As a single mother of three with a full-time career, I’ve got a lot on my plate. Between making the children’s breakfast in the morning and making sure they brush their teeth at night, I hardly have any time to take care of myself. Sometimes, I just get so darn busy that I’ll realize it’s 6 p.m. and I haven’t even eaten yet! Can you imagine? Not that I’m complaining, though. I love being a mom. But I’ll tell you what—sometimes I find it just about impossible to find a spare moment to stimulate my clitoris until I reach glorious climax.
From the moment I wake up, I’m always worrying about someone else. I’ve got to make the kids’ lunches, get them on the bus—no easy task when it comes to Melanie—and then race around to get the house straightened up so I can leave for work. And after a grueling eight-hour day, I’ve got to turn around and go grocery shopping, stop at the bank, and pick up the kids after their extracurricular activities. I’m telling you, sometimes it feels like I barely have a second to breathe, let alone 20 minutes to writhe beneath my bedspread with the passionate thoughts of sensuous lovemaking until I gasp with the force of my full-body orgasm.
Of course, I can’t blame that entirely on the kids. Sure, there are times when I’m picking up dinner, and I think about how easy it would be to sneak off to the restroom and rub off a quickie. But then a special on that cereal the kids like distracts me, or I happen to run into a chatty neighbor, or I’m just too pooped out from work to take that special “me time.” And that’s really no one’s fault but my own. I just keep telling myself, “That’s okay, Sheryl. Tomorrow you can take the afternoon off and run a bath, light some candles, and tease your engorged vulva to thoughts of that carpenter who put in our basement molding. Tomorrow.”
But I never do.
I’m not usually one to whine about such things, but my work isn’t doing me any favors either. All day long I’m in meetings or filling out expense reports or trying to fix the work that that damn Carol didn’t do right the first time. Even if I do take my lunch break to slip off into the handicapped stall, hike up my skirt, and start pleasuring my body with two, three, sometimes four fingers at a time, inevitably my cell phone will ring or someone will walk in and distract me, and eventually I just give up and go back to my desk having never shuddered uncontrollably with the powerful release only my dexterous hands can provide.
No one tells you when you’re young, but having kids just upends your whole life. One minute, you’re more than willing to lie on the couch for two or more hours, rubbing massage oil over your breasts and inner thighs until your primed body is aching for that last gentle stroke that will send it over the edge. And then the next minute you have a few children and all of the sudden the only thing that gets you excited is not finding another cavity at the dentist’s office. It’s all about priorities. And, until the kids go off to good colleges and I save up enough vacation days to make it worthwhile, I guess getting down on all fours in front of the full-length mirror and slowly working my trusty purple vibrator in and out of my dripping love canal with increasing speed and intensity will just have to wait.
I only wish I still had a husband to take some of this work off my hands. If I had a man around the house, I bet I could find all sorts of opportunities to masturbate.
Ah, well. No rest for the weary, I suppose. I’m certainly not going to win any points with the feminists by saying so, but maybe we women simply can’t have it all. Maybe we have to make the choice between being a working woman who occasionally coaxes her pussy into such a lather that her hands are slicked with love juices, or a mother who spontaneously pulls over to the side of the road on the way to pick up the kids from day camp and swirls her fingers over her love button over and over and again and again, faster and faster until she’s screaming, “Yes! Yes!” and slamming her fists on the car horn.
Because sometimes when you try to have it all, you end up losing what’s most important to you: earth-shattering, toe-curling multiple orgasms. — [Hat Tip: satire written by Cheryl Marie Vos ]
We always suspected that soccer moms are far too stressed out. Cheryl Marie’s story seems to confirm this. American moms sure have it tough !!