Tag Archives: sex

Uterus Cobwebs

The IVF doctor sighed deeply, looked me straight in the eye and said, “You’re very old and you’re quite deformed. There is no point in you having sex anymore.”

Ok, fine. Maybe I’m paraphrasing. It was more like, “Given your age, and the fact that you have only one Fallopian tube, the chances of you conceiving naturally are quite slim.”

But I heard what I heard.

This was back in April 2021, about 7 months after a disastrous ectopic pregnancy that had resulted in a burst Fallopian tube and emergency surgery to remove it and save me from internally bleeding to death.

Eric and I were trying desperately to have one more child (we had always dreamed of two girls, and by we I mean me, and then I convinced Eric it was his dream too) but, given my various mental health issues, I had been staunchly avoiding a trip to the IVF doctor, fearful of what the brutal process would do to me, both mentally and physically.

I have known many brave women who have gone through IVF, and I have always marveled at their tenacity and strength. I couldn’t imagine having to manage the slew of doctor’s appointments, surgeries, hormone shots, side effects, and overall logistics without going completely insane (particularity given that my depressive and anxious tendencies can be triggered by something as benign as a change in routine, or the fact that it’s a weekday). IVF didn’t seem like something I was built for.

But it had been seven frustrating months of natural trying, and while some of you (men. Definitely only men) , might think “Cool! Sex!”, I can promise you that nothing is less seductive than strictly scheduled, position-coordinated sex, followed by obligatory post-coital bicycle kicks (just me, not Eric, although he was welcome to join) in order to get those sperm a swimmin’. All of this culminating in half-upside-down vertical leg-propping on the headboard whilst scrolling social media to pass the 15 minutes those little champions need to find their way to your ancient egg!**

This ritual was not proving successful in making a baby, but while upside-down Instagram scrolling I did come across a useful reel about how to put a tortilla under my nachos as a vessel for all the crumbs at the end, thus creating a bonus burrito. So not entirely unproductive.

The pressure we were putting on ourselves was making us both miserable, and we finally broke down and decided that intervention might be necessary, both to make a baby and to allow us to return to a non-cyborg sex life.

In the weeks leading up to our initial consultation with the IVF clinic, I still held out hope that we could somehow conceive naturally– hope that was immediately dashed when the doctor informed me of the cobwebs in my uterus and the deficiency of my lady parts. Or however he phrased it.

The doctor was confirming my worst fear since the ectopic pregnancy– that getting pregnant again was going to be extremely difficult, and perhaps not possible at all. I could tell he knew his shit (as I like to assume all doctors do), and so I took a deep breath and tried to process the fact that natural baby-making was no longer an option for me.

The doctor walked me through the process. We discussed timelines, hormone side effects, actual chances of conceiving and the likelihood that I would have to go through the process more than once. In more disappointing news, it turned out I would need to have preliminary tests done before even starting IVF, including testing on my one remaining Fallopian tube, which he was convinced was likely blocked with scar tissue from my two previous surgeries, and might have to be removed in order to optimize IVF results. I asked about IUI, a less invasive intervention, but was told that given my ectopic pregnancy, I was a poor candidate. The only way to ensure that I would not have another ectopic pregnancy was to bypass the tube entirely.

Eric rubbed my back as I sobbed.

The doctor was sympathetic and kind, but firm in his belief that we shouldn’t waste time. “Call me on the first day of your next period, and we can get the ball rolling.”

I never got my period.

Instead I got this:

Turns out, I was already pregnant when we spoke with the doctor, but I didn’t know it yet. My one lonesome, rickety tube beat the odds. And apparently, uterus cobwebs are helpful for trapping embryos***.

So for about the 85th time in my life I learned the slightly terrifying (but in this case fortuitous) lesson that doctors don’t know everything– and despite my propensity for skepticism, I had to admit that miracles really do happen.

Here’s mine:

I said miracle. I didn’t say genius.

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** I consulted an actual scientist who confirmed there is, in fact, no science to this.

***Again, no actual science here.

Not for MYSELF

It’s official. iPhones can do everything now.

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But before you get all excited, note that they are not actually available yet.

I only know that because I looked into it out of curiosity, not because I was buying it for myself.

Well, not really curiosity. I was looking to buy it, but, again, not for myself.

I was looking to purchase it as a gift for a Christmas Yankee swap that I am attending.

So that I could win it.

 

Lubegate 

My parents asked me kindly not to write about this. That’s how I knew it was worth sharing.

This weekend my entire family (significant others and baby nephew included) rented a house in Southampton for a friend’s  wedding.

When we arrived at the house, there was a moderately sized bottle of lube sitting on the kitchen counter.

A good ole bottle of 2-in-1 (massage AND play!).

Partially used.

My parents were the first to arrive at the house. Rather than move, hide, or throw out the lube, they chose to place a bag of cashews beside it.

Because that’s what you do when you see a random bottle of lube on your kitchen counter. You unpack your snacks.

(There’s a nut joke in here somewhere. Feel free to find it.)

Eric and I were the next to arrive at the house and encounter the lube. We could only assume it belonged to my parents, as they were the only people there before us. I’m not saying that either one of us was comfortable with this idea. We were not. We were very, very uncomfortable. Particularly Eric. He’s still sort of new here.

We didn’t have time to confirm the owners of the lube, however, because we were running late for the rehearsal dinner. So we shared a panicked and awkward “ohmygodohmygodohmygod” exchange and decided to never speak of it again. (Except during the entire car ride to dinner. And the walk from the car to dinner. And all of dinner.)

