One handed reading is out of fashion. One hand for the musculus, the other for the mus, nowadays. And of course this is all as it should be. Far be it from me to shout up the feeble powers of our atrophied imaginations, to suggest that in the face of Gutenberg’s “Dying Gaul” routine we should seek the fodder of erotic fantasy in mere text! There is our imagination–useful both for the re-purposing of remembered sexual experience as accompaniment for the solitary act and for enacting such pure hypotheticals as “what if both of the daughters on Kate and Allie were my girlfriend?”–and there is porn. Yes, porn kills our higher faculties of erotic resource-deployment, but kind of the way high fructose corn syrup kills waiting two starving weeks in a hole for one chance at bagging a prairie chicken with a rock. That is, art and experience take a hit, but boy, does efficiency shoot up. And that foodish shit is pretty tasty, once in a while (several times a week, that is).
But we’ve forgotten something–what if dexter is grappling a book with pictures? And what if the off-hand is steadying something altogether more wholesome? (I do not refer to a regular polyhedron and MM3.5p198.) In such a case, can we reclaim our reading lives, if not as opportunities for actual self-abuse, as foraging expeditions for the fodder of future fantasies? The mind is the original parallel processor, images are images, and the male brain is the male brain–surely we can do whatever it is we are doing and still upload printed images directly to the xxx drive, all undetected by the outside world?
But who reads picture books? Aha: there is a growing demographic in this little bloughgosphere of those who find themselves, or will shortly find themselves, reading picture books for the benefit of local youth. Wholesome, very wholesome. And these same bloughers (rhyme: duffers) no doubt find themselves short of free time–and yet the reading of picture books is not intellectually taxing, and the brain–in my case, as will shortly become relevant, the heterosexual male brain–will frequently task most surplus processing capability toward sexual fantasy.
But these are wholesome books! They feature babies, talking animals, small children, mute animals, frolicking families, farm animals, and even large and passive anthropomorphic bunnies who speak as if possessed of a slightly sub-human but fully self-conscious and suffering intelligence. What sort of sick fuck could have fantasies in such a situation? Well, er, yes. But a clarification, followed by an objection, dear interlocutor! First: we are not speaking of actual fantasizing, we are speaking of the inexpungeable (and–thanks for the suggestion–also inexpugnable) instinct to assess any female form (I operate on personal authority, now), within the limits of sexual possibility, that might heave into view. This is the hording of surplus for when the house is asleep and the image-hoard can be rifled and put to use. (Well, maybe it never is, because, again, you’d have to cook up those images into something more satisfying… and those sugary snacks are right there on the old CRT monitor. This point is, really, not about masturbation but simply about the sexual appraisal of the female literary object… it’s just that masturbation is so literary a topic, and still perhaps carries some feeble charge of naughtiness!) Second: many children’s books are primarily devoted to demonstrating family life to the young child, to modeling family behavior, or they at least take care to set the protagonist’s activity in what is meantto be a familiar family setting. Siblings, usually; dad, often. And most often of all, Mom. (In the books for the really little ones; this is less the case in books aimed at slightly older children, the already-halfway-to-the-orphaned-hero-of-adventure-and-romance Cat in the Hat books, where Mom is rarely more than a limb and a looming presence, on which see below.)
Does this post make hackneyed and seedy references to masturbation? Yes, it does. Does it praise pornography? Mm-hm. And is it otherwise complicit in the objectification of women? Sure thing. Does it uncomfortably juxtapose child care and adult sexuality? You betcha. But all in the service of truth, motherfucker. Would you have me lie? Would you have me smother the awkward reality, taking that first step down the road to secretive depravity? And, for fuck’s sake, ladies, it’s not that big a deal. First, if Tori Amos can self-identify as a Milf, my feminist papers are in order. Second, how many times more wholesome for those of us in this laudable and unsexy time of life to take sexual interest in women of a certain age and status? Our unenlightened brethren befoul the culture by lusting after the eternal barely legal, even as they close in on doubling that age. So give a thought for the picture book milfs, instead of neglecting the DVR and letting your thoughts wander during a Hooters commercial or those Girls Gone Wild spots that air during the re-broadcast of the Daily Show you had to tape because you were still taping two basketball games at 11:00. My e-rectitude is unimpeachable here–I am reading to children! I am praising the sexuality of strong, boldly-drawn women in their 30s and 40s! (I don’t imagine I can be the first to have coined “e-rectitude,” but praise me with great praise if I have.)
