Post Traumatic Sex Disorder

On the Friday before Canadian Thanksgiving, I was supposed to have my 6-week checkup. You know, the one where they make sure your vajuj doesn't look like Hiroshima? The doctor is supposed to make sure your stitches have healed, give you your birth control talk and the sex prognosis. As in, "Yes, go ahead if you'd like." Or,"No, not just yet."

I know most women are hoping for a prescription that would buy them a few more weeks in the chastity belt, but I don't fall into that category. Oh sure, I'm tired and a bit apprehensive -- more like worried about pain -- but I am desperate to feel a bit less like a mother and more like my old wicked self. Plus fathering is dead sexy, especially when done right, and it's been hard to keep my hands of my husband. More importantly, I'd just like to know if everything is more or less in tact and feeling like it should. Don't worry, my expectations are not high.

Regardless, I was looking forward to the visit and even booked a sugaring appointment for the next day, so I could begin the de-sasquatchification process and get back to being foxy. But the fucking doctor canceled on me! And it's not as simple as rescheduling for the next available appointment -- he's gone on vacation! So by the time I see him I'll be at 9 or 10 weeks of no sex! I haven't had a dry spell like that since I was single and living with my parents!

Clearly no one is more disappointed than the Dog. What is it about mothering a newborn that makes me so desirable to him? Oh sure, my tits are out all day long, but they smell of sour milk and usually have a baby attached. I just don't get how he avoided me through 9 months of whoremones, yet as soon as he saw a giant baby decimate my punani, well he wanted to get down to the site faster than the FDNY got to Ground Zero. I know this because he has been dry-humping my ass since the night we came home from the hospital. (Yes, that is the extent of my husband's mating ritual: being an all-round good guy and dry-humping me when he wants some. And apparently I'm OK with that.)

I proceeded with the necessary hair removal anyway, the prospect of which was more terrifying than the sex that should have ensued. I didn't go to Brazil or anything, but the ripping and pulling in the general vicinity of filled my heart with fear. I imagined my pussy exploding into a million bits, the esthetician covered with bits of pube and flesh -- like that scene in Pulp Fiction where Marvin's head gets accidentally blown off.

Thankfully, that didn't happen and I'm still in one (though somewhat looser) piece, just a little less hairy. I was thanked by my husband with a generous helping of his latin forte (Of course I am a freak and looked it up to make sure THAT was OK without the doctor's consent) and I'm happy to report that no clitorises were harmed in the making of this baby. Phew!

So of course we are at 8 weeks of no sex right about now and I'm growing impatient. Yes, I know that you are all dropping your jaws in shock, but I swear that although I am too tired to write, I am apparently not too tired to consider making sexy time. Last night we were watching Brokeback Mountain again, which is basically like Hollywood porn for me. (I can't be the only woman out there who finds Heath Ledger kissing another guy hot.)

We went up to bed, because Mr. Practical thought we should do the "sleep while the baby sleeps" thing. But of course, I did not have sleep on the brain. I roll over for the good night snuggle and kiss, but I kiss with a message. He reciprocates. OK, I think, I am ready to test the equipment again. I reach down to show that I mean business and he seems into it, though his eyes are closed. That's nothing unusual.

What was highly unusual was that he started snoring. That's right -- SNORING. While. my. hand. was. on. his. dick.

"Come on. Stop joking around," I giggled. To which he replied, "ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

I collapsed into giggles, which of course made the baby start to whine in her sleep, which made me laugh even harder. Oh my fuck. This is my life now. The hat box full of French lingerie, the closet containing ridiculously sexy and vertigo-inducing high heels, the naughty drawer... all for nought. My breasts are plates, serving up hot food several times a day. My ass, well, for sitting on while I deliver said boob food. And my vagina, the gift box that delivered our incredible daughter, is getting tossed out with the recycling.

At least I can laugh about it.

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Hey, anybody know a graphic designer who's good with blog templates and works for cheap? Whatever I've done to this site is causing it to crash some people's machines (Thx for the heads up Candace) and I would like to resolve it as well as tweak a few things, maybe even move to a proper URL and possibly another blog software. Any interested parties can email me at scarbiedoll[AT]gmail[DOT]com.