When I came to this restaurant with my baby and exhausted husband, I had one goal in mind: to steal your husband.
I started by feeding my baby immediately before we left home. To keep the anticipation high, I kept my breasts covered as long as possible. It’s like in the movie Jaws — you don’t actually have to see the shark to be afraid. My milked-up breasts hold the same power.
I thought long and hard about how to dress for my first outing since giving birth. I wore pajama pants from college and a stained nursing shirt because I know that men are attracted to messy, complicated women.
When we got to the restaurant, I asked the hostess for a table in the corner. She saw my lopsided breasts — the right one already engorged with sexy milk and the left one small and on strike (and failing to provide my baby the necessary calories to keep her on the growth chart). She knew the subtext of my request. Instead of putting me in the corner, she seated me in the center of the restaurant, right next to unavailable but easily-manipulated men. Thank God no one listens to what women ask for — otherwise how would women know what we really want?
As I sat down at the table next to your husband, I untied my hair and swished it around like I was in a shampoo commercial. Except that I haven’t seen soap or shampoo in over a week. I picked at some milk that had somehow crusted onto my cleavage. Hot!
I tried to time my outing so that my baby wouldn’t eat at all. I too agree with the sentiment that new mothers should be ostracized from society. (Get rid of changing tables in all public places! Enact a ban of all children in planes, malls, or anywhere adults might visit! Make sure all elevators in subways are exclusively used as toilets.)
I did Kegels throughout my pregnancy and nothing turns me on quite as much as the sexy combination of raw nipples and a month without sleep. But my husband is looking a little drab post-baby (and isn’t taking the hints to “keep it tight”). How could I possibly find a younger version of him at home?
When my baby starts fussing and I can feel everyone judging me (why can’t I control my one month old?), my small left breast starts leaking and a giant wet circle appears on my shirt. Ring the bell ladies and gents, I just won this month’s wet t-shirt contest.
I unsnap my racy breastfeeding bra (from the clearance rack at Target) and pull out my right breast. I don’t use a cover because my daughter doesn’t like eating in the dark — the skinny bitch.
I accidentally squirt milk across the table. Or was it an accident? Nothing says come hither like an uncontrollable stream of breastmilk. My baby tries to latch. I flail my boob around in a way that shows I have yet to spend $350/hour on a lactation consultant. As I try to shove my breast into my daughter’s mouth, my nipple sends out a modern day honing beacon to all the men in the restaurant. When she finally does latch, she bites down hard enough that I yelp. If your husband wasn’t looking before, he is now.
Although my baby’s head and my stained shirt are covering most of my breast — far more than the women at the table next to me who have been gushing over how good a father my husband is because he held the baby for one whole minute — just the act of breastfeeding in public is so sexy that men (and women!) can’t keep their eyes off of me.
After I eat my entire meal and most of my husband’s (breastfeeding and stealing your husband take a lot of calories), I realize there’s a stench coming from my table. My baby had a poopy-blowout. I use this as an excuse to strut by your man, showing off my one extra-large boob and the excess skin that hangs from my baby-less belly.
By the time I exit the bathroom, everyone in the room is so turned on by me that the men are sliding into my DMs (@sexybreastfeedingtechniques)* and the women are calling their state representative, asking to overturn laws that protect breastfeeding in public.
My work here is done. And my baby girl is hungry again.
- Not a real Instagram account — obvs!
Source : Medium