I used to love the word MILF. I blogged about being a Mom I’d Like to Fuck. It wasn’t important if men deemed us “fuckable,” but that we were engaged in a love affair with ourselves. I had a podcast called “The MILF Code.” My reasoning was if we were the most popular search word in porn, couldn’t we peddle that, hypothetically, into being heard? (Ron Jeremy thought not.) Oh how naïve we were, back in those heady days of the early 2010s…
Shortly before that, I’d been living the definition of the American Dream- ocean view, white-picket fenced Malibu home, husband who loved me, and Irish twin boys. Even as I experienced some artistic and career milestones, I was on multiple psych meds, terribly depressed, and often paralyzed with dread. After being 5150’d following a suicidal gesture, the “storybook” marriage unraveled.
The following year I joyfully documented my post-marriage “Trampage” on the internet. Sure I was behaving a little like an adolescent but I was also doing it in a somewhat adult way. I wasn’t doing anything non-consensual, had sober safe sex, and didn’t neglect motherhood to chase dick. (You too can be a whore with integrity!)
I wasn’t doing anything that would hurt anyone, especially other wives. I never went out with anyone’s husband, boyfriend, or girlfriend. Sure people could have been lying to me about their single status, but I had a Code, and the Code was that no matter what I did the night before, I still needed to be able to look myself in the eye the next morning.
Within a few months, I became aware that being a mother and being sexual was in itself a radical act. Not one, but three of my oldest female friends decided they didn’t want to be friends anymore because of my “behavior.” The ones I had not judged while I was married and monogamous. The ones whose hearts I had picked up and dusted off the floor. Those who had been my confidantes decided they didn’t want to be mine.
I’m not suggesting that breaking up a marriage is something anyone should do lightly, and perhaps that’s what it looked to them like I had done. and sure, my behavior seemed erratic at times, but a true friend believes that someone they care for can course correct. They didn’t. They seemed to be saying, “You should continue to get your needs unmet. You should take psych meds for the rest of your life, become increasingly distanced from your own spirit, because that is what we’re supposed to do.’”
In my fairly small town, I was shunned. I may as well have had a scarlet letter sewn onto my baseball-mom hat – I was a pariah who was daring to go after her own bliss. I was not made of the same DNA as the other moms; I was “different.” I had let go of the transactional nature of many marriages in wealthy enclaves—the house, lifestyle, and turning a blind eye—in exchange for burying one’s desires underground. Sadly, I also lost the protection that afforded.
I’m not going to pretend that the cum-coaster ride has not been bumpy, that I have not been at times obsessed with people I was sleeping with in a detrimental way, or that sex solves all mental health issues. These contradictions are what make us human. The most important part is that your life trajectory is progressing closer to your true self, not further away. If you are a person for whom sex is a high priority, this is something worth honoring. In this way, each slutty act becomes gratifying in more ways than the sexual, an affirmation of your essential self.
When I was still writing about my sexual adventures online, my then-8-year-old was approached by another kid at school.
“Do you know your mom writes about sex on the internet?”
My rather large son replied in his preternaturally deep voice, “So?”
My sons couldn’t care less. Turns out my kids didn’t peruse the MalibuMom blog in their off hours, nor this current site, because they don’t see me that way or want to. Now, as pre-teens they appreciate that mom is a sex educator from whom they can always get a straight answer.
It’s a sign of emotional maturity to allow two [seemingly contradictory] things to be true at the same time. A person can be a devoted parent, and also have a high sex drive- when it’s a man this is not even in question. It was by accident that I stumbled on the reality that America still has a hard time reconciling sexuality, femaleness, and motherhood. (If only I hadn’t been out hiking that day, tripped and fallen on a dick.)
The assumption was that the kids would be hungry and shoeless, while I fucked someone on the coffee table. Outside of porn, horny moms’ mere existence is an affront to the Madonna/whore paradigm, to the idea that a woman must be one definable “thing” that slots nicely into the options made available to us by the patriarchy. Every time a mom has an orgasm instead of doing laundry, it is an act of Resistance.
As I struggled with the line between exhibitionism and empowerment, I detoxed off all psych meds. I no longer write as personally about sex, but this is a choice based on many factors, all of them private. I saw through the cultural lie that I was allowed to be an object of desire, but not a woman with sexual agency. Because I have fought so hard, I’m able to help others (men, women, and all genders) do the same.
Miraculously, my “diagnoses” and “chronic” mental health issues have become more manageable, once I was able to get most of my sexual needs met most of the time. This is why I do what I do now. To give people the gift of what I didn’t have then. To teach them to trust that little voice inside them, as crazy as it seems to others. To show by example that one day your life will be by no means perfect, but something you recognize as fully your own.