Fuck The Milk

This is the piece I read at Skit for Tat last night. Is long, but I had ten minutes to fill!

Fuck the milk. Give me the whisky tits. There is a girl in the bottom of my glass.

Its warmer than fresh milk in here. My breasts are sweating white juice and my cream is turning sour as my internal temperature rises. Unrefrigerated, unhomogenised, unpasteurised, unprocessed. Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet/Turning to curds and whey. My solids liquefy and I am mozzarella oozing from my areole, my liquids solidify and I am lumps of cheddar wedged fast beneath my nipples. Its warmer than fresh milk in here. My blue-veins throb with exertion and heat-stroke and its all beginning to stink.

‘When the eyes see or the lips touch that skin on the surface of milk― harmless, thin as a sheet of cigarette paper, pitiful as a nail paring― I experience a gagging sensation and, still farther down, spasms in the stomach, the belly; and all the organs shrivel up the body, provoke tears and bile, increase heartbeat, cause forehead and hands to perspire’ (Kristeva, 1982: 3).

Scene One: You are in your local supermarket one weekend, absent-mindedly cruising around the fruit and vegies section trying to remember exactly where it is you are supposed to put your bananas if you want score. You notice a young woman lurking at the end of the health food aisle, fiddling with the buttons on her shirt. You suspect she might be cruising you, so you start to suggestively finger the tubes of organic wasabi and move a little closer. There are at least three shirt buttons undone now, and your jaw drops as she brazenly removes one nipple from her bra. For a brief second the nipple stares at you and you stare back, before you break eye contact and look down nervously at your Birkenstocks. You don’t even see the baby coming, yet in the wink of an eye she’s got it securely attached to her chest. You are relieved, and leave the scene feeling all warm and fuzzy and making a mental note to call your Mum when you get home just to say hello. You suddenly realise how hungry you are- and long for a big glass Milo^[1] , and maybe an ice cream, but you can’t quite fathom why.

Scene Two: You’ve moved onto the meat and seafood cabinets, trying to decide between the nice rack in front of you and the promise you made to your girlfriend to give up your carnivorous affairs. The girl behind the counter looks at you expectantly, ready to take your order. She’s pretty cute, and she ought to know what the carefully arranged lemons (and, ahem, melons) in your hand basket mean. You smile flirtatiously as you assess the whole range of carnal opportunities spread out before you. Nice dye-job underneath that hair-net, beautiful eyes, lovely large tits… but wait, what the heck is that? Nah, it can’t be. There’s a white stain spread along one side of her cleavage, starting to dry in patches and forming a slightly curdled crust on the engorged nipple pushing exuberantly against her uniform shirt. You try to convince yourself that she probably just had an accident in the dairy cabinet but you can’t quite be convinced. You’re not smiling anymore. Sure there’s something vaguely sexual happening here, but its not how you imagined it. Its all a bit icky really, not quite nice- actually, it makes you feel a bit squeamish. Maybe you don’t want that nice piece of meat after all. To paraphrase Moon Zappa^[2], ‘its like, someone else’s food’. You shuffle off distractedly only to come to standing confused in front of the feminine hygiene products. Two days later you are still drinking your coffee black.

You are who you eat. Milk-fed and fattened up for the kill, I could gobble
you all up! Swapping saliva and mama’s milk, cross-incorporation, sharing cells and selves. Spit or swallow. Dregs of mamma's special blend dribble down your chin, glazed cheeks, crackling crusts form on your suckling lips. Lap me up, swallow me in small doses. Seethe in my milk, marbled and marinated with my fat. I am eaten alive, drunk and digested. Flesh of my flesh. Nipple to mouth to skin to heart to brain to
every pound of sweet juicy young meat.

‘Now in the corner of a hallway there was a saucer of milk for the cat. “Milk is for the pussy, isn’t it?” said Simone. “Do you dare me to sit in the saucer?”

“I dare you,” I answered almost breathless.

