacy would have a boring, undressed salad. She wasn’t a bitch about it, either. She never complained about all the foods she missed, or condescended to us like we were fat bastards. She just sat there, looking fine as hell.

Aunt Stacy had the occasional sweet tooth, and she loved chocolate. At my cousin’s sixteenth birthday party, even she couldn’t resist the ice cream cake. I stood next to her as it was being served—because of course I did—and she leaned over and growled, "I’m going to be BAD today! I’m going to have a big fat one! But shhh—don’t tell anyone!" Her voice dropped low when she said "BAD," like in one of those seductive chocolate commercials with too much sexual energy. She winked at me, and I felt my face turn red.

When my grandpa and hot grandma divorced, Aunt Stacy and the rest of her ridiculously attractive family disappeared from my life. It wasn’t until he finally died that she came back, though not for long. Aunt Stacy wasn’t just the hottest in a family of dreamboats—she was intelligent, too. Grandpa knew he could trust her to handle his affairs, proving once again that Aunt Stacy was the complete package.

I saw a lot of Aunt Stacy during this time, and it reminded me just how hot my family was. Stacy’s family tree was like a beautiful cherry blossom, while mine was a scraggly pine, and there was just enough distance between the two that it wasn’t entirely wrong. My cousins were hot, but I had eyes only for Aunt Stacy. When I was little, I didn’t even understand how we were related—I just knew my mom’s sisters were smoking hot. It’s like the Westermarck effect took one look at her and said, “Damn, okay, I get it.”

Aunt Stacy was at the parade field to greet me when I returned from deployment. I gave her a tour, proudly showing off the unit’s equipment to her, while also showing her off to the unit.

I had always been embarrassed by my family. When I worked at the mall, my boss started driving me home because I kept getting jumped. One night, as we were driving, we saw my mom standing in the middle of the road. My boss swerved to avoid hitting her as she stood there, bent over, palms out, staring at the car like a deer caught in the headlights. After a moment of silence, he burst out laughing and said, “Did you see that old bitch?” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that “old bitch” was my mom.

But with Aunt Stacy, I wanted people to see us together. I knew my squadmates were looking at her, and I’d throw them a knowing smirk as if to say, "Yeah, I know my aunt’s hot."

I was finally old enough to drink with Aunt Stacy. Usually, I’d get so tongue-tied and flustered around her that it was a relief to relax and just enjoy her company without constantly being aware of how turned on I was. Aunt Stacy wasn’t a big drinker, but she’d have the occasional glass of wine. Chardonnay was her favorite, and she always looked so effortlessly classy with a glass in her hand.

The hottest thing about Aunt Stacy wasn’t her looks or her confidence—it was her motherly nature. She made me feel like I mattered, even when I was rambling on about something stupid or inappropriate. She’d just sit there with a big smile on her face, leaning forward with her chin resting in her hand and nodding like I was revealing the secrets of the universe.

For a short time, I felt like I was part of a family of normal, sexy people. Most of my friends already had hot moms, and for a while, I could pretend like I did too. Aunt Stacy always went out of her way to include me, like when she was deciding what to wear to her son’s wedding. She couldn’t choose between two dresses, so she put on a little fashion show for my uncle and cousin, and she even asked for my opinion. She looked unbelievably hot in both dresses. It was like trying to choose between two open tabs in incognito mode - you’re not proud of either choice, but you’re definitely not closing them. I was just happy to be a part of it.

She even took me to see "The Avengers" with her and her daughter. I don’t know shit about Marvel, but Aunt Stacy sat there explaining the whole cinematic universe to me like, “This is Iron Man, and here’s how he connects to Thor, and...” and I would just listen and think, “Damn, Stacy, I don’t even care about Marvel, but you keep talking like that and I’ll have to watch the whole franchise tomorrow."

Captain America was my favorite, and she thought it was adorable that I wanted to be a nice guy like him. She preferred Iron Man’s cockiness, but some things about me just aren’t going to change - and Aunt Stacy was fine with that.

When Iron Man’s wife, Iron Bitch, showed up towards the end, I thought it was cool to see her take part in the action. It reminded me of Aunt Stacy, who is very calm and composed, but you just know she’s a badass beneath the surface. Aunt Stacy even looked like Gwyneth Paltrow, the actress who played Iron Bitch—minus the jade eggs and golden dildos straight out of a Goop catalog.

Aunt Stacy wasn’t just my aunt; she was the hottest woman I’ve ever known. After my grandpa was cremated and properly disposed of, she moved out of the country, and I never saw her or her beautiful family again. But if Aunt Stacy taught me anything, it’s that family can be hot too. I’ll never forget her.