When I was a new mother, a friend came by with her four-month-old daughter. We nursed, we ate, we drank and eventually the conversation - as it tends to do - turned to sex.
"Every time we get it on, he [BLEEP], and then we [BLEEP BLEEP], so he [BLEEP BLEEPS]."
Okay, so I've had to censor a few bits there, but the "what," "where" and "how" of the story isn't the point. The point is her prelude: "Every time." Every time?! That suggests there have been more than, say, two. With a four-month-old in the room next door. Back then I couldn't fathom the thought of getting back in the sack, and there she was having bleep bleeping bleep like a frat boy.
Four years later, I still dread the idea of getting back in the sack, unless it happens to be noon, the kids have passed out in the stroller and I'm - most essentially - alone.
At least post-partum I still had hope for a future filled with passionateRead More »from Who Has Time For Sex Anymore? (The Hot Kind, Anyway)