Register Now!
 REGULARS

author map Scrambled Eggs by Lorelei Sharkey       
November, 2000 Index

I've never thought of sex as a means to an end. At least not a procreative one. I can remember straddling the corner of the living room coffee table as early as five, not knowing what the hell I was doing, but happy and self-satisfied (a tradition that I'm proud to say continues, sans coffee table, to this day). If I played with dolls, it was with a scantily clad Barbie and a bare-chested Ken in the tropical paradise that was my bathtub, never with the kind you feed, burp and diaper. Nor did I dream, as apparently all little girls do, about my wedding day and the big Brady Bunch family that was sure to follow.
     Maybe it had something to do with the spawning goldfish I observed one day in a tank at the local kid's library: obscenely bloated, its scale-skin a bumpy sack stretched over hundreds of little eggs. And as it swum around, alone and abandoned, all I could think of was that fish out of water, lying on a plate, about to be dissected by a giant fork and knife how else to get those babies out of there?
     But the fast approach of thirty, a handful of friends on the brink of breeding and a series of shows on The Learning Channel all have me thinking more and more about the primordial purpose of sex. In recent years, I've even found myself growing more lax about birth control with my serious monogamous partners; I usually attribute this carelessness to stupidity and laziness, but perhaps my hormones and bodily instincts are fucking with my fucking.
     Still, thinking about childbirth as a real possibility hasn't gotten me in touch with my maternal side. Instead, it's gotten me scared. And at the center of this fear is the sheer brutal physicality of pregnancy. Sure, it's one of the most natural human processes, but so is death. Yes, it's what our bodies are built for, but let's face it, that includes pain and blood and guts the stuff horror movies are made of.
     I know what you're thinking: The miracle of life is a beautiful thing that's worth all the pain and change. But that's not what it seems like from here, on the other side of the reproductive precipice, with my breasts and vagina still organs of pleasure, not creation. From here, childbirth doesn't only seem like a beginning, it also seems like the end the end of freedom, the end of physical integrity, the end of sex.
     Talking about what pregnancy does to the body may seem like vanity. There are scarier issues when it comes to childbirth the responsibility, the commitment. But the physical aspects are the ones most raw and immediate to me now, when I struggle every day with hating the body I have: my breasts, my fat, my body hair. The number of times in any waking hour that I fret about it as a faulty sexual vessel rivals the number of men Annabel Chong might fuck on a good day. And I'm a fairly young, average-sized, sex-positive feminist, seemingly in control of my body (even if it's atrophied a bit from lack of exercise). What would happen were I to relinquish that control to some alien being fighting all odds (and perhaps its host hello, morning sickness) to make it in this big bad womb? My breasts would become knee warmers. Fat would no longer be discriminating in its bodily distribution. And as my gynecologist once mentioned with a carefree giggle, my already plush pubic hair would spread across my thighs and up my stomach like wild fire. Wild fire.
     It's taken years of practice and training, but I've learned to get naked for sex apparently it's easier and most people enjoy it that way. (Working at Hooksexup, you pick up a thing or two.) It's not my favorite part of the event, but I manage. Should I ever get pregnant, though, I won't have to worry about sex anymore, since it's likely I'll never get undressed again. The shock I might suffer from catching a glimpse of my nude self in a mirror could do serious harm to a baby.
     The ultimate cosmic joke, the biggest bitch move by Mother Nature herself, must certainly be the fact that pregnancy is the most physically unforgiving in the places most sexually sensitive and pleasure-giving: think clogged milk ducts, irritable uterus, hemorrhoidal flare-ups and vaginal ripping. And that's all before the blessed event. Afterwards, Mom is suddenly supposed to share her sore, swollen nipples with more than one person functionally with her baby, erotically with her partner (the lines of good taste get a little hazy for me here). Then, of course, there's the vaginal elasticity, or rather, lack thereof. And after nine months of uninvited fondling from strangers, poking and prodding from doctors, and internal kicking from your kid, followed by endless days of gnawing, drooling, suckling, grabbing, cuddling and holding, who would ever want to fuck like an animal again?
     This is not to say that birthing babies is bad (though adoption is a great, often overlooked option for a lot of families; overpopulation is always a concern; and this is, after all, a cruel, cruel world). I'm simply owning up to the spinelessness I suspect many feel but are afraid to admit to. Imagine my relief when a close friend a few months away from labor revealed she was "grossed out" by the idea of breast feeding. Some might decry her attitude as immature, selfish, blasphemous even, as they do me when I make faces and stick out my tongue during detailed discussions about the ins and outs and ins of reproduction. But for me, and my friend, those kind of reactions are completely visceral, based on mortal terror.
     Despite her reservations, my friend is going to give breast feeding a go, for her baby's sake. And maybe that's the point. That in the face of these worries and risks and gross-outs about pregnancy, we women throw caution to the wind and sacrifice so much including our bodies, especially our bodies for the good of another.
     I flush my own good sense down the drain every time I turn on one of those reality maternity shows. I watch them like car accidents, through latticed fingers, shifting in my seat, crossing my legs and clutching my stomach in sympathy pain. Then, when that puffy blue bundle of slime finally comes out and ends up in Mommy's arms, Daddy right there with hugs and lovey-dovey support, I get misty-eyed, as anyone with a pulse would. And I think, Damn it, I'm going to have to get me one of those some day.
     It's at these moments that I feel most confused and out of control. And perhaps that's not such a bad thing. I'm slowly learning to appreciate that giving up control is what can make sex great succumbing to primal urges, letting go of the ego, and not worrying, not even minding, that I may look silly, get hurt or end up heartbroken. Maybe pregnancy is just like that: control given up for something powerful, a scary yet beautiful feeling that can't be experienced any other way. I just want the freedom to mourn that loss of control, to acknowledge that not all aspects of pregnancy like sex are pretty. If they were, neither would be so precious.

Lorelei Sharkey



Previous Letter
What Are We Thinking?

Post and read feedback on this piece in the "Scrambled Eggs" discussion on HooksexupCenter Message Boards.


© 2000 hooksexup.com, Inc.
promotion
buzzbox
partner links
Get Paid to Party
Find out how at undercoverwear.com
Watch Isabella Rossellini's Green Porno at SundanceChannel.com
Buzzfeed
Puppies, Photoshop disasters, viral videos and more.
VIP Access
This click gets you to the city's hottest barbells.


advertise on Hooksexup | affiliate program | home | photography | personal essays | fiction | dispatches | video | opinions | regulars | search | personals | horoscopes | HooksexupShop | about us |

account status
| login | join | TOS | help

©2009 hooksexup.com, Inc.