Enough preamble, time for the gift of blough: my time and mental energy is hereby turned to public service. You might have to select a picture book to read someday. When that day comes, remember, and think well of me.
The Ten Hottest Picturebook Milfs
1. The Baby Goes Beep. A family romance, here. We take the role of daddy, rather than the milf-cruiser or gentleman caller. This is one of those mommas who finds the full-bore satisfaction of family life to be engaging all sorts of appetites. The luxuriant hair, the slight curves and the sinuous movement hold much promise–this is woman who dresses for action and knows how to move. And just check out the cuddling on the last page. Smart-ass baby thinks they’re asleep? Ah, but soon you will be, and there are other rooms in the house for mommy and daddy to romp in. The rather broad planes of the face might be a turn-off for some, but this is of a piece with the the broad-brush-strokes approach chosen by the artist. This choice allows both baby-pleasing fullness of form and the impressionistic suggestion of powerful sexuality. This is most effectively conveyed, and the hair and body overshadow the vagueness of mere facial features.
2. Knuffle Bunny (Willems). Now, your small-breasted Brooklyn hipster is not for everyone. This momma is a bit uptight, a bit on the straight-laced-and-nervous side. But you know she’s a step ahead of that goofy sensitive-guy dad in more ways than one. You know what that face means: this isn’t the first time you’ve gone scrabbling after something limp and soggy. “Why don’t you take Trixie to the Bronx Zoo tomorrow–I’ll stay home and wait for the plumber.”
3. A Baby Blessing (Wireman). This queer cross-generational gift addition to our library consists of hackneyed “blessings” penned by “Welleran Poltarnees” amidst a choice selection of early 20th century (i.e. public domain) illustrations. It’s saccharine-infused sentimentality… even learning that the compiler’s pen-name cites two different Dunsany stories only serves to underscores the oddity of the period-obsession, rather than to partly redeem its ickiness. A terrible book. But the milfs are crafty, and lurk even in the strangest corners of ersatz-religious recycling projects drawing on century-old how-to manuals. A salute to you, Katharine Wireman, illustrator of How to Bring Up A Baby, for being a light for us in dark places, and for hitting us not only with the wasp-waist and puffy sleeves of the period but with a timeless image of sloe-eyed, marble-browed pulchritude… and also for so brilliantly anticipating (the anticipation of) the librarian-letting-down-her-hair cliche. The beauty of the scene is there in the inscribed meaning, but it is the semi-intentional hint of milfiness in the demure three-quarter profile pose (not the frank full-frontal availability we get elsewhere) that makes it work. This is a beautiful woman, and somebody is going to have to fetch the cocaine-laced unguent and massage those corset-marks. Mystery and historicity, but high, high upside.
4. Blueberries for Sal (McClosky). I’m going to take some flack for this. Mama plays within herself, here, it’s true. The haircut and silhouette are reminiscent of late-maniacs Natalie Merchant; if that’s not your cup of tea, well, fine–then she’s lower down your list. She’s a woman, with woman’s hips, (but these are blown out of proportion by the flared 50s-ish skirt) and close-set eyes. There is a reserve and a primness–though she is still rather fetching–when putting up blueberries or setting out in her trim little berry-picking jacket. But see this momma startled by a bear cub, and you get not only a better look at a slim profile but also a strong sense of beguiling physicality.
5. Everywhere Babies (Frazee). Strenuously politically correct and cloyingly illustrated, this cutesy-wootsy horror sketches moms and dads in various attitudes of exhaustion, cuddling, and exhausted cuddling. Very cloying. And politically correct: lots of different sorts of babies, and lots of different sorts of parents. Still trailing the play? …I want some LESBIAN action on my milf list. Three options–a blandly cute interracial lesbian couple sleeping atop each other while one rocks a cradle, an equally bland interracial lesbian couple (indistinguishable but for different hairstyles, but such are the limitations of talent here–the hairstyles are surely used to indicate their distinctness from earlier moms) walking their twins, and a still-bland but distinctly cuter, long-legged, light-skinned black woman romping with young twins. A lesbian? Perhaps–those twins look like the other twins, but then again she has different hair, so perhaps not. And really short arms, since the artist can’t quite manage the hands-and-knees “horsey ride” position she has attempted. Not working from life models, here. The hottest milf in this book? The passed-out-in-a-rocking chair-presumably-nursing-mother. She too, is reading, while holding a baby. And she has pretty hair. And let’s take the thrown-back head and open mouth as “erotic repose.” So, let’s get the horsey-mommy, the first lesbian couple, and the sleepy mommy together and shoot our milf orgy all the way to number five, bland and sexless drawing and all.
