Have you ever encountered a phrase as dismissive and condescending as “mommy porn?” On the surface, it’s a ridiculously amusing dichotomy. Porn is about drooling guys hunkered in front of their computer screens. Mommies are about pushing adorable ragamuffins in strollers, trading tips at the playground on nap time and breast feeding, and pinning recipes for crumb cake on Pinterest.
Why would mommies even need porn? They have their hands full of dirty diapers and creamed corn. Sex is a 15-minute quicky on a Saturday night after putting the kids to bed. Do mommies even have sex? The kids find it hard to believe.
But guess what? Women don’t become sexless blobs after they get knocked up and pop out a kid or two. Mommies are sensual beings, even when they have spit-up on their machine washable blouses. They crave passion, eroticism, and release.
The erotic romance novel might not be at the pinnacle of literary greatness. It might not fit into the academic confines of proper feminist literature. But when a mommy picks up her Kindle and downloads the latest release from Sylvia Day or Nora Roberts, she empowers herself to take charge of her own sexuality.
She satisfies her needs and desires, even if that only means curling up on the sofa for a fifteen minute break with a steamy novel. Perhaps the sex she reads about isn’t even something she desires in real life. It’s just a fantasy, no less valid than the ones men find on the internet.
There are a lot of women out there who are proud to read erotic romance. We need more. We need it see it embraced and nurtured. We need to see a debate between Hilary Clinton and Carly Florina about who writes the hottest BDSM scene. Now that’s a presidential campaign I can get excited about.
Mommy porn is a marvelous, beautiful thing. Mommies of the world, enjoy yourselves. You deserve it.