I get played by an expert and bullied by my hormones

Sex and pregnancy. A tale of frustration.

Here is the problem with being pregnant. At least the first time it happens, you have absolutely no fucking clue what to expect.

I mean, some things are obvious. You're going to get fucking big, and at some point a baby will come out of your ho-ha and it's likely to smart a bit. Yeah yeah, I've pretty much got a handle on all that.

But what else? Googling is no fucking help, because it turns out everything on the internet which isn't porn is baby and pregnancy advice. All of it is contradictory. Some of it is also porn.

So you think, fuck it. People were having babies for ages before books were even invented. Let's just see what happens. And boy, does it happen... one endless stream of not entirely pleasant surprises. Like the gift that keeps on giving, only the gifts in question are little prettily wrapped turds.

But there was one thing which really did catch me by surprise. Something which not one of the books or websites covered, something that the midwives and doctors didn’t even mention. My sex drive went fucking batshit crazy.

I’ve always had a high-ish sex drive, I think. I mean, how you can really tell? Comparisons aren’t exactly objective. Even when you’ve had enough wine to talk to your mates about it, it’s not like anyone really drills down into the detail.

“Yeah I’ve got quite a high sex drive…”

“Ok,” (gets notebook out) “lets make a framework for comparison. You and your boyfriend, how often do you do it…?”

Yeah. This kind of thing is why I only have very nerdy friends. Anyway…

I always figured mine was a little higher than average. I’m a daily orgasm kinda girl, put it that way, and one a day used to keep me ticking along just fine. Until the second trimester came along, and my inner sex pest decided to saddle up and take my hormones for a ride around the block.

It was ridiculous. The inside of my head became like one continuous porn film. Literally every man I met, talked to, walked past on the street, I would fantasise about having sex with. Walking around university between lectures with hundreds of male students, my mind was like some kind of frantic sex party, recorded and played back in fast motion. When I sat down in a lecture theatre I’d have to group the guys together and imagine them fucking me in threes and fours, otherwise I’ll never get through them all before the lecture started. It was surprisingly stressful.

And, to add insult to obsession, I was single. All I could think about was sex, and not counting my own hand (which quickly became at risk of getting fucking RSI), I had nobody to do it with.

Thank the universe and all it’s stars for my friend Paul, an ex-boyfriend, happily also single, who manfully stepped up to the plate and agreed to pop round once a week and shag me. Which was just – just – enough to stop me going crazy and tripping up random guys in the hope that their cock might somehow pop out and I could dive on top like a horny dog.

So there I was, and this is where this story happens. About 6 months pregnant, single and horny as a boxful of toads, I am somehow maintaining my dignity and carrying on with my course, admittedly with the occasional wank in the ladies loos between lectures.

I’m pretty big, there’s no mistaking the fact I’m extremely pregnant, but I haven’t yet assumed the waddling whale proportions that I would inhabit a few months down the line. That fun was yet to come.

The e-mails

First contact came by e-mail, which was a bit of a surprise. Out of the blue, an e-mail from a stranger, saying he liked my blog in the student paper. Weird for two reasons: it was nearly two years since I’d given up the blog, and it was never published under my real name. But then, it wasn’t a massive secret either. My friends knew it was me, plus a few ex-partners, and word gets around. But what was he doing sending fan mail two years later…? I replied:

Thanks, I guess. I’m glad you enjoyed them. But why did you wait so long to tell me? Also do you mind if I ask, how did you know it was me? It’s not really public knowledge!

His reply zinged right back.

I always admired your columns so much at the time, but I only found out it was you last week. Somebody pointed you out, in the refectory. I’ve got to be honest, I loved your writing and now I know you’re beautiful too, I just had to send some fan mail, like a panting puppy! Sorry if I creeped you out.

Well. Flattery will get you a long way. His reply was just the right side of stalkerish, just the right side of creepy. Or maybe, in my sex-starved state, I’d moved those lines quite a long way from their normal positions.

Before I could reply, another message.

I guess I’m committed now. Might as well bite the bullet, and probably crash and burn. Would you like to go for a drink sometime? Honestly, I won’t be offended if you say no. If you don’t reply, I won’t bother you again.

