It started out bad and just got worse. Why do the holidays always bring so much stress with them? I’d really been hoping the baby would be born before we had to travel, but no such luck. Either junior was running a little late, or my fiancé wasn’t the father. You can just imagine how that would go over. He knew there’d been another guy around, but he didn’t know know. I’d sworn up and down that nothing had happened, that of course the baby was his, but the trip back home for the holidays was still tense. He wanted to believe me, but he didn’t. So there was that.

Then there was the bane of couples everywhere – which family do you spend the holidays with? If things hadn’t been so rocky between us, I probably would have just let him go by himself to see his family, but I had the feeling that doing that would be the last straw. And I really did love Joe, even though at the moment, I was having fond thoughts about strangling him.

And finally, the big one. Literally. I was a big fat whale. I wanted sex, but it was just too damn uncomfortable. He wanted sex, but he found me about as attractive as, well, a big fat whale. The idea that there was a baby right there, ready to pop at any moment, was a major turn-off. The fact that we couldn’t stop fighting kept us from trying to fix the sex problem. The fact that we were sexually frustrated kept us fighting. It was ugly.

Everything will be better once the baby is born, I told myself. He’ll see that it’s his son; we’ll have our own family. Next holiday season, we’ll have a little one to focus on. We just have to get through this without killing each other.

“I need a pee break.” I said.

“What, again? We just stopped!” he said.

“Yes, again. I’ll be quick.”

“You’re never quick.”

“It’s not my fault I don’t have the equipment to pee standing up,” I snapped.

“It’s not mine either! The traffic is terrible, and we’re going to get there after dark as it is.”

“I. Need. To. Pee.”

There really wasn’t an answer to that, and he knew it. It was either stop, or I’d wet myself. When you have a full-term baby sitting on your bladder, you have the capacity of a thimble. The reproachful look he gave me every time I took a sip of water didn’t help the tension between us.

When the first headlights started coming on, and I could see the lights of his hometown below, I felt the first pains starting.

“Hey Joe?” I asked. “How much farther to your mum’s?”

“We’re not staying at my mum’s.”

“What do you mean?”

Joe mumbled something about us living in sin, and how she wasn’t going to let us spend the night together under her roof until we were lawfully married. “But it’s okay. We’ll stay at a motel, and then go have dinner there tomorrow.”

This started another fight. My cousin Beth would have let us stay with her. We’d come all this way and –

There was another pain, cutting me off mid-tirade. “Hey Joe?” I said. “How far to the motel?”

Maybe he caught something in my voice, because he sounded apologetic instead of defensive this time. “I’m not sure. I couldn’t get a reservation.”

“I think we’d better find one soon,” I said. “Or maybe a hospital.”

There wasn’t time to get to the hospital. The first hotel we stopped at was full. The receptionist called around to other places, but couldn’t find anywhere nearby. I was obviously not going to make it much longer.

Even the conference rooms were booked with holiday parties, but they made up a bed for me in the laundry room, and I grunted and pushed to the sound of industrial washing machines. Jeanette, one of the house cleaners, lit a gold coloured scented candle and set it on a cart near me. She had just received it in a Secret Santa thing. She said it was myrrh and frankincense and would help me relax. At least it helped to cover up the scent of laundry detergent. They searched their guest records to see if there was a doctor or nurse staying with them, but all they could find was a veterinarian. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve delivered lots of sheep.”

This was not terribly reassuring, but at this point, I was willing to take any help I could get. Every time I looked up, it seemed that more people had gathered around us. Don’t ever give birth if you value your modesty, I’m telling you!

Then I heard his first cry. My son. Everyone was telling me how blessed we were and saying prayers of thanks. I looked up to see Joe holding the child, and he knelt next to me. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Mary. This is the best gift you ever could have given me.” He whispered in my ear.

“But that guy… Gabe…” I blubbered. I’d spent months denying it, but I was too emotional to keep up the lie.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s not here. I am. I’m his father.”

