Years ago, my father kept an image of my mom taken during their early courtship. Sitting demurely on the edge of a chair, her hands on her bare lap, she’s clad in next to nothing, just a bit of black lace and a mysterious smile. It wasn’t something I was supposed to see, and that alone sparked curiosity. She was sensual before I could identify what that really meant, and before the woman’s liberation movement had begun, with its prattle of burned bras.

What's in a name?

Nowadays, one might call women accomplished in their curves and femininity any number of monikers. The Brits have "yummy mummy," their version of an acronym that rhymes with F I L T H, equally devoid of charm and mystery. Maybe that’s why modern labels rankle sensibilities. Do we want someone to look our way and say, that’s a Mother I’d like F**K? Out of the mouth of our beloved, if it’s his lust and love motivated behind those words, we may purr at the potty talk – if we are so inclined for private smut or brave enough to admit it.