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What lies beneath.
By Kristen Chase |
February 20, 2007
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Read more: mominatrix, sex advice, sex after marriage
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I’ve often wondered what goes on behind the bedroom doors in suburban America. Is the frustrated mom of two who drags her son out of the mall by his backpack a swinger by night? Does the clean cut mother of four who plants her flowers in obsessive figure eights give her husband naked lap dances for extra cash? Does the perfectly pregnant mommy in my daughter’s playgroup get off dressing up as a big plush rabbit?
Maybe that’s just a little too Desperate Housewives for you to swallow (or spit, if you’re like me), but I can’t help but think that we’re all a bunch of kinky bitches – or at least we’d like to be if given the chance, along with large amounts of alcohol, legal-only-in-Amsterdam substances, and a break from the mundane that is our existence as mothers.
Apparently we all shot out our sexuality with the placenta, and unless we’re our teenage son’s hot mother or the young careless mommy ala Britney Spears, the only fantasy we’re involved in is our kids’ – you know, where they are wishing us harm for taking away their Playstation privileges. And so the act that got us into this whole mess in the first place is put on auto-drive. Load, spin, and repeat if you’re lucky.
Laundry sex. It’s all the rage.
We gather with other couples for Sunday night football, sit around in the kitchen while our husbands slug beers and yell at the screen, and gab about the latest and greatest crock pot like it’s the most interesting thing since the invention of Ziploc bags.
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We talk about our fairly boring lives in an almost robotic state, for fear that someone will think us weird, twisted, or even worse, un-motherly. Apparently good mothers just take it how they can get it, give good head in exchange for a night off from the dishes and laundry, and chalk their husband’s penchant for big fake boobs as a phase that was supposed to pass after he graduated from college but just never did.
Wouldn’t we all rather be talking about what to do about our husband’s internet porn addiction, how to act on our desire to make out with another woman, or how to keep avoiding the “anal tonight?” question without driving our husbands away?
Just because our sex drive supposedly left us when we took on the mommy moniker doesn’t mean we don’t care about it anymore. It’s just shifted to the back burner – you know, after the kids are asleep, the dishes are done, and we’ve lost the extra cellulite off the back of our thighs. The desire and the hunger are still there, except now they require a little more than the simple “meal” that used to satisfy them. We all know the passing smooch and a half-assed hand job just don’t cut it anymore.
But yet, who do you go to when we’re ready to amp things up? Go ahead and Google "mom with weird questions about sex". The five hundred pay-to-play porn sites just don’t seem like the best solution.
I know you’ve thought about going grocery shopping without underwear on. Maybe you’ve considered taking your kid to school with a tickler in your panties. And you almost let your garter belt peek out under your Sunday best. Maybe you want everyone to think you give a shit about crock pots and banana bread recipes, but really, you just like to be tied up and you don’t know how to tell your husband.
Any parenting column can suggest the best red saran wrap or give you the best organic turkey sausage recipe, but red strawberry flavored condoms that make blow jobs almost enjoyable or dildos made from 100% non-toxic and natural plastic? Leave that to me.
I’m stripping off my mommy jeans and appliqué for something just a bit more flattering. And please don’t be afraid of the whip. I know it might hurt. But I have a feeling you’re really going to like it.
You know you have questions for the Mominatrix -- come on, don't be shy, email them to mominatrix@imperfectparent.com. Identities are kept strictly confidential.
Mominatrix logo by Karen Rani
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