The first time my husband I had sex was on his kitchen floor.
I was cooking him dinner and the sexual tension was so high that as soon as he turned off the cooktop and laid me on the floor I came almost straight away.
It was one of those fairytale nights where we spent hours naked, entwined together. Discovering each other’s bodies in between bouts of sleep.
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As the months rolled on we experimented with props, positions, porn and lots of laughs.
Eventually the love part came and our sex would take a more emotional turn. Deep and healing, knowing what each other needed.
There was still the fun, the laughs. We travelled the world together and there was sex on balconies, in buses, on boats, on drugs and in tents. Experiencing new cultures as much as discovering new ways to be together. We never made it to the mile high club though? Not sure what that was about.
Then there was the baby making sex. More exciting for what it would bring. Purposeful and scary and not about just the two of us anymore. Hopeful that this time would lead to something much bigger. And a new sense of freedom not having to worry about where he should finish. Also, right around the time I read the 50 Shades books, so it got a little kinky.
And in those blissful months of late pregnancy when I just couldn’t get enough of him. Always slightly aroused and ready for it. Still just the two of us.
Baby number one then slowed it all down. Why would I want to be touched when I am touched all day by a small human? Literally sucking the life out of me.
How can I feel sexy when I smell like old milk, not sleeping and I literally have no idea what I’m doing? Winging it from day to day and falling in bed at night hoping that tonight I might get four hours sleep in a row.