Tuesday, 26 February 2008

Sexual Healing part 1... well something is healing over that's for sure

Sex after childbirth. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Sorry. Was just thinking about various articles that I read that assured me that sex would maybe change a tiny bit post sprog but that one would be able to swing from the chandeliers, navigate a strap on and contort into the wheelbarrow all within 6 weeks of pushing a watermelon sized creature out your frufru. ( I know I had a section, but you know what I mean). Because I felt sooooooooooooooo sexy, sitting in a swanky Michelin starred restaurant in my maternity jeans, boobs leaking, deep pits of darkness under my bloodshot eyes, with unshaved legs and a half shaved undercarriage (well it was like a jungle region below a half-mown lawn) and an angry looking scar standing to attention like a 'do not enter' or 'enter at your peril' sign just above said straggly lawn.
When you have barely slept, your once pert bazookas are now sad saddlebags and your stomach reminds you of a king sized jelly on a plate - not to mention the war torn area between your legs - the thing that is really on your mind is getting laid - yes? According to selebs it is. If I hear one more bit of TV fluff whitter on about how having a baby has done nothing to quell their rampant sex lives - I will commit murder. It is almost as bad as when they claim pregnancy did nothing to alter their hot bedroom action either. So that extra 3 stone you put on which seems to be sitting solely on your stomach - didn't get in the way at all of position number 43 in the Karma Sutra? Give me strength. In all honesty - it wasn't so much the thought of the actual act that out me off - it was the fact that I was now a Mother. It made me think of my Mother. If there is one thing to keep a libido at bay is thinking of your Ma. Once I had been TV girl about town: never leaving the Met bar until the lights went on school disco ending stylee; cartwheeling in manolos... in the street... in a skirt; weeing behind a parked car...that then drove off mid flow and all the other sadly predictable things a show-off in London does when they are single and determined to prove that they are having the best time out of anyone they know - ever. Now I was - gulp - responsible. I had grown and borne another human being and boy did it show. I wasn't that carefree up-for-a-laugh girl any more. I was still up for a laugh (in between feeding and nap times mind) but carefree? Pah. More importantly where was my inner sex goddess? She had emigrated. I couldn't feel less sexy if I wore a potato sack and didn't bathe for a month. My body - curvy on a good day, with legs that could carry a belt like skirt - had become a feeding machine/soft squidgy pillow/vomit catcher/leaking/bleeding carcass of what it once was.(sorry to be so graphic - but you wanted the truth surely?) Sexy? Hot? Ready to be devoured and to ravage my man? The only thing I wanted to ravage was a good nights sleep and a long bath. Hardly the urges of a femme fatale. The question you all want to know is did it get any better (and how soon)? Well that my friend is another story...

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