After six weeks of my husband being reluctant to even shake my hand (should it induce orgasm), I am suddenly One Hot Mama.
To be fair, despite my growing frustration, I felt for the guy. The last time we made love, at thirty-five weeks along, I had day-long false contractions. He was mortified that he had the power to induce that reaction (ok, and probably a little impressed, as well). Afterwards, should I as much as touch his arm or linger during a kiss, he looked at me as if I was a ticking time bomb. No way was he hitting that again anytime soon.
Then, three days before her due date, my daughter makes her appearance. We have a child! And while I don’t have a flat tummy anymore, he has a wife that he can once again fit his arms around and be assured that nothing living will fall out of, should we bump uglies (which is a disgusting term that MORE than accurately describes the sex act, in my mind, having so recently given birth).
Suddenly, I am a sex goddess. He is looking at me through some awesome-coloured glasses, and I wish I had a few more pairs to give away to others. In reality, I am bloated, pale, greasy-haired (from lack of adequate time to shower), exhausted, and baggy-eyed. Jiggling in places I didn’t realize could jiggle (like my back! Eww!) and streaming milk from my nipples, like beer on tap. I am not going into what’s going on down there.
But in his eyes, my breasts are fuller and perkier than he’s ever seen them, my figure is tight, and I’m holding his child in my arms. At every available moment, he’s on me. Waiting in line at the pharmacy to rent an electric breast pump, he pulls me close, suggestively pushing his groin against my bum. Showing off the baby at my in-laws’, I run to our vehicle for the diaper bag, he follows and pulls me into his parents' garage for a quickie. Exhausted after a long day and no sleep, he gently undresses me, removing soaked breast pads as though they were bits of lacy lingerie, and caressing me as if he doesn’t notice the milk running down his arms.
I am so tired. I could resent this. I could push him off me. I could look him in the eye and snarl, “Are you freaking kidding me?” My mood is definitely not matching his, but no one in the world has this view of me. Only he can see this girl in front of him. And after nine months of vomiting, pregnancy acne, and awkward work-around-the-bump sex, I am more than willing to soak under the light he’s casting.
The world would look with sympathy and tell me that it will get easier, that I’ll lose the baby weight and the stretch marks will fade. They’d try make me feel better, assure me that someday I will again be lovely. Thanks, but I don’t need this reassurance—you wouldn’t believe how I can drive one man wild.
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