TO THE MEN WHO MET MILK IN THE DARK.

Men—
Come in.
Close the door behind you.
Let your shoulders drop.

This is for the version of you who did not have words—
only a rush in the chest
and a tightening in the throat
when her milk appeared.

Maybe it surprised you in the half-light,
slipping from her body before either of you spoke.
Maybe it traced your skin,
or gathered at the curve of her breast,
and something in you leaned toward it
before your mind had time to assemble a thought.

You noticed the warmth.
You noticed the scent.
You noticed the way her body answered yours
without effort, without instruction,
without pretending.

And then came the scramble:

What is happening?
Am I allowed to want this?
Is this wrong?
Is this for me?
Do I pretend I don’t see it?

No one prepared you for this moment.
You were taught technique, not attunement.
Performance, not receiving.
Desire, not devotion.

So your nervous system did the only thing it could:
You paused.
You joked.
You looked away.
You followed the pull.
You swallowed the urge.
You stored the memory.

And it has been living inside you ever since.

Here is what you were never told:

Milk is not only for infants.
Milk is the body’s way of saying,
I can sustain. I can answer life.

When it appears in the middle of intimacy,
it is not a mistake.
It is not an intrusion.
It is an opening.

Your body recognizes nourishment.
Of course your mouth wanted to close around it.

Your heart recognizes devotion.
Of course tenderness flooded you—
a tenderness that made you feel both younger
and somehow ancient.

Your sexuality recognizes coherence.
Of course your arousal deepened—
quietly, not theatrically—
as if something in you finally lined up
with the oldest order of things.

This is not perversion.
This is pattern.
This is biology meeting a man
who was never given a map for himself.

For the men who tasted:
You followed a truth that rose before your thoughts.
You honored the moment.

For the men who pulled back:
You were scanning for her safety.
You were trying not to take more space than was yours.
You erred toward protection because no one
had ever blessed this kind of wanting.

For the men who pretended not to notice:
You were guarding something raw in yourself.
Looking away was the only tool you had.

For the men who drank and did not want to stop:
Your body was finally allowed to soften
into pure receiving—
something men are almost never permitted.

For the men who have remembered that moment for years:
You are not obsessed.
You are unfinished.

Here is what is true,
even if no one has ever said it aloud:

🌿 You are not a threat for wanting her milk.
Desire held in consent and communication
is not danger—it is depth.

🌿 You are not childish for longing to be nourished.
The part of you that never got to rest
recognized a chance to exhale.

🌿 You are not taking from a child.
Lactation is not a finite resource.
Systems that are seen and honored
often give more, not less.

🌿 You are not weak for softening.
Allowing yourself to receive
may be one of the strongest things you ever do.

🌿 You are not outside the circle of “good men” because this moves you.
This is one of the ways good men tell the truth.

You are allowed to want what you wanted.
You are allowed to still want it now.

What matters is not that you wanted.
What matters is how you hold that wanting—
with reverence, with clarity, with courage enough to say:

“This touches something deep in me.
Can we talk about it?”

A final truth, grounded in biology:

The circuitry that orients humans toward milk—
toward warmth, toward safety,
toward the one who can sustain—
never fully disappears.
It simply goes quiet
until something wakes it.

Milk is not a mistake in your story.
It is a page no one ever read aloud.

You are allowed to return to it,
slowly,
with shaking hands if you must,
and finally hear the words.

—Frank