sex diaries

The Pregnant Waitress

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Pregnant Waitress: female, 30, Long Island, waitress, married, straight.

9 p.m.: Arrive to dinner with thirteen of my girlfriends for a bachelorette party. Suddenly self-conscious that everyone is hot, sexy, and showing skin. Though I’m not showing, my clothes are too tight to wear and I feel bloated, unattractive, and pregnant. Why did I have to get pregnant before summer?
11 p.m.: Get bumped into by several hot guys trying to get closer to my friends. Apparently I’m puffy and invisible.
Midnight: Pack the girls into my SUV and drive to another bar. They are loud, drunk, and screaming. I’m trying to enjoy, but I’m tired and feel my feet are swelling.
12:30 a.m.: Girlfriend gets in another fight with her ex’s new girl. Cops come. Arrest both girls. I spend a few hours in a police station until they release her.
3 a.m.: Come home. Husband tries to curl up next to me and feel my breasts. “Ouch! Don’t you know they’re sensitive?” I angrily roll over and go to sleep.

8 a.m.: Husband wakes me. Wants sex. I’m still annoyed from last night. I roll over the other way while he gets out of bed.
10 a.m.: Did the guy at the gym just check out my boobs? They have grown from a small C to a full D. Huh, feel a little good about the boob peek.
2 p.m.: Arrive at work. My boss seems to have a thing for me. Maybe it’s for pregnant women in general. Although it’s a weird scenario, I flirt back.
10 p.m.: Leave work with a wink from boss. He asks me when I would be going on maternity leave. Says that even though it’s a ways away, he’s going to miss me.

11 a.m.: Tanning myself at the beach with a good book. Ex-co-worker stops by and says “Hi.” He tells me I “look good.” I tell him I’m pregnant, and he suddenly gets uncomfortable and makes a quick excuse to bolt. Am I a disease?
2 p.m.: Return home and shower from the beach. I’m feeling rested, which is unusual these days, so I gel up and shave every part of my body that hasn’t been touched in a week. Get out of the shower, lotion up, and actually find something cute while feeling comfortable.
5 p.m.: Husband returns from work to find me cooking, dressed and looking a bit similar to his pre-prego wife.
6 p.m.: Husband cleans plate, drags me into the bedroom, and gets my shirt off so he can continue to marvel over my D-cup breasts. “I think about your boobs every second,” he says. “Can’t get them out of my mind.” Couldn’t get them into his mouth fast enough, either.
8 p.m.: I’m asleep. He’s watching baseball.

2 p.m.: Back at work. Boss greets me right away. Says he has a job for me. Promises to dish it out later.
3 p.m.: He finds me in the kitchen eating. “You’re always eating,” he says. Now I feel fat and pregnant again. So much for flirting with the boss.
5 p.m.: Boss calls me in his office for help on his computer. This is his little trick. He calls me down for the same thing once a week. He tells me to sit and then we talk for an hour or so, not about girlfriends or husbands or babies, but about life, funny things — things that begin the pre-dating regimen.
9 p.m.: Home with my husband. He goes down on me. I fantasize about boss.

11 a.m.: Go shopping with one of my best girlfriends.
1 p.m.: Leave with nothing. I feel fat. Go to lunch and devour my panini then cry about why nothing fits. At this rate I’m going to have no clothes.
3 p.m.: Call sister bawling. It’s been an emotional day. I’m confused about life, my part-time job, my writing, my body. Talk for over an hour. I feel better.
7 p.m.: Husband’s working late tonight so I pop a frozen pizza into the oven. Yum, pizza never tasted so good.
10 p.m.: In bed. Husband won’t be home for another hour. Flip through cable and find a dirty movie. Not hard-core porn, just light and sexy. Horny now. Can’t wait for my husband to get home.
11 p.m.: Husband arrives home. I’m fast asleep.

10 a.m.: Wake up in husband’s arms. Just because I fantasize and flirt with my boss doesn’t mean I don’t love my husband. Every girl needs a little outside recognition once in a while.
10:30 a.m.: Get in shower with hubby. Give him a great hand job.
11:30 a.m.: Go to breakfast. I get the challah French toast and bacon; he gets eggs sunny-side up with hash browns and rye toast. I watch him devour his coffee. God, what I wouldn’t give for a cup. We laugh and flirt through the meal, without baby talk.
12:30 p.m.: Husband attempted to take me bathing-suit shopping since he listened to me complain. Disaster. Ending up with nothing and crying all the way home. What am I supposed to wear to the beach, my bra and underwear?
2:00 p.m.: Clean the house together. Talk about room for the crib. Get nervous again. Have breakdown about future, job, body, etc. Husband convinces me to take a nap.
10 p.m.: Husband tucks me into bed, and I curl up on his chest. He kisses me softly on the lips. Feel warm, sweet, sexy, but am too tired to take it further. Wake up after twenty minutes in a pool of drool all over his T-shirt. Roll over to other side.

12:15 p.m.: Writing on computer. Find myself looking at clock. Four hours till I go to work. Wonder what boss will be wearing.
5:30 p.m.: Boss in bad mood. I try a few jokes; he just chuckles and walks away. Maybe I look ugly today. Vow to do a better job on hair and makeup tomorrow.
11 p.m.: Return home. Husband still out at Yankees-Mets game. Call his cell. He can’t hear it in the crowd. Check the computer. Two more job rejections. Go to bed tired and confused about life.
12 p.m.: Husband arrives home. I wake up to greet him. Too depressed for sex. Roll over and go back to sleep. He puts on TV.

Total: Two instances of flirting with boss, one act of intercourse, one act of oral sex (recipient), one hand job (giver), two crying jags, and one fantasy.

The Pregnant Waitress