My body wants more babies.
It’s not concerned that my fiftieth birthday is behind me, that I have carried four children, that I don’t have Fallopian tubes anymore.
I don’t even track my cycles these days, because they are so random and the bleeding so scant that it’s not worth it. Some months I’ll spot for three days, others for seventeen.
But sometimes I’ll go through a few days where I want something rubbing against my pussy—or, preferably, in my pussy, fucking me raw, shooting me full of cream, doing it again the second the cock has recovered and swells again—all the damn time.
Then two weeks later, I’ll bleed. And even after thirty-five years of this, I still smack my forehead and think, “Ohhhh, yeah…ovulation.”
I overwhelm my partner or partners—really, I imagine nature wants me to have multiple partners during these times. But I don’t want them, so poor CD has been bearing the brunt of my urgency.
It’s difficult, because I have a high sex drive at the best (worst?) of times. My sex drive is bombproof. Megadoses of SSRI medicatons? My libido doesn’t care. Economy tanking, death stalking the globe? My desire is a honey badger that just doesn’t give a shit.
I used to have a girlfriend who was a stay-at-home mom like I was and who was similarly horny. We would sext and masturbate until we both came, then get back to our to-do lists. I miss that. I’m going to try using toys more, although I find that I can only masturbate myself to one orgasm.
It’s not enough.
And it doesn’t give my body what it craves: male sweat dripping on me, hands on my ass angling my pussy perfectly, a man coming so deep inside me that it feels like he’s gone past my cervix and is depositing sperm directly in my womb.
I know that someday I’ll realize that I’ve hit menopause—an event that can only be identified in the rearview mirror—and then I may long for these days of unrelenting desire. But until then…
Buckle up, babe.