Mommy Porn: Fifty Shades of Reality

Portions of this post have been read (with appropriate background music) on a St. Louis radio station morning show.  Click the link to listen, but beware ladies, you may need a cigarette afterward. I was reading through our Nation’s McNews last week (thanks USA Today!) and caught a glimpse of one of their famous stat boxes on the front page of the Life section.  There in the bottom left-hand corner, they had listed the nation’s best-selling books.  The top three spots were held by a woman named E.L. James whose novels, judging by their sales, must be the greatest thing since pop-top beer.

Further into the Life section, I saw an article about Mrs. James.  She’s a British author, former TV executive, wife, and mother of two teenagers.   And apparently, her books are causing quite a stir.

The article called it “mommy porn.”

* or... do not read unless you have ever had kids under the age of 17.

I don’t exactly know what “mommy porn” is.  I’m not sure whether I should feel embarrassed or grateful about that.  What I do know is that these books allegedly make the average housewife sweatier than an hour-long stint with a ThighMaster.

Since today is my wife’s birthday, and she is an avid reader, I thought about buying her a copy of the first book in the series.  Then I realized what a risk this would be.  It is well-known that I have very little of my manhood left, thanks to two years of high school show choir where I learned to do a pretty mean jazz square.  But giving Gabby a copy of “Fifty Shades of Grey” would require me to place my male ego in a vise grip, go out in public, physically grab this book, and walk it to the front of the store.  There is no doubt in my mind that the girl at the register would be some trainee who would have to call on the loud speaker for a price check, giving a detailed description to avoid any confusion.

“Price check on register 4!  There is a tall, gangly, pasty dude here humming a show tune from ‘Guys and Dolls’ trying to discreetly buy one of those mommy porn books.  And he’s using a coupon!”

Send me to Kroger to buy a box of Kotex any day.

So, rather than buy her the book, I decided to write some “mommy porn” of my own.  After all, handmade gifts are far more sentimental, right?  Ladies, please let me know if I’m on the right track.  And Happy Birthday Gabby!

Note:  The following story must be read aloud in your most sultry, sexy voice.

Fifty Shades of Reality by Scott Dannemiller

The look on her face was utter shock, but the sensation in her soul was pure bliss.  He was doing things she had never before dreamed.  This was virgin territory.

“Is this how you like it?” He asked, a grin growing across his cheeks.

“That’s right.  Just like that.”  She answered, still trying to hide her surprise.  “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“Don’t I know it!” he added.

Then, he gingerly grasped her panties between his thumb and forefinger.  She leaned back and relaxed, breathing a heavy sigh.  As she settled into the couch, he brought the delicates to his chin.

Tucked them underneath.

Folded them in half.

And placed them into the laundry basket.

A rush went through her body, climbing her spine and erupting out the crown of her head.  As he grabbed her socks, it didn’t take long for her to realize he had done this before.  He didn’t just ball them up like other guys.  No.  He took his time.  Laying one sock on top of the other, and lightly folding them over.

“So precise!” she marveled at his technique.

“I learned this from an older woman,” he confessed.  “My aunt Edna.  She says it keeps the elastic from stretching.  Don’t worry.  I’ve got this.  I can fold all night.”

Her core filled with ecstasy.  She watched as the neatly folded stacks of laundry rose higher and higher.  Socks.  Underwear.  Shirts.  Shorts.  Reaching their peak.  And just as she thought they might topple over, he moved each of them to the basket, arranging them by family member so to efficiently distribute them to their final resting place.

“I’m going to leave you alone for a moment.  I need to go put these things away.”

As he walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, she watched his tight buttocks sway back and forth, disguised by his baggy gym shorts.  Her eyes were distracted by something on the right hind pocket?  What could it be?  And then she remembered…

Just this morning, she awoke to a sun-drenched room.  There were squeals of delight coming from the kitchen.  Yes, her prince had risen before the children and whisked them off to the breakfast table.  There, he had lovingly prepared a meal.  Toast.  Milk.  Fruit salad.  And yes, the oatmeal.  Oh, the oatmeal.  And not the kind from the paper pouch.  No.  He was too much man for that.

These were McCann’s Steel Cut Oats.  The kind that required warm water, heated to boiling.  Heat.  Hot heat.  Then turned down to a simmer to bubble and roll.  Full of fiber and tasteless.  Nutritious.  With some Craisins and brown sugar.  And he had somehow encouraged the kids to eat them.  To eat them all.  All except the blob that his daughter had dropped in his chair.  The blob that now adorned his rounded haunches.  Rugged and beautiful.  Like the freshly cleaned kitchen cabinet doors he had left gleaming, scented with Clorox wipes and Endust.

