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After three days in a row of testing positive, I finally conceded that I
was pregnant. My husband Harry sat next to me as I stared, noticeably
upset, at the pee-stained plastic wand in my hand. "It's OK," he said.
"We wanted to have kids in the next few years anyway." That was true.
And I didn't want to face another abortion. I kissed my husband goodbye
as he left for work, then threw myself on the bed and cried. I was
scared.
The first three months went like this: I quit my job as a bartender,
quit smoking cigarettes, quit drinking gin and living off of coffee.
Disturbing, painful cramps pinched my abdomen. Morning sickness (which,
ironically, gets worse as the day goes on) limited my diet to toast,
english muffins, and the occasional half of a grilled cheese sandwich. I
felt like I was going to barf or cry literally all the time, including
in the middle of the night when I'd lay awake, overwhelmed with the
responsibility of carrying a life inside of
me. How could I be ready to care for a child when the mere thought of
caring for my own body terrified me?
Enter the second trimester: The nausea and depression had disappeared,
and the concept of pregnancy, while still scary, felt more familiar. My
body began to transform. My breasts became bigger, heavier and ached.
(All the "What Happens When You're Pregnant" books will tell you
sensitive breasts are the norm, and that, as a result, most women don't
like them to be touched. I, on the other hand, found I wanted
mine touched, desperately.) I began wearing tight, underwire bras
without cups, so my nipples would rub against my shirt, constantly
stimulated. My fuller, rounder breasts jutted forth, throbbing, begging
to be pinched and suckled (in preparation for baby?) and whenever I
could, I landed them in Harry's mouth.
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Was Harry thinking about the baby as he dug deeper? I was. As someone who's
always enjoyed the naughtiness of getting slammed, this bad girl
pleasure only increased during pregnancy fucking. The books and your
obstetrician will tell you that sex during pregnancy is safe. But it
doesn't feel safe, and that weird sense of danger charged me with a kind
of breathless, almost adolescent excitement. Eventually, though, I began
to experience a certain nervous lack of focus during sex. The baby was
always there, floating in my womb and the back of my mind. Despite the
pregnancy books' encouraging words, it's hard not to worry as the man
puts it in where the kid will come out. My nervousness only increased as
I grew into a strangely-shaped vessel of procreation, no longer
resembling the woman I once was.
Third trimester: all I did was eat. I ate ice cream at 3 am, an entire
pint of it. I ate enormous steaks smothered with bearnaise sauce three
times a week. I sucked down milk shakes, pound cake, chicken wings,
hamburgers, whatever. I gained fifty pounds. I was huge, I was bored, I
was still scared about birth and mothering, and my hormones shot around
like a fifteen year-old boy's whose dick is permanently in his fist. All
I wanted to do was get off.
But my husband no longer wanted to fuck me. At first we had no choice--I
began having contractions after sex and the obstetrician told us to lay
off for awhile. And then, well, I'm not sure. Would I fuck my husband if
he gained fifty pounds in a matter of months, mostly in his stomach? No.
But then again, I wouldn't fuck him if he had tits and a pussy. So it's
not exactly the same. Women are built for this. It's supposed to be
normal. But it doesn't feel that way. It's weird as shit! Supposedly
some women find pregnancy a natural and fabulous time, but I've yet to
meet one.
Adding insult to injury, my friends stopped calling because I couldn't
get drunk and stoned with them. I was alienated, lonely and obsessed
with my bizarre new body. It was everywhere. If I tried to see past it,
there it would be, obscuring my view, round and warm and pulsing with
ten times the amount of blood of a regular, non-pregnant body. My
clothes no longer fit, so I lay around in loose, silky pajamas, sucking
on ice cream bars, amazed and focused on what was going down with my
parts.
My breasts were like two swollen clitori, positioned for easy
manipulation. The nipples darkened and grew outward. If I pinched them,
a burning shock went straight to my groin and brain. I decorated them
with glossy red lipstick, walking around our tiny Little Italy apartment
with Revlon painted on my nips, giggling to myself, dizzy with hormonal
horniness.
When a baby is pushing upward, a woman's pregnant belly sits high on her
body, like a shelf under her breasts. This is called carrying high, and
frankly, it is the prettier way to carry, if such a thing can be said. I
carried low. Mildly disappointed by my silhouette (Hey! I don't look
like one of those actresses with a pillow stuffed in her shirt! What's
wrong?), I soon discovered a fabulous side effect of the baby sitting
deep in my torso. It caused large amounts of blood to pool in my
genitals. Pulling down my silky pajama
pants I discovered that, lo and behold, my pussy was swelling like my
nipples, turning a hotter pink and pulsing with more blood than had
traveled there during any orgasm I'd ever had.
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I'd borrow porn tapes from friends and spend hours watching them,
wacking off. Seymore and Shane's On The Loose and Playing With
Fire were my favorites because the women in these hand-held super-8
flicks actually get off. As scary vibrators smacked against her clit and
huge guys pounded away at her, Shane's moans were for real--no
fast-forwarding necessary.
I had all day. I'd jam myself under the bathtub spout, sometimes first
thing in the morning, or else I'd save that for later, to clean off the
day's worth of KY Jelly. My two hard plastic, battery-operated vibrators
(one gold, one baby blue), and my two different-sized, black plastic
butt-plugs grew more important to me than ever. I'd open the windows,
pull the curtains pulled back, then take out one of Harry's belts and
wrap it around my neck for a mild asphyxiation high. With one hand
pulling the belt upward and the other hidden, unseen but oh so felt,
behind the mountain that was my belly, mind-numbing orgasms trounced me,
leaving me a beached whale stranded on dirty sheets. These were the
orgasms you read about in Yoga books. After a moment of recovery, I
would pull my enormous self up to get some lunch or have another go at
pleasuring myself. Spring ended and I barely noticed. Summer began.
After I came, the baby would often move about, no doubt stimulated
himself, although not in the exact same way. This was comforting,
because late in pregnancy, you're supposed to count the moves a baby
makes. If the kid's not moving, things are bad. I never worried about my
baby being still for too long. I kept him active. But despite my little
guy's reassuring moves, I was still occasionally tormented by the larger
fears that most pregnant women must experience--fear of the pain of
birth, of defects, of mothering--all real, imminent concerns that I kept
at bay by focusing on orgasm after orgasm and the
somewhat lesser worries they caused. With one vibrator up my ass and the
other buzzing like a lawn mower directly on the little man in the boat,
I indulged in all my Catholic shame and self-disgust. I imagined, drunk
with wild brain synapses from so much orgasm, that I might be hurting
the baby, that what I was doing was wrong, that something was really
wrong with me.
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My nervousness would subside. But as soon as I'd
manage to get myself up from the ground, it would return, and I'd begin
to stroke and prod, slowly, absentmindedly at first, until the next
nearly psychotic, frenzied episode took over.
All this pussy obsession, all this watching of vaginas on my TV screen,
in the mirror, in my hands feeling every origami fold and crevice down
there, prepared me for the act of birth in a weird and profound way. I
became so familiar and comfortable with the strange shape and doings of
the female genitalia, that when the time came, I was ready for anything.
So forget hippie birth movies, prenatal exercise and lamaze class. The
real way to prepare for the act of birth is to grab a pint of ice cream
and sit in front of the TV with a porno in the VCR and your hand in your
pants. I had a great, easy birth and now I have a beautiful, healthy
baby boy.
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