As a breastfeeding counsellor, I always tell the women in my groups, 'there are two types of men: those who love mother's milk and those who hate it.' That may seem a rather broad and sweeping statement, but having breastfed six children over three decades and five cultures my personal experience and stories of others bear it out. Perhaps it is because of the sexualization that our cultures place on the female breasts or perhaps it is the almost magical and mythical act itself, but whatever the cause there seems to be no middle ground on this one.
Personally, I have experienced both extremes. From the time I was seven months pregnant until the day we split two years later, my former partner could not get enough of our son's milk. We could not have sex without including his nursing as I rode him. Even if sex was not on the agenda, he would often beg to nurse while he masturbated.
My husband though is the exact opposite. From the moment he accidentally tasted the yellowish colostrum when I was pregnant until the day our daughter was weaned, he did not touch my breasts. He made no bones about his feelings either. My breasts were our daughter's alone. I have always been one of those radicals, who nursed their toddlers until three or even four years old. But from the moment of our daughter's second birthday, when I could no longer quote the World Health Organization on the benefits of breastfeeding, he was complaining that he wanted his tits back.
But this story is about neither of them. It is about the unique gift I gave to a one-night stand: the fulfilment of his fantasy to drink mother's milk. It began as most of my encounters did during that time between relationships: in a chat room. I was not looking for anything more than sex so dating, dinners, movies and especially conversation were time wasters. As a single mother, it was simpler for me to hook up on-line. I could pop into chat rooms after my kids were asleep, chat with a couple of guys and perhaps even engage in a little phone sex before falling to sleep. After a few such conversations, if I felt comfortable with someone then we could meet for coffee and sex on those nights when the children were with their dad and I could be a woman instead of just mom.
So it was that this night after dropping my three year old for the night with his father that I was driving across the San Fernando Valley to have coffee with a man almost a decade younger than my thirty-nine years. Although meeting new people is never easy, I had long ago adopted the attitude that there are plenty of fish in the sea. If I did not appeal to one person, there would be others that would enjoy an adventurous, mature, thick woman. So I was quite relaxed about the whole thing; one way or another. After all, the only thing I had to loose was a couple of hours and the cost of gasoline (this was back before it reached the outrageous prices that might have made me a tad more selective).
Since my three year old was still nursing, I always found it necessary to warn my lovers. Most of them had fallen into the category of hating it and avoided my breasts. A couple had been mildly curious. But I knew from our chats that this young man was most definitely turned on by the prospect. When I had as usually casually mentioned that I was lactating, he had quizzed me extensively about how often my son nursed, how much milk I produced and what I did on the nights when he was with his dad. He admitted with a flaming cheeked smiley face that indicated embarrassment in the cyber world that he had always fantasized about tasting mother's milk.
So as I often did with my lover's I played into his fantasies. This night I wore a low-cut, white top over my best push-up bra. Against my California tanned skin, the outfit made my 38D assets seem even more spectacular. I was more than a little confident that this night I would not be wasting time or gasoline.
