When I see a pregnant woman talking dirty and stripping slowly with her swollen abdomen on a screen, something in the reptile-part of my brain snaps awake. Her breasts are heavier, her hips rounder; the belly looks full and “ready”, almost like ripened fruit waiting to be picked. That image of exaggerated fertility, soft pale pink skin, slower movements, triggers a primal, cave-man pulse I can’t deny.
Yet I don't feel anything around a real-life pregnant woman. Suddenly it’s another human with a real kid inside her, someone who is tired, probably nauseated. The fetish collapses under the weight of actual reality.
So why does the video work and reality repel?
Pixels have no heartbeat. I don’t hear her laboured breathing, I don’t see stretch-marks, I’m shielded from her discomfort. I’m reacting to an exaggerated form of female fertility.
And then the third-party problem: a literal child is inside her. Does fantasising about her exploit them? My conscience says yes. My libido says “I don't know”.
I don’t have a neat answer. I promise the next night I’ll choose another category. Sometimes I manage. Sometimes I don’t. The shame returns the moment I finish.
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