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Married, Pregnant, Frisky. Sometimes.


Illustration by Zohar Lazar  

8 A.M.
Husband: Whenever I’m on my way to work after a night of unsuccessful sexual overtures, I look at women on the subway and think, I bet that woman would like to have sex with me. On a day like this, they don’t even have to be hot. I can mentally undress anyone who looks at me the right way. Uptight Upper East Side ladies in suits, plump Eastern European women … In the spring and summer, there is just so much skin everywhere; it’s constant.

Wife: At the office, I procrastinate by surfing mommy blogs and fantasizing about watching him coach our daughter’s softball team someday. I picture him wearing a Baby Björn as we cruise around our neighborhood, looking all sexy-unshaven-Brooklyn-dad-like. We have our problems, but at least once a week I still look at him and think, I can’t believe this man is my husband.

7 P.M.
Wife: Grab dinner with a friend; am hoping hubby will join, but he works until eleven. We walk the dog late at night and smooch; he later makes halfhearted attempts to fool around, but luckily we both drift off before I have to exert any effort.


8 A.M.
Wife: Mad housecleaning because his mother is in town tonight to take us to a Broadway show. Hubby is not bothered at all by thick layer of dog hair that accumulates on our green rug after two days of no vacuuming. If I didn’t deal with it, we’d be wading in it. He also leaves his dirty socks all over the apartment. When I say things like, “Bubba, would you like your own hamper over by your closet to make it easier to put your socks in it each night?” he tells me, “This is how the magic dies.”

6:30 P.M.
Husband: We have tickets to a show, and we meet at a restaurant before heading uptown. I am the first person to the restaurant. This is newsworthy, because I always used to be late. And jobless. Now I’m the first guy here, on my way to Broadway with my pregnant wife and my mom. How did I get here?

7:30 P.M.
Wife: Dinner with his mother. He’s wearing his new slim-fit shirt from Brooks Brothers and carrying a briefcase; he looks ridiculously sexy. When I met him, he owned zero dress shirts.

Husband: Home from the show, I try to seduce my wife, but she’s reading a magazine. She’s always reading a magazine.

Wife: Collapse on couch with a magazine. He says, “Pay attention to me.” One of his pet peeves is when I read a magazine and ignore him—and one of mine is when he grabs the magazine away from me and says, “Pay attention to me.” I continue ignoring him. He grabs the magazine away. I’m annoyed until he takes off my boots and rubs my feet. We go to bed, both too tired for sex.


10 A.M.
Husband: We get up early and wander through the neighborhood, fully aware that in a matter of months, 10 a.m. will no longer be “early.” And our lives will be over. Just kidding. Kind of. Before we get out of bed, I make a move, but she doesn’t want to put out. It’s partially because our houseguest is back, asleep on the couch outside our door. Before bouncing out of bed, my wife also admits to not being able to remember the last time she showered.

8 P.M.
Wife: Dinner in the city with a few other couples. Hubby gets drunk. I order carrot juice.

1:30 A.M.
Wife: Home late, I am feeling very frisky after a week (two weeks?) of no sex, but he is drunk. We roll around in bed for a while. He seems to be drifting off. Typical. Our libidos are ships passing in the night. I attempt to rouse him with a blow job. Success! Soon we’re having sex. Halfway through, he gets stressed out about all the work he has to do tomorrow and offers to just finish me off manually. I am extremely loud (one of the best features of our apartment is that our bedroom doesn’t border another apartment), so he gets turned on again, and we end up having crazy loud sex, this time to completion. I know I should step up and have sex with him more often even if I’m not completely feeling it, but I am all for quality over quantity.

Husband: I am wasted … probably too wasted. And she chooses now, of all times, to be in the mood. In addition to the booze and an enormous amount of work anxiety, I’ve also started to feel the presence of someone else in the room with us. Someone very tiny. But my wife won’t take no for an answer. So I gallantly stick it to her. The truth is, sex isn’t that different when she’s pregnant. Maybe I worry more about hurting her. I definitely worry that this is the beginning of the end.


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