I don’t hit delete. I think about it… he’s forward, but also articulate. Seems self aware. Seems genuine. But there’s one elephant-sized question in the room:

Ok, so I didn’t hit delete. And I’m replying. Which I guess means, maybe. But before we waste any more of each other’s time, there’s one thing you should know. One thing, if you really did see me in the refectory recently, you will already know… and it’s not something that usually has guys forming an orderly queue. Any idea what I’m referring to?

Yeah, I’m quite the flirt, aren’t I!

I know you’re pregnant, I assume that’s what you mean. That’s fine. Why should it put me off wanting to go for a drink? It doesn’t, not at all. That’s why I asked! I’m a tight bastard and you can’t drink booze. Cheap date.

And I realise I’ve kinda backed myself into a corner, and when I think about it, I’m not unhappy to be there. He’s already made me smile. And so with no agenda and few expectations, I say yes. A few more e-mails discussing time and place, and we have a evening date lined up, for the very next day.

The date

We meet in a bar, near Golders Green. My choice, my territory. Close to where I lived at the time (to minimise pregnant walking). Close enough to my friends houses that, in a crisis, they could be summoned within minutes by a single text.

I hate walking into a bar and standing like a meercat, looking for the person I’m supposed to be meeting, so I arrive early and order a small white wine, figuring I might as well use my medically approved miniscule pregnant alcohol allowance to erase a tiny bit of my social awkwardness. Plus he knows what I look like, whereas I’ve never seen him before.

He walks in and sits beside me. “Hi Sam,” he says, “don’t get up”. He’s on a stool at right angles to me, and we manage an awkward half handshake, half kiss on the cheek. And he smiles self-consciously and apologises, gentle and self-effacing. “Sorry, never quite sure of the etiquette.”

I stare at him. I try to avoid doing so open-mouthed. He is beautiful, perfect. A little older than I expected, mid 20s maybe, dark hair, clean shaven. A strong, kind face, dark eyes. I look for too long in silence, then realise it’s my turn to say something and burble incoherently.

“Oh yeah, yes, haha, what are you supposed to, I mean, handshake so formal but you can’t just go in for a kiss can you? Umm, I mean, I guess you can… Europeans do don’t they…”

Oh, fucking amazing Sam. Like fucking Chaucer. He smiles.

“Would you like another drink?” My wine is nearly empty.

“Just a water thanks. Or, apple juice if they have it. But don’t worry if not…”

Fucking get a grip, woman!

He goes to the bar, and I take a deep breath, gather my thoughts, and give myself a talking to. Must be witty, calm, interesting. Just be myself.

My never-dormant sex drive pipes up: Then maybe he’ll fuck me in the toilets…? No, sex drive… just fuck off for half an hour and let me get on with this. I’ll call you if you’re needed. We don’t fuck on first dates, remember. Jesus, fucking prude… ok. But don’t fuck this up.

And somehow, for the next hour or so, I don’t. He’s easy to talk to. Relaxed, self-deprecating and funny, and he brings out the best in me. We talk about our lives with easy intimacy, as if we’ve been close for a long time. How I came to be pregnant and single is a funny story, not a difficult confession. Small secrets from both of us make us feel closer, and when he rests his hand on mine it doesn’t feel like a ‘move’. It feels like it should have been there all along.

It’s still quite early. He has one beer then keeps me company on soft drinks, and when you’re sober the evenings don’t race past in a blur like they do with booze involved. It’s barely 9pm when he asks if I want to go for a walk.

It’s a late summer evening, very warm, just starting to get dark. He takes my hand and walks me towards Golders Hill Park. We walk in just before they are due to close the gates, and part of me wonders if this is deliberate. He’s so smooth, so easy to like… am I being played? And if I am, do I mind?

All my life I’ve trusted my judgement, and I trust him, at least insofar as I do not believe he means me any harm. Nonetheless, I discretely text my friend. She has an app which can track my phone’s location. Going for a walk. Will check in in an hour. He’s nice.

We walk in the gathering darkness, still talking easily. He holds my hand, but doesn’t make any further move as we pass alongside the zoo, eventually coming to a stop on a bench in the shadow of some trees. We sit in silence for a minute, looking out at the dark expanse of the park. There are stars starting to show, and I think for a second he’s about to ruin the mood by pointing them out. But he just sits quietly beside me.

