Sex. Obviously, I’ve had it. We don’t have to talk about how much I’ve had it — I happen to have grown up in a town where your two leisure choices were having sex or entering your low-rider in a competition. But rest assured you can trust me, person you just met on the Internet, when I tell you that I am a perfectly qualified judge, and that the greatest sex I ever had was when I was pregnant.
But how can that be possible, you might ask? Weren’t you the grossest, fattest version of yourself that you ever were when knocked up, and isn’t that the opposite of what makes sex good? Excellent question. The answer is yes, when I was pregnant I was both the grossest and fattest I ever was (not counting the Gross-a-thon that occurred from the years 1987 to 1990).
But we all know by now that in spite of everything we’ve ever seen or been told, that what looks good and what feels good are often two entirely different things. At least, that’s what that guy in college said who wanted me to stroke him with a piece of rabbit fur followed by a piece of metal. Sorry, dude, I get it now. Because somehow, nothing made yours truly wanna get up on a D more than when I had the least amount of control over how I looked or felt. Touche, nature. Touche.
Was it pregnancy-induced lack of inhibition? Nature’s cruel game? Or the mere fact that I had hit the age — my 30s — where women are supposed to feel more comfortable with their bodies? Apparently all it took was me getting knocked up and putting on 60 pounds to become Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters. Post-Zuul possession, natch.
Maybe it was the thrill of new life, maybe it was a last hurrah before accepting the realities of impending parenthood. Or as my husband remembers, “What was going to happen — you were going to get more pregnant?”
Ergo, we had sex everywhere, all the time during the first trimester. It was as if we were participating in some kind of commercial audition for having sex and needed to do it a lot in a lot of different ways to exhibit range. Morning sickness remained respectfully at bay, and everything felt surging and alive. New hormones, new excitement, the same old positions but minus all the worry!
Then, suddenly, two months in and without warning, I was closed for business. Put the goods away, sir, as I am retiring for the duration, I seemed to say.
My husband refers to this middle period as “The Thing” for some reason, but I just ate like a jackal and had a lot of emergency feelings that I needed to be addressed immediately the second they occurred.
This, I believe, is what you’d refer to as a hard-off. And for the next three months, I was completely asexual, a lumbering beast hauling fluids and fetus through time and space like a slow motion, self-contained, brooding wonder — a woman in repose.
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