A few hours later, while Eric and I were at the dinner, Zack arrived at the house and immediately sent this to the sibling text chain:


Needless to say, Eric and I got a huge kick out of this.  As did everyone at the rehearsal dinner– because naturally, I thought it’d be hilarious to pass my phone around and tell the story to everyone at my table. (Note: these were acquaintances. I did not know these people well at all. Well…now I do).

I also informed the bride. Clearly, hours before her wedding, it was something she needed to know.

When we got home that night I decided I needed confirmation, so I casually confronted my parents. They swore the lube was there when they arrived.

And you know what? I believe them. Mainly because that’s something my dad would totally admit to. But also because I want to be able to sleep at night.

So thank you to Ramona, our Airbnb renter, for leaving us that personalized housewarming gift. Unfortunately, since this was a wholesome family vacation (and the walls were super thin), we had  no use for it.

Not wanting the thoughtful gift to go to waste, I did suggest it’d be fun to lube up the baby and watch him try to crawl across the hardwood floor.

No one agreed.

At the end of the weekend, we decided to leave the bottle of lube right where we found it. Because some other family should have the chance to see it, suspect one another, and die a little inside, just as we did.

We would never deny someone that opportunity.

We’re not monsters.

My Own Personal Sex Education

Most people learn about erections in sex ed.

Here’s how I learned

One day in elementary school, I was home alone with Manolita, our nanny at the time.

Manolita spoke limited English and, to put it mildly, was not the sharpest tool in the shed. No, I’m not being an asshole and suggesting the two go hand in hand– I’m just presenting each one as two separate facts that are important to the story (and if you get to the end of this story and still want to argue that Manolita was not intellectually challeneged, then may god have mercy on your soul.)

So Manolita and I are watching some soap operas when Sammy, our family dog (a yellow lab, the best dog in the world, may he rest in peace) began making sweet love to an oversized pink stuffed animal bear that one of my siblings had won at a carnival. This was not unusual practice for Sammy, a puppy at the time, and I always marveled at how sticky that pink bear became after Sammy had his way with it– “So much slobber coming out of your mouth, Sam!”

To be clear, I got that what the dog was doing to the stuffed animal was something vaguely sexual, but I had ZERO understanding of any of the details that go along with such an act.

Which leads us to the following.

Manolita and I are deeply settled into an episode of Days of Our Lives when I glance over to Sammy’s pink bear humpfest, and notice something has gone horribly, horribly awry.

“Oh my god! Manolita!!!! The dog’s penis is inside out!!!”

Manolita turned, looked at the dog, and– I shit you not– FREAKED THE FUCK OUT.

“Sammy! Sammy! No, Sammy, no no no no! What is wrong, Sammy!? He need hospital!!!!! Penis! Hospital! PENIS!”

Well, the second my assigned caregiver screams “hospital, penis!,” I’m naturally going to panic. The dog’s penis was inside-out, and he was licking it furiously (obviously desperately trying to make it go right-side-in again) and if I didn’t act quickly, he was going to lose his penis and possibly his life.

So I called my mother’s car phone. Yeah– not cell phone– CAR phone. That’s where we are in time, guys.

She picked up, mid drive, on speaker phone.

Mom: “Hello?”
Me: “Mom!!!!!!!! It’s Em!!!! HELP! THE DOG’S PENIS IS INSIDE OUT!!!!!!”

She hung up the phone immediately. I would find out later that night that my mom, a real estate agent, had a client in the car at the time, and was escorting said client to a house that she very much hoped to sell to her. My phone call did not make for a comfortable journey. Pretty sure Mom never sealed that deal.

Meanwhile, panicked and not taking my mom’s refusal to speak to me as a sign that I was being RIDICULOUS (and please keep in mind, this entire time, the nanny is screaming “the penis is bleed!!!”), I then called my dad at the office.

Dad: “Hello?”
Me: “DAD!!!!! THE DOG’S PENIS IS INSIDE OUT!!!!!”
Dad: “What?”
Me: “HIS PENIS!!!!! HE WAS PLAYING WITH THE PINK BEAR AND THEN HIS PENIS TURNED INSIDE OUT AND HE’S LICKING IT AND IT WON’T GO BACK THE RIGHT WAY!!!!!”
Dad: “Oh.” (chuckle….long pause) “The dog has a boner.”

And I was never the same.

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This Nice Jewish Guy Looking For a Fuck Buddy

Oh, David. I was all in until I saw that you’re kosher.

Because in between rounds of all the “carefree, open minded, honest, monogamous, safe, explorative, comfortably-fits-within-the-confines-of-our-mutual-schedules-and-boundaries-of-comfort sex” we’ll be having, I’m going to want me some bacon.

david

Taxi Cab Sex is the Least of My Concerns

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A friend just told me he read a Gawker article about the prevalence of sex in NYC taxi cabs, and he warned me to “consider the history of that seat” next time I’m in a cab.

Great. Let me add that to my list of taxi cab concerns, a list that already includes:

1. Bed bugs
2. Nausea
3. Contagious B.O. (you all saw the Seinfeld episode)
4. Accidentally leaving umbrella on cab floor
5. Fatal crash. Head detaches from body. Rolls into pothole. Resides for eternity with rats.
6. Stuck in middle of Puerto Rican Day parade. No way out.
7. Driver is actually serial killer; drives out of Manhattan without me noticing, as I’m not great at noticing things. Kills me in dark, deserted Long Island field. Dumps me on LIRR tracks. Body resides for eternity with rats.

Obviously those concerns are not listed in most-concerning order.

If that were the case, the umbrella thing would go first. That shit is the WORST.