“Be honest,” I say, “what are you hoping for from this?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, softly.

“You know, from this date? We’ve talked a lot about me, but not that much about you… you’ve skilfully ducked a couple of questions actually.” He nods quietly. “My instinct tells me, you’re not really looking for a long term relationship helping raise another man’s child.”

“I’m not,” he says. Simple, honest. “I’m not ready for that. I don’t want it.”

His hand is on my knee, and I place mine over it. I know what I’m going to say next is going to lead to a kiss. I can feel my heart in my chest, nervous and excited.

“Thank you for being honest. I’ve got a lot of respect for that.” I squeeze his hand. He leans in towards me.

“Full disclosure. My goal this evening was this bench… and this…” and he kisses me. And the awful cheesiness of his line is lost in the perfect, overwhelming beauty of the kiss. The smooth fucker has talent, and for several minutes I’m lost to it completely.

One of his hands is on the small of my back. The other on my knee, over my dress, except I suddenly become aware that it’s not on top of the dress any more. It’s resting on my bare leg, and that’s not my knee, that’s mid-thigh… and it’s heading north.

I break away, panting slightly, and touch his hand with mine, holding it in place. “We shouldn’t,” I say, “not in public.”

What the fuck are you doing you stupid fucking bitch screams my sex drive. You were inches from getting fingered by this fucking hot guy and you turn into a giant fucking prude…? This time, I'm inclined to agree.

“Ok,” he says. “I understand.”

We sit there for a second, his hand still in place, mine still resting on top. My body is on fire with sexual desire, I am hyper aware of how wet I am, of how close his fingers are, of my nipples against my top. Together we look out towards the park, almost completely dark now. Even if anyone was here, they’d never see us. I put my lips back on his, and give his hand a little push upwards.

Woman’s prerogative, to change her fucking mind.

He goes slowly, but my body doesn’t, and when he hooks my knickers away and touches me, with talented fucking fingers, I know I’m not going to last more than a few seconds. I grip his shoulder and mutter into his ear, “fuck, I’ll come if you do that”.

“Go on then,” he says, and I do, hard and lovely, snatching kisses between my breaths.

“Fuckinghell,” I say, as the shaking subsides. “Sorry, so quick, just…. Fuck. That was fucking nice.” I stroke the nice hard bulge in the front of his trousers. “I guess I should return the favour…”

He kisses me. “I think we should save it, for when we have sex.”

“Oh really,” I say, wondering where this is going. Picturing the messiness of my bedroom, and not really wanting to go back to his. Despite what I just let him do, I'm not really wanting a one-night stand. “And when were you thinking we might do that?”

“I was thinking, in about 30 seconds from now,” he says cooly. I stare at his face in the darkness. “In that long grass over there.”

Despite myself, I feel a rush of desire just hearing the words. My hand is still on the front of his jeans. He’s hard, and I can feel his warmth. My sensible brain throws up objections though…

“I’m too pregnant to go rolling around on the cold ground.”

“It’s ok, you can go on top.”

“And, I don’t have any condoms.”

“It’s not like you can get more pregnant than you already are…”

“No but…”

“I have some, anyway.”

I burst out laughing. I can’t help myself. “So honestly,” I say. “When you said your goal was to get me to this bench. You weren’t fucking lying were you…?”

“No,” he says. “I might be a player but I don’t lie.” My knee is hooked over his leg, and he pushes me slightly, so I end up on his knees, facing him. “Oof,” he says. “Like, I’m not going to pretend you’re as light as a feather right now!”

“Yeah,” I say. “Think how crushed you’d get if we shagged.”

“It would be so worth it,” he says simply. “Honestly, I’m sorry to be pushy, we won’t do anything you don’t want. But I feel incredibly lucky right now just to have your face in front of mine.”

“Jesus, if I kiss you will you stop with the cheesy fucking lines?”

“Ok,” he says, and tilts his head back as we kiss again. His hands are under my dress, on my bare legs, and he slides them up to hold onto my bum. A few more minutes pass.

