Partner fell in lust and love with a twelve year old boy. Not really. Because this is an adult situation, what I really mean is that before I was pregnant, I looked like a barely legal adult boy. Age doesn’t have much to do with this, so much as the fact that I was a skinny, scrappy, bounding with energy, flat-chested bundle of boi. And I loved it. I loved getting “sir”-ed; I loved identifying as a transboy when they’d have me at their events; I ate up attracting gay, male chicken hawks with a spoon.
But there is no way to be pregnant and look like a young adult male. No way. Zero. Even if I remembered to get my haircut to its typical short, flirty cut, I still have ginormous boobs, a belly beyond belief and hips that are spreading to allow a tiny human’s head to pass. While I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would (skin rashes and the first trimester’s morning sickness aside), Partner is unexpectedly having a stronger reaction to my new form than either of us anticipated.
When I proposed a legal union with cake, Partner got hard. When we peed on sticks and found out that we were pregnant, Partner got hard. All of our commitments and changes have led to fucking like bunnies. He poo-pooed my worries that I would no longer look like his typical tricking mark and for three months I believed him and I was too nauseous and exhausted to notice that perhaps his sex drive was waning. But somewhere between the stress of moving, getting hitched and watching my body change, I stopped getting hit on.
His mouth says that I am still hot, but our sex lives are no longer connected. He only wants separate outlets. Everybody needs great porn. I would never begrudge anyone awesome porn, but the more I encourage wanking the more I notice that there is a sex drive, and it’s just not for me. He wants to go out tricking so that he can have his traditionally alloted amount of space and variety, but I find myself struggling with my own convictions and an absurd wave of jealousy.
It is really beyond difficult to have one’s worst bodily nightmare come true, to have a near tripled sex drive that was already high, to not get any sex from Partner, to struggle to find a tricking partner who is interested in fucking somebody with a tiny creature kicking the entire time, to have no energy to go out dancing, to not be able to have a lovely sedative prop in the form of a beer ….. and then to bless Partner to go out and have his completely separate sex life, when we typically shared at least some of that drive. Personal rejection plus a demand for favorite activities that I can’t currently indulge in? Recipe for tears. More stereotypical femininity that I hate.
Shouldn’t we be immune to this? Shouldn’t a rabidly queer Partner be flexible enough to be attracted to my ripe glow? Shouldn’t Partner be willing to read any one of the bazillions of sources that say that his cock could not possibly injure or disturb the growing infant? Shouldn’t I be independent enough to find myself some hot, sober trick who is interested in fucking my new look and feel? Am I really so affected by a list of cliché concerns and jealousies that I get weepy enough to look like I’m a slave to my hormones?
I’m going to have to dig deep into my bag of Queer Magic to solve this one. I am trying to understand that fear of or distaste for fucking pregnant chicks is valid. I am struggling to maintain open pathways of communication between Partner who doesn’t want to disclose any details of his current drive and my overwhelming cravings for his body and throughts. I have to not cry every time he does give me snippets of information. I have to pretend to be asleep and stay quiet in the bedroom while he wanks, lest I squash his lusts further. And I may have to acknowledge that just because there are things that I can’t have – late night dancing, beer and his cock hard for me – it is no reason to deny him freedoms. Sadly, and in a self-serving way, containing myself and letting him have some completely external variety may be the only way I currently have to hang onto my former convictions and to let him get enough of his ya-yas out to come back to me with any kind of interest.
It’s probably ill-advised and self-defeating to give into the catharsis of a huge tantrum where I yell things about “hypocrisy” and “betrayal” that are ultimately untrue and unfair. I grow worried for the well-being of my Hitachi Magic Wand, though. It’s motor is going to overload. But buying new, vibrating electronics is probably cheaper than shouting that I miss me and I miss him while I stomp my feet. I miss the sense of Queer invulnerability that came before our banal sex drive woes and stereotypical body silhouettes. There are lots of button-downs with lace that I can hide under a sweater vest, but there is no way to be pregnant and look like a twelve-year-old boy. There is no way to be pregnant and look like a twelve-year-old boy. There is no way to be pregnant and look like a twelve-year-old boy. Deep breaths.