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About the author:
Anthea Bella is a stay-at-home mother who loves reading romance and erotica novels. Spurred on by the realization that life is just too short, she decided to try writing herself.
What inspired you to write your book?
I love reading romance and erotica, but wanted to read something set in reality that dealt with mothers enjoying their sexuality. I couldn’t find anything, so I decided to write it myself!
Here is a short sample from the book:
“Do you realize it’s been four months since we had sex?”
Of course, I know this. My son, Aidan, just turned four months old.
“I was just thinking of that the other day. We really need to do something about that. We really should, I mean, we really need to have sex,” I say.
My gynecologist’s prescribed six weeks’ abstinence has come and gone—my prescribed celibacy. I can no longer lean on that prescription as an excuse.
“I don’t know when we’ll be able to though. Not tonight. The baby was up four times last night. I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah, I know. Not tonight,” Steve says as he sinks quietly into his computer seat. He starts typing away at the keyboard with a sad slump in his shoulders.
But why don’t I feel passion? I used to.
Steve and I have been together since I was seventeen and he was nineteen. We met in a bowling alley when my ball jumped the lane and rolled down his lane and knocked one of his pins down.
We were inseparable from that night forward. We were in puppy love, everyone said. He was my first serious boyfriend, my first—everything, really.
We both felt intense passion back then: making out in his VW bug on the cul-de-sac down from my house, groping each other in my family room before my mother came home from her job as a secretary and ripping each other’s clothes off every chance we could. Then when I turned eighteen, Steve popped the question in the restaurant where he was a waiter and took me to the Hilton in the next town. We’d been waiting for that moment.
When I graduated high school, I attended Passaic Community College and Steve was working to save money for our first place. We held off on having a baby until after I graduated, after we were married, after we were settled. I was twenty-eight when I got pregnant with Kerry.
I guess things started slowing down in the bedroom a few years before Kerry. We were both working a lot and sex was just kind of becoming—routine, I guess. Getting dirty started seeming like a chore.
This conversation about sex has repeated itself numerous times over the years, not just since the new baby. I’ve always had a ghostlike libido that appears out of the blue and then disappears again before you can grab hold of it.
Nowadays, as soon as I put Aidan to bed at night between eight and ten, I collapse into bed in order to get a few hours nap before his first nighttime feeding. The moment he stops shifting his head from side to side in his crib and stops making cooing sounds, I’m pulling the sheets up to my chin.
Every moment of sleep is treasured; I am breast-feeding after all. I hate pumping and don’t want to use formula, which means I’m the only one capable of attending to nighttime feedings. My husband appreciates this fact. I believe if he was capable of lactating he would jump on board and do more than his fair share of nighttime work. Alas, my husband’s nipples will produce no sweet fluid.
It is I, Mommy, who must rise, and so it is I who always has to say, “No sex tonight. I’m tired.” My poor husband cannot do much more than express his desire and sigh.
I have satisfied him a number of times with oral sex, which we refer to as “making a sandwich” for the other, so that we can mention it in front of my daughter, Kerry, who is six-years-old. I have not felt ready for Steve to make me a sandwich yet though. I keep saying I think I’m almost ready. I do keep feeling that way, but I’m not sure. The feeling never lasts past the thought, which is fleeting.