Jeanette helped me wash up and get into clean clothes, while the employees of the inn passed around the baby, looking at him with awe. “It’s a miracle,” I heard more than once.

And it was.

I should have known better.

Leah sat in front of the mirror, brushing her long, beautiful hair. I was envious of it, but not enough to go grow out my own hair. I always succumbed to the newest style, the latest fad. Right now, I wore my hair in an asymmetrical bob, black with blue streaks in it. Hers fell to her waist in gentle, auburn waves. “Should I wear it up, or down?” she asked.

“Up, with some curls hanging down,” I suggested.

“I’m not going to use a curling iron!” That was one reason Leah’s hair was so beautiful. No curling iron, no hair dryer, no harsh chemicals. She was always so gentle with her hair, despite being harsh with the rest of her body.

“You won’t have to. I’ll show you how to do pin curls,” I said.

I helped her put her hair up into a loose chignon, and then took the loose bits and wrapped them around my finger as I tried to remember how I did it during my vintage phase. My fingers brushed against her cheek as I worked, and I shivered.

I should have known better. She was my best friend, after all.

We were going to the opera together that night. Neither of us knew much about music, but we wanted an excuse to dress up. Leah had come over to my place early. She always came to my place to dress up, just as she had done since we were children together. It had been years since she’d stopped hiding who she was, but the habit remained.

“You look beautiful,” I told her.

“I don’t! I’m ugly! My boobs are too small.”

“Your boobs are perfect.” I said, and it was true. They were tiny, gorgeous little mouthfuls. I could just imagine running my thumb over them until they were hard.

“I just wish they’d go up to an A cup,” Leah sighed. “Or a small B. That would be perfect. That’s all I ask.”

“It’ll happen,” I assured her.

“I’ll have to get implants.”

“No you won’t. Besides, you haven’t tried the dress on yet.”

I should have known better. I knew her better than anyone.

No one would guess, looking at her in her underwear, that she hadn’t had surgery yet. It was expensive, and she was still saving up money, but she knew how to tuck and tape. I zipped up the dress for her and watched her face in the mirror.

“Oh, Sharon…” she breathed as she admired herself. It was exactly the reaction I had hoped for when I did the alterations. It was subtle. Just a little bit of fabric taken in here and let out there, to enhance some features and downplay others, and to give her some of the curves that nature had denied her. Surgeons weren’t the only ones who could nip and tuck to make a woman look beautiful.

I’d been there since the beginning, when the little boy next door would come over to play dress-up with me in secret. We’d cried together as puberty had turned both of us into self-loathing messes, had come out to each other first, had somehow reached adulthood intact.

“I wish…” she touched her larynx.

Sometimes she talked about facial feminization surgery too. So much cutting to make her body what it should have been all along. I kept hoping, for her sake, that once the genital reconstruction was performed, the hormonal changes would convince her that she was beautiful.

I should have known better.

“Tsk, tsk. Have more faith in your seamstress,” I said. I pulled out a silk scarf and tied it around her throat in a loose, fluffy bow. I had taken the dress to four different shops before I’d found the right scarf, that matched it perfectly.

Leah loved it. She hugged me tightly, and I hugged her back. That’s when I knew my mistake, and barely stopped myself before making another. I didn’t kiss her, no matter how badly I wanted to.

“I’d better get dressed too,” I said, and turned around to get my own dress. Turned around before she suspected anything was wrong. I’d been there for every step of Leah’s journey, and I intended to be there for all the rest. That meant I couldn’t act on the feelings I’d just discovered. I knew her better than anyone, and I knew why it wouldn’t work. If only I’d known me a little better.

I should have been more on my guard as she transitioned. I should have realized what was likely to happen as she became more and more feminine.

I should have known better than to fall in love with a straight girl.

