Can I talk to you for a second? Well, not all of you. In the spirit of full disclosure, it’s about sex, so about half of you can excuse yourselves right now before it gets weird. I’m referring, of course, to all of you gorgeous mother goddesses with glowing hair and supple skin and a sex drive that has somehow managed to persist and even increase, probably because you are one of those women who hasn’t accidentally woken her partner up by puking on them during an early-morning bout of hormone-induced nausea. You probably don’t have hemorrhoids or a swollen vag or ankles the size of comically large inner tubes. If those things apply to you, you can stop reading now. I’m not talking to you.
But for the rest of you — the ones for whom the nausea has only recently begun to abate; the ones who are struggling with that phase in between “cute pregnant” and “medically perplexing intestinal blockage presenting visually”; anyone who can only now begin to stomach the idea of mashing your bits up against your partner’s bits after months of a self-imposed booty embargo — stay right where you are.
Maybe your partner is starting to sleep-hump you at night or actual-hump you when you come home after work or sigh really loudly when you sashay past in your “don’t fucking touch me” sweats. Maybe you are totally down to get down, but don’t really know how to put all the sexiness back into your relationship now that you feel like a juvenile beluga that has swallowed a yoga ball. Maybe you’re horny as hell but your partner is a little apprehensive about putting his penis just a few spare inches from his future child’s head, so you’re trying hard to seduce him anyway you can.
Maybe you’re thinking of making a sex tape.
Listen to me, pregnants. DO NOT DO THIS.
I speak from unfortunate experience when I tell you that I know that the thought of using a little naughty cinema to reclaim a little bit of the sexuality that was yanked away from you by sciatic nerve pain or barfing up your own saliva is tempting. I also speak from experience when I tell you that this will go terribly, start to finish.
When the two of you — who are not porn stars with bleached assholes and pimple-free inner thighs and hairless scrotums — decide to do this thing, you must contend with so many obstacles. Among these? You both suck at using a video camera, although by this time it’s probably just your phone’s camera, which — and you have to trust me on this — you also suck at using. Yes, you take a bitchin’ Vine with a hilarious horse mask, but you do not know how to capture all of the best angles of you and your partner bobbing up and down on your shitty futon for way too long.
Here’s another thing: your belly. I know that fetish porn exists. I live on the internet, for Chrissakes, and I’m fully aware that people have managed to stick things places and do all kinds of unspeakable things to each other, even when in the family way. You are not those people. You have terrible balance and less patience than those people, and the chances are very high that when you attempt to get it on doggy-style, your idiot husband or boyfriend will misjudge your stability and their velocity, at which point you will go sprawling headfirst into the wall, scream a string of profanities at the top of your lungs and knock the camera over, so the next shot that you will see — if you make the terrible decision to actually look at the abomination that you’ve made — will be your partner’s left ball as he mistakenly tea bags the camera in an attempt to pick it up.
Remember, I speak to you from experience.
The next thing to consider is your poor cervix. You probably know by now that during your pregnancy your entire uterus will sit lower in your pelvis, so when you decide to give up on doggy and just do some girl-on-top (angles, people) after making a series of unfortunate noises with the now near-empty container of personal lubrication, you will discover the horrific sensation of a full on dick-to-cervix collision, whereupon you will probably say something like “UUuughAaiijgh” and/or “Getthefuckoffofmerightnowshitshitshitshit” before driving your knee into the love of your life’s sternum in an attempt to rocket yourself to the other side of the planet to get away from the pain.
Again, I speak to you from experience. And also from beyond the grave because I am dead right now, actually. Here’s why.
The good thing about pregnancy sex tapes is that you will eventually move past them. Perhaps you will watch the video once, and then the two of you will bury the video camera or the phone in a box marked “evil shit” or “kitchen stuff” and you will swear to never speak of this dark chapter in your life again.
But because of your pregnancy brain, you will forget to douse it in gasoline and torch it before salting the ashes and spreading them to every corner of the earth. You will forget all about it. And this will be a mistake.
Because it will be at that moment — the one when your brain, in all of its benevolent wonder, allows you to finally heal the wound that was your jiggling butt cheeks and inhuman grunting on that dark, dark night through the magic of selective amnesia, by forgetting it completely — that your in-laws will find it.
Your father-in-law will call you and tell you that he had been going through some old boxes and thought he would send the hi-8s he found in them to a digital archivist for posterity, but thankfully (?) went through them first. He will inform you that he found some “erm, personal” material and ask you if you would like it back. You will hear the embarrassed amusement in his voice as your own words from long ago echo in your ears: “Just put it in! I’m gonna have to pee in, like, five minutes.”
Fortunately, you will immediately die of mortification, so the panic-induced dry mouth and full-body cringes won’t last for very long.
Don’t let my death be in vain, pregnants. Heed my tale, and learn from my mistakes. Do not make that pregnancy sex tape.