I'm great at giving it, usually, but don't ask me to get off. Don't ask me to take it.
And never, ever, ever think that I owe it to you.
Even if you're married to me.
But I guess that's a fair expectation.
The baby's out, I've lost a little of the weight, the doc cleared me as healthy enough for sexual activity, and I'm on birth control pills again. So what's the problem, right?
Everything works down there, so I must just be waiting for you to say go?
I don't want to have sex.
I am not chomping at the bit.
I don't want to do it.
This is how I see myself right now:
- Chunky. I can't even fit into size 10s. I can't even squeeze comfortably into my MATERNITY pants. My tits don't fit in any damn bra, the band doesn't reach around my fatass rib cage, my shirts all look absolutely obscene, and my feet constantly hurt from the weight they carry around.
- Smelly. You try finding time to shower. Oh wait, you shower regularly. Because I'm taking care of the baby.
- Hairy. I may not be the biggest fan of shaving my legs but I do try to shave my girlbits regularly. Except that's tough to do when you can't find the time for a shower.
- Torn up. Except for a cell phone photo, I haven't seen my down theres since a few months into the pregnancy. I don't remember what it looks like. I don't know what it looks like now. I don't know where the stitches were or how badly I tore or how damaged the tissue is or even where. I'm terrified of it. I am legitimately scared of my vagina. BUT YOU WANT ME TO BE UP FOR SEX.
And then you want to take off your pants, roll me over, and stick it in me.
You expect that.
That is my job, after all.
You simultaneously want me to enjoy it all while reminding me that this is all about you, me pleasing you, me behaving like a normal wife would.
Well I'm not normal.
So get bent.