Pushing against him as we kiss, I can still feel his hardness, eroding what little willpower I had to resist. I hold his face in my hands. “Jesus, you really are a powerful fucking drug, aren’t you.”

I stand and lead him, fingers laced together, to the long grass in the deep shadow of the fence. In near total darkness we kneel and kiss, hands fumbling now, undoing his belt then pulling my knickers down under my dress, hooking them awkwardly off over my shoes.

He fiddles with a condom, and I follow his hands with mine as he puts it on, feeling him, and feeling it unroll all the way down. He lies back and I straddle him, using my hand to line everything up then sliding quickly into place.

I slide my hands over his chest and undo the buttons of his shirt, wanting to feel what’s underneath. He touches my breasts through my dress, but it has a fairly high neckline, so I lift it up over my bump so he can put his hands underneath.

“Will you take if off,” he asks. I have his shirt fully undone now, an I’m exploring his lovely muscly chest with the tips of my fingers. I hesitate briefly, then pull the dress over my head. He reaches up and unhooks my bra with a single flick (talented fingers again), and lifts it off.

So there we are, there I am. Naked but for my socks and shoes, having sex in a public park with a guy I met just hours before. And it feels incredible. In the deep darkness I feel very little self-consciousness about my bump, even when he runs his hands over it, and we kiss without it getting much in the way.

Even though I came just a few minutes before, I still finish before he does. But I’ve got talented fingers too, and it takes just a few seconds to finish him with my hand as I sit astride his knees.

The confessions

We dress in silence and walk together back through the park. Holding hands, but with awkwardness between us now for the first time.

“If I ask you a question, will you tell the truth?” I ask.

“I will,” he said. “I don’t lie.”

“Am I the first woman you’ve had sex with in that spot?”

I feel the tension in his hand, the slight hesitation in his answer. “Yes, you are.”

“I thought you didn’t lie,” I say, coldly. He’s silent for a few seconds.

“No, you’re not the first.”

“How many others?”

“A couple.” Tension in his hand again. I say nothing. “Four. Four others. You’re the fifth.” I believe him this time. But I say nothing. “Do you hate me?”

I think about it as we walk. “Honestly, no. I don’t. I’ve had one night stands before, I got fucking pregnant from one. The only real difference here is, being sober, I am analysing it more...

“At the end of the day, you wanted sex, and so did I. And it was fun. I’ve never done it in a park before. I guess you used me a bit, but no more than I did you.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Doesn’t mean I want to do it again though," I say as I let go of his hand.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I’ve got another confession too.”

“Go on,” I say, voice cold as ice. If it turns out he’s got a girlfriend I swear he’s getting my foot in his balls, good sex or not.

“I’ve known who you were for ages. My mate told me, back when you were blogging… and I know you post to reddit too. It’s true I’ve always loved your writing, so I follow you there. I read the one about your sex drive and I thought, fuck, I might have a chance here.

“And the pregnancy thing, it’s pretty hot if I’m honest. I’d never fucked a pregnant girl…

“So, yeah. I e-mailed you.”

He waits for a response. I say nothing.

“Sorry.” He says. He sounds a bit pathetic to be honest and it’s starting to get on my tits. I liked him a lot better when he was trying to get into my knickers.

“Oh stop fucking apologising,” I say. “It’s ok, I mean, it’s all a bit fucking underhand but I wouldn’t have come into this fucking dark park with you if I wasn’t partly after the same thing. The minute we came through these gates I knew it wasn’t going to be an innocent walk in the fucking dark.”

We walk out of the park through the turnstile gate, and onto the street.

“Are you going to blog about this?” he asks.

“I’m retired, remember? Plus I’ve got other stuff to worry about.”

I’m being quite cold and angry with him, which is a little unfair since in all honesty, I didn’t have a bad evening. Not at all. I take his hand.

“Sorry, look. Don’t feel bad. I actually had fun. Let’s make a pact… don’t treat women like objects, and I’ll try not to do the same to men. Yeah.”

He smiles back. He still has a nice smile.

“Yeah, ok. Yeah. It’s a deal.”

Finally, we shake hands properly. No kiss. I turn around and walk away.