I miss sex. I miss unbridled (who wears a bridle?), rowdy, noisy, uninterrupted sex.
Pre-marital sex. PRE-pre-natal sex. (Is that a thing?) Pre-children-who-are-stalking-you sex.
I spent a good part of my late teens and 20’s having sex. Good sex, bad sex, weird sex…furtive sex, spontaneous sex, planned sex, obligatory special event sex, morning sex, sex in the back of a van as we crossed state lines…(why? I don’t remember).
On a piano, a pool table, in swimming pools, on the sink in the ladies room at a li’l breakfast dive, and once over the hood of my car in a bar parking lot after closing. Sometimes you don’t want to take them all the way home when you take ‘em home.
Sex is AWESOME.
And then you get married.
And the sex is still AWESOME. Just different. Where one door closes, a bedside drawer opens. It’s a game changer, but the game is still pretty hot. Now you can explore your curiosities and kinks in the safety of a legal contract. You entertain his weird desire to talk like Gru at all the wrong moments. You discover that right up in your ear? Gru is kinda hot. You try all the lubes, flavoured or not. All the positions, even the stupid, pointless ones that leave you with sinus headaches and rotator cuff injuries.
You are finally brave enough to try *blush* THAT, and it becomes a study in horrifying dark humour. You wake up together the next day, albeit without bed linens, smelling like anti-bacterial soap, and unable to make eye contact for a couple of hours. But together.
You buy things fearlessly. Handcuffs. Leg restraints. Silk scarves and uncomfortable underwear. Movies. The Kama Sutra love kit, with the weird minty jelly and friction heated oil that tastes like patchouli smells. And then the moment that made you realise he was the most secure man in the world – the day he bought you that THING. That thing that would look disarmingly real if it were not your favourite colour, which is purple. Yes. That thing. Life is good.
But one day, the goddess of irony flies in and drop kicks your clueless patchouli-flavoured ass into the pit of shattered illusions. Located somewhere in the cave of exhaustion, about halfway up the peak of vomit and poop.
Because that sex, that wonderful, amazing, mind-blowing sex – it made one of you pregnant. You probably even did it ON PURPOSE.
That sound you hear is your sex life. It’s laughing.
At first, it was no big deal. What’s a little sore boobs, when you are with the one you love? What’s a little morning sickness? It’s over by the end of the first trimester, right? Right?