I’ve never been hornier than I was when I was pregnant

It’s 7 p.m. on a Tuesday, and I’m face-deep in the inner folds of Naomi*. I lock eyes with my husband—whose lap she’s sitting on—and give him a look that says “I told you so.” I’m on my hands and knees, and all three of us are in the shower. I’m also pregnant—eight months and two weeks, to be exact.

For many during the early weeks of pregnancy, rapidly increasing estrogen levels result in nausea and fatigue. Not me. I had an insatiable hunger for Oreos covered in cream cheese and orgasms. The additional blood volume that comes with pregnancy (20 to 50 per cent more than a non-pregnant person) went directly to my clitoris, which came as a bit of a shock. During my many years as a doula, my clients often mentioned their libidos winding down during the first trimester. I was anticipating I’d have to grieve my sexual desire, but instead, I found myself taking breaks at work to rub one out. Luckily, I work from home.

During my second trimester, I became addicted to wellness and beauty.** I was also obsessed with one of my specialists, Naomi. I visited her for appointments often and she frequented my fantasies with her perfectly sculpted bubblegum butt. She had beautiful hair, light eyes, and did I mention her plump, peach-picked-at-the-height-of-summer ass?

“Naomi flirted with me today,” I salaciously reported to my husband one evening.

“Wow, special attention from Naomi?” he would tease, clearly unimpressed.

“No, seriously!” I said defensively, as I mindlessly scrolled her Instagram in bed. “We chat after every appointment and she might come hang out one afternoon….I wonder if she’d ever fuck us.”

My husband laughed. “Please play it cool. You’re married and pregnant…is she even interested in women?”

Eventually, I built up the courage to text Naomi and invite her over for a late-afternoon hang. She responded enthusiastically with many exclamation points, which I took as an arousing sign and my husband took as casual punctuation from one woman to another.

She showed up wearing jean shorts and braless in a white tank top. We sipped flavoured seltzers and talked about our careers, friendships, and relationships with our parents. I made her laugh by oversharing (my love language) about my 14-year-old vibrator with buttons that were hanging on by a thread. I joked that the once-silent motor could probably now double as a travel sound machine in my future son’s stroller.

When I directly propositioned her for a threesome with my husband, she was taken aback, flattered, and full of questions.

When? Now.

Where? The shower.

How? I’m going to kiss you, if you want me to.

At some point, I had tactfully given my husband a thumbs up so he could get towels and set the vibe while I gently kissed Naomi and answered her questions. She said she was nervous and had never had a threesome before. I said I, too, was nervous, and although I had had several threesomes, I had never had one pregnant.

My favourite thing about threesomes is the play and communication that comes with them. Here we are, a handful of humans licking and petting each other to make noises and fluids come out. Pregnancy heightened this already primal experience—we all had to navigate around the obvious obstacle (my son in my protruding belly) and it forced us to communicate even more. My husband and Naomi soaped up my belly and we laughed about how Naomi and I couldn’t rub fronts.

“I can’t even see my own vulva!” I squealed.

We took turns exploring each other while simultaneously checking in and laughing. My husband and Naomi focused on me for a few minutes and I was filled with a blissful (and orgasmic) peace. At one point, I started to get too hot. We made the water cooler and my husband hopped out to get us all fruity ice pops. Naomi and I giggled as we fellated our ice pops and then both went down on my husband. That night I went to bed feeling like the happiest, luckiest girl in the world.

That threesome was certainly the wildest part of my pregnancy, but it was only one of many horny experiences. I loved role-playing a pregnant masseuse who consensually takes advantage of her hunky virgin client (played by my husband). One time, I dreamed I was getting vigorously eaten out from behind by a mystery tongue-twister. Disappointed and revved up upon waking, I whispered to my husband that I needed to sit on his face. He nodded yes and as I saddled up, I actually woke up and realised I was gently humping my microbead pregnancy pillow. It’d been a dream within a dream.

During moments alone, in Chrome Incognito, my fingers reflexively typed out “pregnant” into the Pornhub search bar. Orgasms felt especially good while pregnant, and I couldn’t get enough. I read that babies in utero enjoy them too, because the tightening and releasing is like a mini massage. My baby would kick and flip after I came, and then seemingly fall asleep.

A few weeks later, things took a turn as I begged for someone to please either help me or kill me as my labour contractions stacked on top of each other. My doula, bless her heart, squeezed my hips for counter-pressure and counted down a few sets of 10. My son arrived Earth-side 21 hours later, ripping through the body part that had felt so good all throughout my pregnancy. The hormones that fueled me for nine months drained from my system all at once as the midwife sewed me up like a European bakery closing up shop for a long summer holiday. What lay ahead was anything but.

As I adjusted to motherhood, I felt attacked by the Mamas of Instagram sliding left and right into my DMs: “Isn’t it wild how your heart jumps outside your body and onto this little human? Can you even remember your life before?” All I could think was that “my life before” involved impromptu group sex, Mama! “My life before” was great!

My heart was, in fact, outside my body, but it was floating somewhere in the abyss. One week postpartum, I bled as my uterus worked to return to its original size. I cried as I chased the feelings of before and masturbated with my broken-down vibrator on its highest setting over my leggings, adult diaper, and two-inch pad.

At five weeks postpartum, I bravely took a Fenty bronzer mirror to my vagina. Delusionally expecting to see my tiny, perfect, familiar hole, I was horrified to come face-to-face with a mangled clown’s mouth. My cervix hung low and cackled at me. Two times a week I would get professionally fingered by a gloved and loud pelvic floor therapist who diagnosed me with a stage three uterine prolapse. My insides were more out of me than in, but “the female body is resilient!'' she peppily assured me. Between feeding, pumping, rocking, crying, and sleeping, I diligently did my uterine muscle workout 10 times a day. Needless to say, life was different, and I missed the sexual, confident person I’d been before.

“It’s not depression, I just don’t love motherhood or my baby that much. We need to normalise being able to say this!” I preached to my dental hygienist and anyone else who would listen. Rubbing my arm, my husband, who’d recently earned his Masters degree in social work, asked me, “What makes you think it’s not?”

That conversation echoed in my head as I eventually texted my therapist. I told her I was mad at my baby, full of regret, and was manically fixated on my bangs. After a long and tearful session, we agreed I’d see a psychiatrist and book a haircut. The psychiatrist told me how common these feelings were and that trying an antidepressant could help me connect more with my baby in this transition. I decided to give it a try.

Slowly over a few months, my uterus made her way back inside me. With patience, communication, and about 45 pumps of lube, my husband and I got back to fucking. My favourite extracurricular activity became so painful after childbirth that I insisted on having “practice sex” every few weeks. I was so scared—am so scared—of losing this part of myself I enjoy so deeply.

My son is now 10 months old, and I still wince when my husband enters me. I’m tapering off the Zoloft I started six months ago, which helped me realise I want to huff my son’s breath and no amount of the stuff will ever fill my lungs enough. I’m beginning to have orgasms that feel a hair longer than a sneeze…so things are on the uptick.

To be honest, I don’t know what this next chapter of motherhood will bring. Pregnancy surprised me and validated my sexuality in ways I’d never felt before. Maybe raising a child will surprise me too. I don’t think sex will ever be the same as it was during pregnancy, and yeah, I miss it…but everyone always says you make a lot of new parent friends when your child starts school. I’m hopeful some of them will want to fuck us.

*Name has been changed.
**Activity changed to protect the identity of “Naomi.”

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