If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. You could also get new content delivered directly to your inbox. Thanks for stopping by!
“I hope you find a good man to take care of you and the children someday, honey. You deserve it.” My mother said this to me last week as we sat on the couch watching the little ones play.
“We’ll see, Mom,” I said, then turned to pick up a baby. I’d hoped she’d be distracted enough to drop the topic. I was loath to have a conversation with her about what sort of “good man” I’d been seeing or about what I did or didn’t deserve.
“What do you mean you’ll see? Don’t you want to be with someone who really loves you?”
I already am, I thought.
I only said, “Of course. But taking care of me and the children? That’s something I’d be really cautious about pursuing. The last thing I’d want to do is bring around a man who might or might not be around long-term, have the children get attached to him, and then have things end between us. I can handle that, but I wouldn’t want the kids to be in that situation.”
My mom didn’t even pause to think about it. “This is why you have to take things slowly. Don’t get carried away with some guy before he makes a commitment to you. Make him work for it. Why buy a cow when the milk is free?”
Two decades ago this exact same phrase was drilled into my head at every opportunity. I didn’t buy it then and I certainly don’t buy it today.
The cow and the milk analogy disturbs me because I can’t make sex into a guarded commodity. I don’t want to be “purchased” in exchange for sex.
The sex is its own reward. Making it anything else would cause me to be an unenthusiastic partner whose goal was something very different from orgasms and love and intimacy.
So If I am a cow, I’m a cow who adores being milked. I won’t hoard my milk. I’ll let it flow freely to whichever person I see fit. I’ll let him drink gallons of it if he’d like, ’til it’s running down his face, dripping from his chin, flowing over his chest, puddling in his lap.
Then I’ll lick the trails of my own milk from his body.
Do you think it would be wrong to tell my mother that her daughter loves to be milked almost more than she loves life itself?

Monet Lingerie, Sexy Lingerie and Stiletto Heels
