Mom’s can’t be everything.
Running to pick up my kids. My milk-laden boobs being watched by delivery truck drivers and motorcycle riders. I’m running because I’m late of course. This is the life of a so-called ‘stay at home mom’.
I was out buying meat for dinner and the short chatty butcher couldn’t just say “oh, about 15 minutes” when I asked how long I would need to cook the steak. Instead, he gave me a fifteen minute diatribe on cooking steak in general and god forbid, when I interrupted him to say I had to pick up my kids, he repeated the part I had interrupted.
So he finally finishes. I pay. (Because telling a story and ringing up an item is too much to expect of anybody. Especially in retail) and I jaywalk to where I parked. . . Getting home after some possibly death-defying driving skills I kick off my shoes. Realizing as I do this that the baby is sleeping and I won’t be nursing her before I go.
I put my runners on and jog the half a kilometre to to my boys’ school.
Now that I’m a mother I see through the sexual fantasies of strange men and I know their desire for my specific body parts is all about how they were treated as boys. It’s about where they were or weren’t loved. And it’s biology, so big deal. It doesn’t turn me on anymore – to be objectified – but I have to say being a huge-titted woman with milk laden breasts is an erotic feeling . . . TO ME. Having them heave up and be a little sore? I like it.
The level of discomfort is outweighed by the sensual pleasure of it. As in. It makes my vagina feel a little wet, and that’s not my weakened pelvic floor letting water out again. That’s my body priming for sex. But not with you, strange construction worker. No! No is a full sentence.
My sex is with ME today and I use my husband as a conduit for my sex with me and, you know . . . he doesn’t mind so much.