"Firmly regimented procreation passion..."

[NOTE: This entry (ha!) is about shagging. Parents, siblings and family members, read on at your own discretion.]

Now I don’t know if you know this but to make a baby you have to have sex.

As in, sexual intercourse.

I am a man, and as such I like the odd bout of the aforementioned intercourse. However after all the intercourse involved in making a baby, I think I’d be perfectly happy never having sex again.

Because I feel like I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime.

When you start officially trying for a baby – we filled out the forms and everything – what you aren’t told is that everything after that becomes firmly regimented and organised. Nothing more so than sexy time. And because women are confusing creatures, biologically speaking, their periods of maximum ovulation can be guestimated at by, er…peeing on a stick, which is basically like a red rag to a bull. As soon as a woman works out when her ovulation window is it appears to give her free reign to demand sex, at any time or place, in a way that would get me a look of death if I tried it.

So there I am sitting on the sofa, relaxing after a hard day’s work on a Tuesday afternoon, watching the TV and waiting on the oven to beep to tell me that my dinner is ready when from upstairs Jenny yells, “JONNNNNNNNYYYYYYYYY.” That, for weeks, was my cue to go upstairs and perform my husbandly duty, preferably in less time than it takes for whatever was in the oven to finish cooking. No romance, no foreplay, no nothing. Tool, get over here and impregnate me.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t like it was a horrible experience or anything. As previously mentioned, I am a man, and if sexy time is offered on a plate, who am I to refuse? I mean, sex is sex, right? It was, as it always is, fun.

Well, the first few times were anyway.

Because before long, my beautiful wife morphed into some sort of terminator, but instead of trying to kill John Connor, she was trying to kill Jon(athan) Cardwell by sexing me to the point of exhaustion. She was a Sex Terminator. A Sperminator: “Listen, and understand. That sperminator is out there. It can’t be bargained with. It can’t be reasoned with. It doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop until your testicles are reduced to shrivelled raisins.”

It was relentless. In the morning. Straight after work. Before dinner. Just after dinner. At bed time. To the window, to the walls, til sweat drips down my…well, you know the rest. Anytime we had a spare few minutes, we were at it like rabbits. It takes its toll, believe me. If you’re doing the horizontal naked dance that often you barely resemble a human being by the end of the week, just a hollowed out husk of what was once a formerly functioning member of society. After a while you start to feel like you’re a cow that’s hooked up to a milking machine*, going through the motions to achieve the desired result. The odd time after, er…finishing(?) once, the missus, still clearly keen to make the most of being in the ovulation window asked if I wanted to go again, mere minutes after I’d just ‘gone’ once. “A second time?” I would incredulously exclaim. “I’m not 17 anymore, love. If you want to go again, you’ll have to wait at least half an hour and bring me a sugary cup of tea before we start round two. And even then, I’m making no promises.’ For as everyone knows, a second time is a lot more work for a lot less return. 

*I don’t know who should be more offended here, my wife for being compared to a milking machine, or me for comparing myself to a cow.

However, our hard arduous work paid off. Which is great but thank the Lord that since becoming pregnant the desire for and frequency of sexy time has diminished. Not due, necessarily, to not wanting to, but rather Jenny has become so tired throughout the whole business of, y’know, carrying another human being in her stomach not to mention the fact that she was hideously ill for a while there that often by the time we get home from work, naked fun time is the furthest thing from both of our minds. Also, now that she’s gotten quite big in the belly region and baby has begun kicking and I’ve seen a scan (see previous entry) of the little person with distinguishable features and everything, I wouldn’t be entirely comfortable putting another appendage up in that already crowded location. Well, that and if I’m in the middle of it all and all of a sudden see a ripple on my wife’s belly from my future son or daughter kicking out in retaliation at me invading his/her space, I’m pretty sure I’d either be too terrified or too busy laughing to continue.

The logistics of pregnancy sex are just mind boggling.

So we’ve found it best just to abstain.

Well, now that I’ve made you all suitably uncomfortable with the thought of me in the throes of firmly regimented procreation passion, I think that’s as good a place as any to stop.