She introduced herself as Calahan, and no one knew her first name. Her most striking feature was a no nonsense buzz-cut. She had dark skin, maybe part Indian, and was tall, with a muscular build. She wasn’t trying to disguise her gender in any way, but her clothing, haircut, and general presentation was completely masculine. She was an officer in the army, and when she needed some time off base to unwind, she went to his pub to play pool. At least, he thought of it as his pub. He didn’t own it, or even work there. It was just two buildings down from his flat, so he was there most nights.

After a lost bet that had him washing her car with his own shirt, he started calling her Mistress, and she didn’t seem to mind. She even barked orders at him occasionally, as casually as if he were one of her new recruits.

When someone at the office sold him a couple of tickets to a charity ball, he turned up at the pub that night, and took her hand with a bow and a flourish. “Mistress, I beg you will do me the honour of allowing me to escort you to the Memorial Hospital Masquerade Ball.”

She smirked at him. “Beg harder.”

So he did – falling to his knees and hamming it up until she couldn’t stop laughing.

When he saw her that night, he was stunned. He’d never seen her in a dress before, but she’d gone all out – a gold floor-length number that was strapless, backless, clingy, and with a slit up to oh-god-yes. He could even see a hint of a garter strap. She wore a matching half mask, with a few feathers attached.

Gus ogled her openly, and she twirled to show off. “You like it?” she asked, in the tone of a lady who already knew the answer.

“Holy shit, Woman. You look like gold-plated sex.” Gus answered. He was dressed as a Tarot Fool, and he certainly felt the fool next to her.

“Oh? What happened to ‘Mistress’?” she asked.

“I humbly beg forgiveness, Mistress. May your Fool escort you to your carriage?”

*****

The dance passed in a blur. Calahan seemed to know everyone, so Gus wasn’t able to keep her to himself. But whenever he was favoured with a dance, she gave him her complete attention. When the dance style permitted, he indulged in a bit of grinding. He wanted her to know exactly how much she turned him on, even if she slapped him for it. Instead, she leaned close, bit his ear, and whispered, “Not here.”

When the dancing ended, and the Master of Ceremonies went to the mike to start announcing the winners of the various silent auctions, Calahan took his hand. “Let’s get some fresh air,” she said.

Gus wasn’t about to disagree. The pair went outside, doing their best to dodge the inevitable group of smokers near the door, and walked along the quiet downtown streets.

Without warning, Calahan took him in her arms, dipped him low, and gave him the most unforgettable kiss of his life. Was it embarrassing to be so completely dominated by a woman in a public place? Maybe. Was it worth it? Oh hell, yes! Gus clung to her, and kissed her back with every bit of passion he could muster. She finally pulled him up to his feet again, and squeezed his ass. “A promise for later,” she said with a smirk.

Gus pushed her up against the wall. “Fuck ‘later’,” he growled, and this time, he was in control of the kiss, and she was the one in the role of the submissive. If he’d been able to think at all, he might have been surprised that she responded so eagerly, but the closest thing in his mind to a conscious thought was that he had to have her, here and now.

He reached down to pull aside her dress, its scandalous slit giving him easy access, and discovered that she wasn’t wearing panties. He slid a pair of fingers inside, making a come here motion against her G-spot, while his thumb pressed down hard on her clit. She screamed into his mouth, and he kept it up, forcing her to come, again and again, until he finally had mercy on her, taking his fingers out of her pussy and pushing them into her mouth. She sucked on them hungrily and looked into his eyes with a dazed expression.

“Fuck me, please Gus,” she pleaded, when she was finally able to speak. “Stop teasing me.”

He ran a finger down her cheek, and then used it to trace her swollen lips. With a grin on his face, he couldn’t resist answering, “Beg harder.”

I love sex, but I don’t want to get pregnant. Why is contraception so hard?

(Disclaimer: All of the below is my personal experience. Please do not consider it medical advice. Make your own contraceptive decisions after consulting your doctor, etc, blah blah blah.)

