Porno for Parents (When Sex Is Not Enough)

by Bridget Quinn

The fantasy comes many times a day, unbidden. I’m powerless against its pull and whatever real-world action I’m doing -- fist in the disposal, fingers seeking the sippy cup’s lost plug-thingy; or on hands and knees, body trembling with the effort of scrubbing water-based marker from hardwood -- I am instantly lost to the delectations of the mind, to that other world of perfect gratification and pleasure.

It always starts the same way. I’m walking through an immense hall, not unlike the nave of a great cathedral or a seriously upscale hotel lobby, the only sound that of my Manolo Blahniks clicking rhythmically against marble, the staccato of my passage echoing from vaulted ceilings and arched doorways. At the far end of the hall waits the dark maw of an open elevator, doors wide, luring me onward. I am irresistibly drawn to them, as if to a lover. When I reach the doors I step cautiously inside, uncertain, and they close immediately behind me. We shoot upward then stop abruptly, without warning, so that I fall to my knees. I’m confused and a little afraid. My breath comes fast and heavy as the doors slide slowly open again.

Before me is a single small room of Zen-like austerity. There are no visible lamps or light fixtures, though the space is suffused with soft, golden light. Three deep-set windows line the opposite wall, opened almost imperceptibly at the bottom. It’s nighttime, so there is no view, but from outside wafts the faintest scent of flowers and a soft rhythmic slapping of ocean waves penetrates the quiet space. The walls of the room are without ornament, there are no pictures, no mirrors, no sconces, stereos or television. The floor is warm but uncarpeted, and utterly free of tinker toys, board books or deadly rolling devices such as roller skates, rubber balls and matchbox cars. There is but one piece of furniture. I walk toward it longingly, with no fear of tripping.

The four-poster bed is queen-sized, sheathed in diaphanous white fabric that falls around it like pale caressing waves. Hands trembling, I reach out and part the curtains to reveal three white pillows aligning white cotton sheets folded partly over the frothy expanse of an off-white down comforter. My breath catches in my throat and I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. Suddenly, my clothes disappear and I stand naked before the bed. I reach to touch my face only to find my makeup gone, my skin dewy as though newly cleaned and moisturized. I run my tongue along my teeth and they feel polished and minty fresh. I reach roughly beneath the comforter and throw back the sheets.

The bed groans as I enter it. I heave this way and that, bed giving beneath my naked weight, seeking the spot of ultimate pleasure. And then I’ve found it. I grab a pillow and stuff it between my knees, denting its softness with the pressure of my strong thighs. I take another pillow and slip it between my breasts, sighing. I rest my face against the crisp, cool comfort of the third. The light suddenly dims, then goes out. I moan with pleasure.

I sleep for ten long hours.

Alone.

Oh, baby. You know what I like.