Sex and The Suburbs

Jokes, I get. IRL, I am a mother. I pack lunches. I negotiate schedules. I co-parent with practiced calm and polite emails. I stand in kitchens that smell like cleaner and responsibility, smiling the way you’re supposed to smile when you are doing everything right. My life looks sensible from the outside. Beige. Efficient. Safe. Which is why I keep my other self at a distance. I prefer long distance for a reason. It keeps the worlds separate. Mom-life on one side, lipstick-stained fantasy on the other. The suburban doll and the digital siren never have to make eye contact. I get to close the laptop and go back to bedtime stories without anyone asking uncomfortable questions. Yes, it means waiting. It means pining. It means summers that feel a little hollow when an online fling can’t suddenly appear at the door like a miracle with a pulse. But honestly, if you saw the local talent, you’d understand. Same smiles. Same scripts. Same dead-eyed expectations. A whole town of men who want a wife-shaped appliance and think desire should come pre-programmed. So I wait. And I curate. I know it only takes one happy accident for everything to change. One wrong turn. One unexpected arrival. One moment where the neat lines blur and something real breaks through the plastic wrap. I’m not hopeless. I’m just selective about where I let my hunger live. I’ve never believed sex and love are the same thing. Sex is a rush. A jolt. A bright, reckless spark. Passion can open the door to love, sure, but it doesn’t stay by itself. Love is quieter. Scarier. Love is choosing. Love is devotion that includes yourself, not erasing yourself. Love is wanting to grow instead of just burn. I want that. I do. I hope I find it soon. But for now, I play my role. I keep the house running. I keep the smile polished. I keep the monster fed in small, controlled ways. I’m content being the pretty little secret, the smiling contradiction, the slut with boundaries and a calendar. And until the universe delivers something real, I’ll keep sending my smutty dispatches from behind the picket fence. Perfect hair. Perfect manners. And something sharp watching from behind my eyes.