6. D’Aulaire’s Greek Myths (D’Aulaire). Yes, that’s right, I’m picking Demeter. This is an awesome book, a fact not terribly relevant here, and the illustrations can tend toward the hazily impressionistic, the goddesses toward “for statuesque read blocky.” But there is a lot of emphasis on the Persephone story, and Demeter gets it done in two different illustrations: dandling the baby Persephone in the Olympian group shot and receiving the teenage daughter back from Hades (a sub-genre implies itself). The big goddesses are physically imposing and unfeminine, but Demeter is relatively demure, a pretty blonde–an odd distinction among the immortals, but still. Hot Olympian Mom–just catch her in the Spring or Summer.
7. The Cat in the Hat (Seuss). Because the good doctor needs to be on the list. And, given the author’s style, we are lucky to get even the hint of non-satirized human form. My Seuss knowledge is not exhaustive, but as far as I can tell, the only competition for this spot comes from the matronly, scalloped-collared, sagging-everything mom on pages 58-9 of Hop on Pop, and that ain’t happening. No, it is the absent mother of The Cat in the Hat. Her absence is in fact quite suggestive–why does she leave such young children at home? An assignation? And why is the fish so terrified of her wrath? Something is going on here. So, although we see glimpse only a leg, through the window, and then the same shapely leg and a casually waving right hand as she enters, this mystery milf is bringing it home.
8. Be-bim Bop (Park). While connoisseurs of pornography will be confused by the categorization of an Asian woman as… well, any other category that “Asian,” (“Wait a minute, it just said ‘blowjob!’ That should mean a white girl giving a blow job!”) here we have a lithe and attractive young milf. She is badly drawn, her hairstyle is implausible, and throughout the book she appears generally as an unremarkable torso involved in kitchen work. All reasonable criticisms, hence her lowly position on this list. But check out the first page, the supermarket scene–this is a hot mom. And who is to complain that she spends much of the book cooking… just for you?
9. Going on a Bear Hunt (Oxenbury). This one is a problem. The cover shows only dad, a toddler, and two older tykes. Then a winsome blonde appears, in such a way as to be easily taken for the eldest daughter–the infantile features and Anglocentric cartoon minimalism make age-typing difficult, and the flowing dress and loose hair certainly convey girlishness. But it seems, upon further investigation, that we have a rather youthful mom. The granny panties revealed (a strange choice, by both character and illustrator) in the fording scene are one clue, her role in shoeing the kids and carrying the toddler throughout the latter pages are another, but perhaps only the hugging of daddy at the cave and the final glimpse of a much more suggestively adult profile are close to dispositive. So–she’s very pretty, maybe the prettiest of all. But if you can be mistaken for a tween, you’re not exactly nailing down the milf aesthetic. So, 9th.
10. Waiting for Baby (Kubler). O.k., first, as the title suggests, mom is pregnant (see the categorization comments at 8, above). Inexplicably, she wears overalls. And the soft-tone pastels are not conducive to close assessment of physical form. Then there is the mom haircut and the dopey smiles… so the conditions are tough, here. But she seems to be very cute, and obliging. The same mom appears in My New Baby, and there is a little side-boob while nursing, if you’re into that. Rock on.
Honorable Mentions, Milfs of the 70s division: Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (Cruz, 1972), Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs (Barrett, 1978). Two sturdy-looking women in shapeless skirts, questionable-to-awful tops, and schmattes. Meatballs is ahead on body but has an implausibly large-featured face, while poor Alexander’s mom has even worse clothes and the broad-shouldered, small-breasted frame that screams “maternal drudgery.” So they don’t make the list, because they are… not attractive. But don’t hate the playa, hate the era.
Grumble
The Arbiters 