The day was extremely hot. Simone put the saucer on a small bench, planted herself before me, and, with her eyes fixed on me, she sat down without my being able to see her burning buttocks under the skirt, dipping into the cool milk. The blood shot to my head, and I stood before her awhile, immobile and trembling, as she eyed my stiff cock bulging in my trousers. Then I lay down at her feet without her stirring, and for the first time, I saw her “pink and dark” flesh cooling in the white milk. We remained motionless, both of us equally overwhelmed…

Suddenly, she got up, and I saw the milk dripping down her thighs up to the stockings. She wiped herself evenly with a handkerchief as she stood over my head with one foot on the small bench, and I vigorously rubbed my cock through the trousers while writhing amorously on the floor. We reached orgasm at almost the same instant without even touching one another’ (Bataille Story of the Eye: 10)

Prolactin procures sobs sweet and salty, breasts and eyes both shed tears at orgasm and grief. Sitting in the warm bath, my breasts cry me a river in delight and distress. Breasts bared in mourning or lust or some intoxicating affective combination, weeping straight from the heart. Let-down and letdown. Drowning my sorrows and washing away my sins, drop by drop by drop…

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. At the Milk Bar, my breasts offer a refreshing brew best served at body temperature. My right nipple likes a party and readily supplies schooners of Coopers Pale Ale to all and sundry, spits it out right across the room. My left nipple likes to take its time, slowly oozing thick Stout into pint glasses for a select few.

A hard-earned thirst deserves a good stiff drink. White perspiration runs rivers beneath my wife-beater. Fermentation is its own reward. A sniff of the milkmaid’s apron and she’s anybody’s. Gagging, gargling, gurgling.

Fuck the milk and give me the whisky tits.

---

[1] With full cream milk, of course.

[2] Frank Zappa’s Valley Girl single from the 1980s (I think).

Salty and Sweet

My breasts are full again and I reach for the baby-mint gender-neutral coloured plastic sucking device and rhythmically squeeze my milk out into the bottle. Ten minutes each side, then unscrew the lid and drink my own sweet liquid. Aaaaah...

In certain ways it is similar to masturbation. Satisfying most of the time, a beautiful act of auto-eroticism and self-care, a treat to relieve horniness or the desire to be touched or boredom or to cure whatever ills you. There is a 'money shot', a release of tension, and milk is just as likely to stick your magazine pages together as most other bodily substances. But sometimes the yearning to share the pleasure almost overwhelms me. At these times a pump is no substitute for the mouth of another. Only one half of the equation is being filled, the self/self pleasure circuits satisfied but not the desire for self/other mergings. Those moments of blurred bodily boundaries that breastfeeding entails by its very nature and design.

Before my milk came in there was a time when I dry-nursed someone whom I loved and who loved me, while the rain beat down around us. It was Sanctuary. The eyes that looked up from my breast seemed to recognise this, there was vulnerability and trust and abandoning of inhibitions. It felt pure and unadulterated.

I miss such connections, and sometimes as I pump the tears fall and water down my efforts. Breastmilk is both salty and sweet.

Feeding Breasts

Someone on a adult nursing list recently described a comic they had seen years ago:

A woman is sitting at a table in a restaurant, with a waiter standing over her and telling her disapprovingly that 'there is no breastfeeding here Ma'am'. Look to her breasts, and you see that they are exposed and eating the food from her plate.

Boom boom! How did this wordplay not occur to me?

T-shirt Tale

Saw a slightly unfriendly-looking person in a 'Fuck Milk- Got Pot?' shirt at the supermarket in Newtown last night (presumably a response to the 'Got Milk?' campaign in the US?). Would have loved a photo of me squeezing out a few drops at him as we stood next to the dairy cabinet but wasn't game to ask him really...

Rules of Engorgement

Was busy being a trashy young tart and somehow didn't make it home from Saturday night to Monday morning. Didn't have my pump. Tried to hand express a bit, but couldn't get much out. Felt like a cow that hadn't been milked, almost bursting. When I finally pumped after 36 hours I did get a full ounce, but my breasts have not been the same since. They are swollen and aching... it hurts, quite a bit, but somehow it is nice being this full...