In the beginning, there were condoms. I suppose it’s the standard, go-to option for virgins everywhere. I was young and stupid, and didn’t know about lube, so sex was much more uncomfortable than it should have been.

Eventually, I went to the student clinic and got on the pill. I imagine that’s the standard second step for recently sexually active girls. I never asked my boyfriend to be tested for sexually transmitted diseases. (See also: young and stupid.)

Holy shit, was the pill awesome! After using condoms with no lube, sex without condoms was amazing. I started experiencing my first orgasms. My boobs went up from mouthfuls to decent A cups. I knew exactly when my periods were due. Hot damn! Orgasms, boobies, regularity, and no babies. I swore I was going to be on the pill for the rest of my life. I loved the pill.

Sadly, past tense. I had years of being on the pill with no complications, and then I started getting migraines. The hormones were blamed. Different prescriptions were tried. Finally, I went off the pill and had improvement.

Fuck. Back to condoms.

At least this time, I knew about lube. I also knew that condoms weren’t the most reliable form of birth control. I tried spermicidal lube, and it felt like someone had set my cunt on fire. Obviously, that wasn’t going to be an option.

I stayed off the pill long enough to let my reproductive system reboot itself. For those who don’t know, the pill works by preventing your body from ovulating. So I hadn’t ovulated for years, and now I imagine my ovaries were going into party mode. “Woohoo! Time to do our job! Let’s get some baby making happening!”

At the same time, the sperm were going “Woohoo! Let’s get… wait.. who put this big rubber wall in the way?!”

Using condoms as a long-term form of birth control worried me, so after a while I went on Depo-Provera, which is the shot that gives you three months of protection at a time.

No migraines this time, but I started lactating. Not a lot, just a few drops at a time. Apparently, Depo told my body, “Woohoo! We have a baby on the way! Let’s get some milk production going!”

It wasn’t enough to be a problem. As long as I wore a padded bra, it wouldn’t cause any embarrassing leaks. I thought I could deal with it. And I could, right up until the day my lover licked it off my nipples.

Instant turn off. I mean, like a switch. Whatever had been about to happen that day was over.

That took Depo off the table. I couldn’t even stand to look at my breasts anymore.

I decided hormonal methods weren’t going to work for me, so I rejected the contraceptive implant without trying it.

I considered the diaphragm or the cervical cap, but they just seemed dangerously unreliable. Would they really stay in place during rough sex? Would I really be able to get it in place correctly and leave it there long enough? If we were going to put a barrier in place every time, then we may as well stick with condoms.

The options were narrowing down significantly. All that was left, other than condoms, was abstinence (hahahahahaha… yeah right!), surgical sterilization, or an IUD.

The intrauterine device is a small piece of copper that is inserted through your cervix. Things besides sperm aren’t really meant to go in that way. Holy fuck, it hurt like hell. It hurt so bad I went home and cried. It hurt for days. And I bled, which was expected.

What wasn’t expected was that I would keep bleeding. Not a lot, but it never stopped. I never had a period, I just spotted all month. “Give it time,” the gynecologist said, once she had done a sonogram to be sure that the device hadn’t perforated anything and was sitting where it was supposed to. “Your body just needs to get adjusted to it.”

I gave it six months. The effect of having blood always there murdered my libido. So I had the IUD removed. And strangely enough, it didn’t hurt at all on the way out.

So, back to condoms, since neither of us was ready for surgical sterilization.

And then it happened. The broken condom.

I’m sure it’s happened to everyone. The first few times, I was young and, well, an idiot. I just relied on trying to physically wash out the ejaculate and hope for the best. (Obligatory disclaimer: This is a good example of what not to do in this situation.) Maybe, secretly, I was hoping for “the worst”. I didn’t know what I was doing with my life, and if I ended up pregnant, completely by accident, that could be my sign that I was supposed to be a mother.

This time there was no ambivalence. I knew, quite definitely, that I did not want to be pregnant. I also knew I did not want to have an abortion. If I had to, I would. At least, I thought I could go through with it. Maybe. Actually, I’m not sure, even now, if I could have. At least the option was there.

