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Rachel is the single-mom columnist for Lifetime, and she has written for Family Circle, Pregnancy, Parenting, Literary Mama, Baby and American Baby. Reproduction of material from any Salon pages without written permission is strictly prohibited. Associated Press articles: Copyright © 2016 The Associated Press. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.Buckle up, y'all — your blood is about to boil so aggressively, you'll be able to cook pasta in it.

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But they were all the same: white men in their forties, in search of sweet breast milk.

My breasts had always been one of the most sensual parts of me.

This was a time when I believed that love would overcome anything. The very first thing I did, even before crying, was to sit down on the living room rug and nurse my daughter, M. It was the place where my milk could turn my anger into white, warm calmness. lay on my chest, her tiny hands kneading my breasts, milk flowing from me, I knew that I could do this alone. But it wasn't long after her father split town -- as M.'s first birthday approached without a sign from him, I knew he wasn't coming back -- that friends started to ask me, "When are you going to get back out there? "You’re attractive, and you're young." Maybe they were right. As the months passed, I started to notice men: our building manager -- who gave M.

Not only was I a 29-year-old single mom with dishes in the sink and baby clothes with stains I'd never actually scrub out, but I breastfed "on demand." How in the world could I even think about hooking up with some hot man when my cha-chas were making milk? " my girlfriends (who were all married) said to me.

But who says that you can't live in both worlds? Maybe I was rebelling against my Catholic mother, but I certainly was not a prude. " I waited for the punch line, but he was not joking.