Real Live Lactating Girls

From 13/10/06
Just spent a fun ten minutes squirting milk all over the window of the sunroom with The Yummy Mummy.

Tingle and Squirt

i'm being a bit better with the pumping, and trying to manage to fit in three pumps a day (even if sometimes they are quite short sessions). not necessarily getting much more milk, but have noticed that my breasts are feeling much fuller and tingle quite a bit inbetween pumps.

also, and it has only been twice so far, i have been able to squirt milk from my right breast (the more exhibitionist one). as in, spray it right across the room! both times have been after pumping, and managed to do it about 3 or 4 times. looks rather spectacular i must say!

which reminds me of an art piece i saw years ago at the Australian Centre for Photography. the exhibition was concerned with pornography, and there was a collection of clothing and bags that (and my memory is a little hazy here) were made from some sort of silk and had these abtsract pattterns over them. i wondered what they were doing a porn exhibition until i read the explanation beside the display. in fact, the patterns were derived from female ejaculation, the process being to catch the 'cum shot' on a piece of paper, put it through some sort of chemical process to get a print of it and then somehow transfer this to the fabric... thinking of doing something similar with the milk-sprays... hmmm... so many ideas! must stop being all heartbroken and disillusioned and start working on other things that matter to me, more art and shows and maybe even write the paper I have to give this coming Friday...

White Tears

There is a Sydney-based dyke sex mag called SLIT. At the moment they are seeking contributions for their 'T' issue. I am considering doing a photo along the lines of 'My breasts are eyes, crying milky tears'. Maybe false eyelashes on my nipples? Black and white, just tits and torso, crying myself a river across my milky white stomach.

The connections and correlations of breasts as eyes, the heart and the breast as sites of affect and emotion, baring one's breasts in mourning, the way my lacto consultant advised me to drink my own milk to heal my broken heart, my supervisor just reminded me that prolactin is a factor in both crying and lactating, the fact that one might spurt milk or burst into tears at the point of orgasm...

Titties and Beer

Ftom last week:
A lover pointed out this morning that my tits had different personality traits. The right one is much more of a public figure, eager to be flashed about and a bit of a floozy. Whereas the left one is much more private and vulnerable and harder to get attached to. I think she has a point,as they are certainly very different to pump. I wonder if the brew reflects this difference anyhow, softer or smoother or crisper or sharper, and imagine Pale Ale flowing from one breast and Stout from the other. Anyone for a blind milk tasting?

Smells like Cow-Boy

Research by the University of Chicago was quoted in a 2002 New Scientist article, 'Go for it, baby' by Alison Motluk, which states that 'smells associated with breastfeeding increased sexual intimacy in childless women volunteers'. Whilst the women did not actually report increased sexual activity, it seems that the study participants who sniffed absorbant pads that had been placed in the bras and under the arms of breastfeeding women 'did report significantly heightened and more enduring sexual desire and fantasies'.

In the same article, Richard Brown of Dalhousie Uni points out that higher than normal progesterone levels are found in breastfeeding women:

"'Maybe the high progesterone acts like an androgen' he speculates. 'Maybe it's the weirdest of possible things and they're producing male-like odours'".

The other day someone made a comment about me smelling like a boy, but I figured it was just that the fenugreek made me smell a lot stronger than I normally do and this was confusing to whoever it was (after all, boys are as rule much stinkier creatures than girls). Maybe there is a sideline business in this? I can compete with those little pheromone-impregnated towelettes that come from pub toilet vending machines... surely the Japanese will go fo it, if nobodye else!

And just as an amusing aside, someone on one of the adult nursing lists was asking about cream to help heal or prevent cracked nipples. Another member replied by suggesting Bag Balm, a beautifully named product originally designed for cows. Apparently it can be bought in some US drug stores as well as feed stores etc. If anyone finds any out here please let me know. My nipples are fine, but I love the name :)