Sweet, Sweet Fantasy, Baby

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If you ask any mother about her sexual fantasies, chances are they’d probably have more to do with sleep than any specific sexual act.

Is my husband masturbating in the shower while I sleep soundly for the entire night still considered a sexual fantasy?

I suppose if you prodded a bit more, you’d get some canned response about a lovely weekend in Paris with their spouse, a couples massage ending in a night of hot passionate love with their spouse, or even a tango at work after hours under their desk. With their spouse.

Spouse? Now, I know that there are many moms out there that deeply love their spouses, I being one of them, but my sexual fantasies have absolutely nothing to do with my life partner.

I mean, we do have our whole lives or, if you’re not into the soul mate thing, a fairly long period of time together. I see the man when I wake up and when I go to sleep on most days, and on special occasions I get to see him pee and fart. Sometimes at the same time. And in that same vein, he’s dealing with a pregnant mother of two with a hankering for saggy track pants, sports bras, and bean burritos. So no matter how hard I try, it will be pretty hard trying to imagine my husband as a suave, playboy out to pick me up, considering I can barely dream away the stretch marks on my ass. 

Maybe it’s because at some level I believe that anything I come up with will be something that I can engage him in at one point in time or another. Granted, he’s a pretty adventurous fellow, save the strap-on dildo and anal penetration. By me, that is. So, other than some remote location that we probably won’t see for another twenty years thanks to our penchant for procreating, I’m pretty certain any crazy and wild sexual escapades I want to engage in with my spouse won’t be an issue. In fact, I feel totally comfortable sharing those fantasies with him on a fairly regular basis.

But the real sexual fantasies, you know, the ones during my own personal time, be it daydreaming or masturbating, I tend to keep to myself. I mean, I’m not sure how much good it would do for my husband to reenact the first hook-up I had with my college boyfriend.

Talk about a mood killer.

Now my sexual fantasies have evolved from hopping into Ricky Schroeder’s sleeping bag as part of an episode of Silver Spoons back when I was a middle school girl to doing it in the airplane bathroom with this hot guy that happened to sit next to me on a flight back home for the holidays a few years ago.

Each one is sacred to me – something that I either experienced or concocted as a single sexual someone – and I don’t feel as though I need to share them with anyone else. I imagine there will be some folks that believe you should be able to share even your deepest and darkest desires with your spouse. And I’m not necessarily opposed to it. I mean, if you’re ready to hear that your spouse fantasizes about all his old girlfriends and their roommates in some massive sexual free-for-all, then by all means, tell him about your fantasies.

So I figure, there’s no need for me to know about all that nonsense, why does he need to know about all mine?

And honestly, who ever said a woman can’t have things that are her own and no one else’s? It seems that when we’re required to give almost everything of ourselves for the sake of our kids and our families, it’s nice to have something, like that hot guy at the party who you should have gone home with but didn’t, that’s all yours.

So whatever I reminisce about sexually, or create from scratch in my extremely imaginative mind, none really ever include my spouse. And until I decide to lock myself up in a room with a vibrator, shunning all sexual contact from the man I married, I think I’ll keep it that way.

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