06-14-08
Almost Missionary: Rated X for Sex
Last night I went over to my friend Kerry's house. I used to go to Kerry's house to hang out, maybe have a cocktail or catch up on an episode of Oprah. But this time I was at Kerry's house for a very different reason. I was there to pick up some pee sticks. That's right people, pee sticks. It never occurred to me when I was 12 and in pigtails mapping out my dreams on a piece of purple construction paper and hosting a tea party for my dollies that one day I would be at a friend's house to pick up a half used box of ovulation testers. I thought I'd at least be in an enchanted forest somewhere. But alas, there I was, standing in Kerry's newly painted baby's room with a 16-fold tri-language instruction sheet explaining how to determine if my LH levels were surging. The mere fact that the word surge is involved makes me uncomfortable. I get it. I mean I understand that this is technically what is happening. But can we ease off on the pressure please? Surge is used in sentences that involve electrical currents and solar flares, troop levels and politics. I looked it up.
I spent the first 34 years of my life praying I wasn't pregnant. I sat on many a fast food restaurant toilet begging God to only reveal one pink line. I punched my stomach, swallowed pills, stretched rubber and screamed, “pull out!" more times than I watched Grease 2 and that's a lot. These days I lay with my ass elevated on three pillows and my legs lifted up in the air for 25 minutes after sex with my husband. I used to have sex on the kitchen counter, in the shower on all fours or anywhere else with a 4X4 opening, now it's missionary this, missionary that. I pee on a stick every morning at 7and shove a thermometer up my vajayjay at 8. I take baby aspirin, drink Robitussin and pop evening primrose oil 3X a day all in an effort to thicken my mucus. Have you ever wanted your mucus thickened?
Suddenly I hate sex. My poor husband has to practically rape me to get some. I feel bad for him. I feel bad for me. I feel bad for the world. Don't get me wrong. I love kids. Between us we have 15 nieces and nephews and I love 'em all. But if my sister in law gives me one more pregnancy 'tip'; I'm gonna slit my wrist.
I am more than a baby maker; I am a woman with a nice ass and supple breasts. I'm witty. I'm romantic. Good God I have skinny dipped in the Mediterranean, hitchhiked across England and drank wine with the Arabs. I have ridden naked, bareback through the Bundarrah Valley. OK maybe I haven't done that but I would like to. Call me selfish, call me bitter, call me woman and hear me roar. I don't care. I miss liking sex. I miss the shiver that used to tingle my spine when my husband would run his finger down the side of my arm. I miss having to change our bed sheets because they were soaked. I miss feeling sexy. Oh yeah, “Buy some new lingerie." “Try something different." Yada, yada, yada. Whatever I try, at the end of the day I still have to keep my labia squeezed tight so that the sperm doesn't fall out. Woohoo sounds like a sex party to me.
Listen people. I'm all for having kids. But there is nothing even remotely hot about a basal thermometer. This obsession with calendars and temperatures has got to stop. Ovulation nation is killing the ovulator in me.
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Writing Menu
 09-24-08
Almost Embarrassing
07-14-08
Almost Saving Face
06-14-08
Almost Missionary: Rated X for Sex
03-19-08
Almost Evil
02-12-08
A SIMPLE PHONE CALL
02-03-08
About
01-13-08
Almost a Woman
11-13-07
Almost Everyone
08-13-07
Almost Mrs. Webb or Bridal Brain
06-11-07
Almost Ready
03-12-07
Almost Fired
12-01-06
Almost Gay
10-12-06
Is It Hot Yet? by Angela Kurian and Shannon Noel
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