My attitude towards being pregnant was just as unconventional as the
circumstances which led to it. In short, this pregnancy was not going to
interfere with my fun lovin’, free wheelin’, girl about town, givin’ it large
lifestyle which I had grown to love. This proved difficult at first, as my
nearest and dearest collectively stopped inviting me out, assuming that I
would rather be at home knitting, drinking Horlicks and watching Corrie. I
very quickly put them straight. I was pregnant, for god’s sake, not 60.
As the smoking ban was due to start the following year, most of my haunts
had decided to get in there early to acclimatise their clientele. This made
my many nights out even more fun, as I wasn’t worrying about poisoning my
unborn through passive inhalation. I had even devised a cunning plan with
my nearest and dearest which enabled me to believe I was drinking proper
drinks. It involved them warning the bar staff that I was in the family way,
so when I ordered my double Tanquery 10 and Tonic, they would get a single
measure, turn it upside down, half fill it, and pour it into a pint glass. They
would then fill said pint glass to the brim with ice, then tonic. I would only be
charged a fraction of the price, and they would tell me it was because I had
such a pretty smile. It was fabulous. The bar staff thought they were in on
a conspiracy, exchanging knowing glances with my nearest and dearest,
throwing me the occasional pitying look, whilst gossiping behind the bar
about the tragic pregnant woman who couldn’t seem to give up the Gin.
The plan was flawless for the first 5 months as my bump had not yet reared its
bulbous head. As I started to show, however, I had to contend with
disapproving looks from ‘valid’ drinkers. You could almost hear them
thinking “what on earth is that pregnant woman doing here? She should be
at home knitting, drinking Horlicks and watching Corrie” Instead I was out,
having fun, drinking fake G&T’s and ruining their night. One woman, a total
stranger, I must add, actually offered to come with me to AA, as my nearest
and dearest clearly didn’t have my best interests at heart, especially as
they were the ones buying the drinks. My sister had to be held back, as she
was ready to knock the bitch out! I was secretly quite touched that she cared.
It also didn’t help that I was shamelessly trawling the bars for a man to put me out of my misery. Not that I had any luck. Single men aren’t turned on by heavily pregnant women that have nothing to do with them. Funnily enough. Which is a shame as it’s a well known fact that women in their second trimester have the
ability to turn into rampant nymphomaniacs. When I first read this in a pregnancy
bible, I scoffed with disbelief. “Impossible” I thought, “what women, in
her right mind, is going to want to have sex in this godforsaken state?” And
that was the crux of it. How many pregnant women are in their right state
of mind? I certainly wasn’t. I discussed this with my sprogged up, female nearest
and dearest and was dismayed to find out that it was true. One, who shall
remain nameless, was so insatiable, that her husband pretended to take up
five a side football so that he could feign a groin injury when her demands
got too much. “match days” were actually spent playing poker with the
boys! I insisted that this would not happen to me. They all nodded in
agreement, secretly thinking to themselves “We’ll see.” I saw. BIG TIME. It
was a nightmare. I was horny all the time. And the fact that I knew that
there was no one available to put me out of my misery, made it even worse.
I made a list of every man I knew who may be selflessness enough to help me out. I
began to see Noel Edmonds in a whole new light. This was getting serious. I needed
a release, and quickly.
Later that week, my friend with the fake footballing husband, caught me
checking out the personals section in the back of the paper, it had got so
bad I was considering paying for it. I was forced to admit my predicament.
“Just use one of your toys, you have hundreds of them” was her response,
“Couple it with some porn, and you’re good to go.” she delivered breezily,
like it was the simplest thing in the world. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?” I spluttered,
“Surely that’s a bit, you know, dangerous. What if the vibrations induce
labour?” At this, she laughed. A lot. For a long while. “Sweetheart, when
the hubby refused to put out, I was at it so much he threatened to move out
until the baby was born. Just hit the Box Office button on your sky remote,
choose your flick, press the red button and all your troubles are over.” She
then developed a far away glint in her eye, like she was reminiscing about
days gone by.
I disregarded it immediately. I couldn’t. Could I? No. I
shouldn’t. But who else would? But it’s wrong. Isn’t it? Maybe if I just use a
small, less powerful toy, without the visual aid. That would be alright.
Wouldn’t it? And there it began. My slippery slope into semi hardcore, girl
on girl, two guys on girl, three girls on guy, rampant rabbit, mains
electricity supplied, pleasure pants whilst doing the shopping, quick fumble
in the loo whilst at work, solo sexual addiction began.
The first time was the worst. I did what my friend suggested. Pressed the
appropriate buttons on the remote, entered my pin, pressed the red button
and nothing. Then a message appears on the screen, “No phone line
detected. Please call to order your movie”. Shit. I had forgotten about that.
What the hell was I gonna do? I had watched the 10 minute teaser designed
to draw you in. I had been drawn. I was ready. I was SO ready. All I had to
do was complete the transaction. But that involved speaking to an actual
person, telling them what channel I wanted unlocked. They would know
what I was about to do. The shame of it. I could see it now, the whole call
centre wagging their fingers at me down the phone. A woman ordering porn,
and a pregnant women to boot. Bloody disgraceful. Social services would be
waiting for me in the delivery room to take away my child as I was clearly
unfit. I couldn’t do it. But I really needed to, as I was about to burst. So I
sucked it up, picked up the phone, dialled, and was connected to an
automated answering service. Jesus loved me after all. I was a solo sex fiend from that day onwards. Not that this was anything new as I had long ago discovered the joys of the sex toy, I just never imagined that I would grow to love them even more than I already did, or that my collection would be as varied and grand.
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