I wasn’t a naïve bride or ignorant in the ways of the birds and the bees, but my swollen belly was much like a cryptic knock upon a hidden away door. One glance at my tummy and there was no disputing that I had, in fact had sex. The jig was up and there was no ignoring it. In fact, that was it. No one was ignoring it.
My GP: I am surprised it didn’t take you very long. Did you have sex everyday or every other day?
My OB: So, when do you think you conceived?
My students: Ew, that means Mrs. Jones had S-E-X.
My pregnancy gave me permission to talk about sex with confidence beyond girlish whispers or bravado. And I did. I talked about sex with friends who were trying to get pregnant. I talked with my pregnant friends about the sex that they were having (or not having). At my regularly scheduled doctor appointments the doctor would inevitably grumble something about sex and I would mumble something back both of us preoccupied with my ever expanding fundus. The belly gave me confidence that I had never been aware that I lacked.
If the pregnancy allowed me knowledge of this club- this freedom to talk about sex so openly- the baby that subsequently followed was my guaranteed admittance.
I crossed a threshold and was granted access to the inner sanctum where real, meaningful discussions about sex occur between girlfriends. The women in my ever-growing circle share their stories, their fears, their frustrations, their longing, their desires. They pass along well-intended advice and offer up suggestions. Sometimes there are tears. Sometimes there is sadness. Sometimes there is laughter. Lots of laughter.
This isn’t the Cosmo talk. It’s not even Sex and City chatter. This is real-women, real-life talk.