Today’s guest blog is by @Pervy_thoughts on Twitter – he’s here to share a deeply personal story about conception, pregnancy, and some of the complications involved. When he first got in touch with me, he focused on the difference between sex for recreation and sex to make a baby, so I was really moved when his story took a different turn. It’s by turns funny and deeply sad, and I’m grateful to him for sharing it here. Names have been changed with the consent of the other person in the story.
A long time ago, way back in the 1980s when I was newly married, I had a spectacularly kink sex life with my lovely wife Maree. Almost nothing was taboo. OK, nothing was taboo.
After a few years of wedded bliss and kinky sex we realised that time was ticking us by and we were fast reaching our middle thirties. If we were to have a child then now was the time. So feeling very grown up and responsible we had a long talk about parenthood, we did some financial maths and decided that the time was right. Maree visited the Family Planning Clinic and she had her IUD removed. From hereon sex was about making a baby. We carried on with our usual sex life. One afternoon after a particular hot and sweaty sex session (hot has several meanings in this context and they are all valid) I realised something important. The sort of sex we had the most could not – in any way – make a baby.
“You realise that the type of sex we have can’t make a baby?” I asked Maree.
She rolled onto her side, she had been on her tummy as I had been fucking her up the bum.
“We do have sex that can make a baby, sometimes.” She seemed sure.
“When did we last have sex that involved jizz going in your fanny?” A simple question. She thought about it for a while.
“See what I mean, we don’t so we need to start, and soon. We need to have sex like our parents did to make us, missionary position, with the light off, under the bed sheets and they probably kept they pajama tops on.”
We kicked this idea around for a while, and we came up with a plan to make a baby.
On a Sunday afternoon – when there was only sport on BBC1 and ITV, Channel 4 was showing a black and white film and BBC2 was showing the test card – we would turn the telly off and go to bed. 1980s remember, only 4 TV channels.
We left the light on and we took all our clothes off. I would give Maree a bit of oral sex to get her, and me, in the mood. Then we had sex in the missionary position. Once I had come we pushed a couple of pillows under her bum so that gravity pulled the jizz into her uterus so the sperm could swim and find the egg and make the baby. While she lay there I went to the kitchen to make tea and toast. While I was away she would finish herself off with her fingers. The theory being that orgasm contractions in the vagina helped to push the jizz into the uterus. So while I made tea and buttered toast I had a background soundtrack of her very noisy orgasms. She would lay in bed with her bum propped up while I fed her toast. Eventually she would shove some tissue up her fanny to keep the jizz in place and she would sit up and drink tea.
This was working out quite well so to double the chances of making a baby we added Wednesdays into the baby making schedule, as we both had Wednesdays off from work.
Many months went by and still no baby. Eventually we decided we need to visit a doctor to see if there was a problem. By a quirk of coincidence not long after this decision Maree announced that her period was late.
“How late?” I asked.
“A week.” Maree’s periods were never late, she had a cycle with the precision of an atomic clock. The doctors appointment got swapped from a ‘why am I not getting pregnant’ to a ‘I think I am pregnant’ consultation.
The pregnancy proceeded well, everything looked normal. We took to spending time looking around Mothercare and my mum started knitting baby clothes. We pondered on what to call our offspring.
Maree screamed and grabbed hold of me, waking me from a deep sleep.
I put the light on. She looked ghastly.
“I have dreadful stabbing pains in my tummy.” She was also bleeding from her vagina.
I leapt out of bed and headed to our hallway to call for help. The phone was screwed to the wall. 1980s remember – you didn’t have to wind a handle and shout “Ahoy” to get a connection, but it was a somewhat crude device. I spun the mechanical dial three times to call 999. I had never called the emergency services before so I didn’t know what to expect. The UK’s emergency phone service is absolutely superb. The call was answered instantly.
“My pregnant wife is in agony and she is haemorrhaging and its horrible and I think she is going to die!” I told the operator.
A few minutes later an ambulance arrived, scooped Maree up and took her to hospital. It was not until the ambulance had left that I realised we were both naked. Never mind. I pulled on some clothes and walked to Accident and Emergency, about 15 minutes away on foot.
A very nice doctor told me that Maree would need exploratory surgery to work out what was wrong. He was very soothing and calm. I was terrified.
Some time later a nice lady wearing scrubs came and had a chat. Maree’s problem was a ruptured ectopic. In English: our baby was growing in the fallopian tube near the connection with the womb. When the baby got too big it split the tube. Hence the pain and the blood. Maree was fine and the surgeons worked for hours to try to repair the damage to her fallopian tube and uterus.
Some weeks later when she was back home we discussed if we wanted to try again for a baby. The chances of her getting pregnant were now very slight, the reason she did not fall pregnant easily was because the fallopian tubes were partially blocked.
After much soul searching I decided that this was her decision, not mine. She decided no.
Not long after the miscarriage incident I lost my job. I got a new one in the very new IT sector. It took me all over the UK and Europe. I was away more than I was home. The marriage did not hold up and we drifted apart. In 1990 we split up, Maree moved away to work in residential care and I went to London, where I did most of my work.
I often wonder what would have become of us if we had become a family. Our baby would by now have left Uni and be heading into the big wide world.
Maybe in a parallel universe Fred or Maree junior is doing just fine.