As she paced through the living room and into the dining area, bleary-eyed and foggy from a good night’s sleep, his voice cut through the clutter.

“Your coffee is on the table, just how you like it.”

She glanced up at him to see his strong hands wrapped firmly around the shaft.  The shaft of the mop.  Sweat covered his brow.  He was moving gracefully.  Back       and       forth.  Back        and       forth.  To the rhythm of beautiful music.  Like Norah Jones singing the theme song to a LifeTime movie starring Meredith Baxter-Birney as a woman scorned, then finding love again after fifty.

As she watched, his graceful movements increased to a quickened tempo.  Back     and     forth.  Back   and    forth.  Back  and  forth.  Back and forth. Back n forth.  Backnforth.  Bcknfrth.  The music now more Beyonce than Norah.  His movements strong, yet controlled.   The sweat dripping off the end of his nose.

It was a stubborn stain.

Grape juice?  Spaghetti sauce?  A smashed pea?  No one could be sure.  But what was certain is that he was dominating this kitchen floor.  Unleashing his power.  And she surrendered to it.  Submissive.

She felt a warm breath on her ear lobe, waking her from her flashback of the morning.  The clouds parted ever so slightly.

“Lift your legs,” said the deep baritone.  It was almost a whisper, hardly registering in her sleepy haze.  She hesitated.  What was he asking?

“Just for a moment,” said the voice.  “Then you can relax.  Please.  Lift your legs.”

She had fallen asleep in the afterglow of the laundry, reprising the morning.  Fading into the couch like spilled sippy cup.  So much had happened since then.  But she did as the voice commanded.  As she contracted her abdominals, finely honed by Zumba and Ben and Jerry, her feet broke free from the carpet.

It was like an orchestra.  As she moved, so did he.  Finely tuned movements.  Sliding the great machine under her heels.  The sight made the hair on her arm stand on end, like the nap of the carpet each time he withdrew the vacuum.  The pattern he left on the rug was pure perfection.  Abstract art with a purpose.  With each pass, more dirt was being sucked up.  Eons of pet hair and foot falls disappearing in an instant as the high traffic area in front of the sofa was tamed.  Her muscles were burning, but it hurt so good.

“Please don’t stop.  Don’t stop!  Don’t stop!” she wailed.  “That looks so good! “

“I have to.”  He replied.

“But why?” she asked.  “You were almost finished.”

“Oh, I promise I’ll be back.  But I have to go.”  Anticipating, almost as if he was channeling  Radar O’Reilly in a scene from M.A.S.H., he moved toward the hall bath.   A tiny voice cried out, “Mommy!  Wipe my bottom!”  It was in that moment that she knew why he couldn’t finish.

He bounded to the bathroom, still sporting the oatmeal tattoo, prepared for something dirty.  Very dirty.  She knew it well.  She scanned the house to find herself firmly ensconced in Camelot.  Every room had been scoured.  The wood floors were shining.  The dust had all been wiped away.  There was a crock pot simmering on the kitchen island.  What could it be?  Pot roast?  Gumbo?  Chicken and dumplings?  It could be dishwater seasoned with floor sweepings for all she cared.  She hadn’t lifted a finger all day, and it was nearly dinnertime.

The rest of the evening was a blur of activity.  She was like the queen bee, with everyone buzzing around.  Food was eaten without complaint.  Dishes were washed and children bathed.  Bedtime stories were read while she watched HGTV in the other room.  She sat alone in her happy home, marveling at the man who made it all possible.  Her heart swelled like the giant blister that now covered her husband’s mop-pushing hand.

“You coming to bed?” he inquired.  “I’ve got something planned just for you.”

Her spine tingled.  She looked in his direction.  He had showered, shaved, and smelled like Irish Spring.  Not the old fashioned scent, but one of the new, fancy smelling-kind.  Somewhere between Old Spice and Axe body spray.

“Oh yes.” She delighted.  “I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

She changed into a tank top and slipped on her favorite sweat pants that she’s worn since her days as a Kappa Delta.  She turned toward the bed and saw him.  Ready.  Waiting.  Willing.

She slipped between the sheets and turned away, unable to look into his piercing hazel eyes.  She felt a hand on her back.  It moved slowly southward, then northward again, with a subtle pressure.  A squeeze of the shoulder, a tease of the neck.  Fingers through the hair.  For fifteen minutes his hands moved all over her, from waistline to necklace, relieving the tension brought about by the everyday.  She let herself go.  Free to enjoy the backrub.

A backrub without a future.

He slowly slid over and kissed her shoulder.

“I have a headache,” he whispered.  “I love you.  Goodnight.”

“I love you, too.’ She echoed.  And, along with her gorgeous, hunk of a man, she drifted off to sleep.

Smiling.

Spooning.

Satisfied.