Sex during Pregnancy

Ever since we found out the baby’s a boy, I’ve wanted to look S in the eye during sex and whisper, “How’s it feel having two penises inside of you?”

Gross, I know. But I haven’t had the chance, because we haven’t successfully had sex this entire pregnancy.

The last time we had a really good romp in the sack was my birthday, in mid-September, when we thought S was just feeling a little under-the-weather. Then the fatigue of the first trimester kicked in, and with it an aversion to touching. Even my smell turned her off, as her super-sensitive nose found my musky armpits and red wine breath repulsive. This came as a shock to me too.

After the fatigue, the aches and pains began: the sore legs, tender breasts, and tummy stretching. She started coming home tired, in need of a footrest or light yoga session, and then crashing quickly after dinner. Sex has been the last thing she’s in the mood for.

But I know, I know. She’s carrying our child. I shouldn’t be ganging up on her, blaming her for our flatlined sex life. Especially because I’m a part of the equation as well.

I’m a sensitive guy, and it takes me a while to get used to new things. While her changing body’s both exciting and beautiful, I haven’t always found it sexy.

In fact, sometimes I’ve thought it downright strange, like my lithe, petite wife’s been replaced by a heavier, clunkier woman. Even her bigger breasts – exciting in theory – threw me off. Instead of oogling and groping them like a horny teenager, I treated them more the way a scientist might a new phenomenon: noting changes in color, size, and feel, and then comparing notes with S. And maybe it was just a defense mechanism to being called stinky, but I swore she was the one who smelled different – more earthy and pungent. My desire shrunk in those first few months too. I wanted my old wife back!

Now I’ve gotten used to her new shape, but I find myself facing irrational fears whenever the desire for sex pops up. I worry that her water’s going to break while we’re doing it, or that I might slip and give her my full weight, squashing the baby. And I can’t stop thinking that we’re not alone, that there’s this other person inside of her witnessing our lovemaking, and somehow even taking part in it. The body must produce chemicals during sex that would permeate into the baby, right? It’s creepy.

And also completely ridiculous, but once those thoughts get in there they play on repeat, distracting me from the business at hand.

Despite all these obstacles, we have managed to get it on three times since my birthday, but I have to be honest: I haven’t performed to the best of my abilities. Men are like machines. The more we’re used the better we run, and the longer we’re able to sustain operation. You take a long enough break and the first joy ride’s bound to be a quick one.

So on Valentine’s Day, instead of wine and chocolate and sex on slippery sheets, we’ll be heading out to our favorite burger joint for an early dinner of comfort food, and then home for a movie. Then we’ll settle down in bed, me propped up because I can’t seem to shake a sinus cold, S nestled in a bunker of pillows as she tries to keep comfortable, both our heads full of fantasies for the summer, when the baby’ll be too young to know what all those noises are coming from mommy and daddy’s room.

I’m sure we’ll be able to find plenty of opportunities to get busy with a newborn, right? Right?

Just patronize me, and say yes.


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