My boyfriend called the GP’s surgery as soon as they opened to ask about emergency contraception. They said I could come right in and see a nurse – that I didn’t even need an appointment. In we went. A few questions were asked. And we were given a pill.

I took it, and it was like having the worst menstrual period of my life, only without the period. I was moody and irritable and the cramps were dreadful. I didn’t want to be touched for over a week. Worst of all, one of the potential side effects of the emergency contraceptive pill is a delayed period. So while you’re being miserable, you can’t even be sure that it worked. I had gotten the pill in my system in less than a day after the broken condom, but I couldn’t be sure until that period happened.

And so, back around to condoms again. I’ve completely ruled out tubal ligation, unless by some chance I happen to need surgery for something else and can piggyback it on. My boyfriend has started hesitantly googling vasectomy. I don’t push. I think eventually that’s what he’ll do, but that has to be his decision.

Knowing that emergency contraception exists makes it easier for me to accept using condoms on a regular basis, but I hate that they aren’t more reliable. I hate that hormones fuck me up. I hate that there still isn’t a pill for men out there. I hate that the IUD didn’t work for me.

I just want to have sex without having to worry about it. Is that really too much to ask?

I needed some general household repairs done, so I found a college kid on Craigslist who was looking for summer work. His name was Milos, and he was absolutely gorgeous – soft olive skin, slim build, dark hair and eyes – as well as painfully shy and eager to please. He was worried about how to pay for his next semester’s tuition, so he gratefully accepted any job I offered him.

I lusted after him from the start, and even though I was twice his age, I could sense that he was attracted to me as well. I never made a point of dressing up for him, and I think that’s what made him stare. I rarely wear a bra except on formal occasions, and the sundresses I favoured, though they covered everything if I was standing still, did nothing to conceal the motions of my ample hips and unfettered breasts when I walked. I was almost certain that he was still a virgin, and that only made him hotter in my eyes. I wanted to be his first, and I began to imagine various ways to approach him.

In the end, it happened spontaneously. He arrived one day beaming with happiness and couldn’t keep it in. “I got the scholarship, Ms. Williams! I can go back to school full time!”

I knew how much that meant to him, and threw my arms around him. “That’s wonderful, Milos! You deserve it!”

I kissed him on the cheek, and at that moment, my body was pressed against his. His arms instinctively wrapped around me, pulling me even closer, and I could feel the effect the close contact was having on him. I pulled back, but only enough to look into his eyes, before leaning in to kiss him properly. I’d lusted over his perfect lips for weeks, and they were every bit as delicious as I had imagined. He froze at first, in shock, but then melted against me, making up for his lack of experience with enthusiasm as he kissed me back. I let one hand run down his back to squeeze his ass, grinding against him, and he shuddered and groaned.

I knew I would have to take charge, so I stepped back and met his eyes. “It’s okay, Milos. I want you.” I said softly. I undid the buttons of my dress and shrugged it off, standing before him wearing nothing but pink panties, which were already getting damp. My plus size body is far from perfect, but experience has taught me that men love my voluptuous curves. “You want me too, don’t you?”

“Oh gods, yes…” he groaned, as he reached for me again. I was in no mood to take it slow, so I peeled off his t-shirt and ran my hand down his torso to start undoing his jeans. I pushed them down only enough to reveal the proof of exactly how much he wanted me. His cock was one of the most beautiful I’d ever seen. It was long, but not too thick, a little darker than his natural skin tone, and absolutely rock hard.

I had to have it, right then. I dropped to my knees and took him in my mouth, slipping my tongue under his foreskin to swirl around the head. I looked up at him, my mouth full of his cock, and could see that he was completely lost, his eyes rolled back. He tangled his hands in my hair, but was still too unsure of himself to set the pace. That was fine with me. I was perfectly happy to take charge.

“Oh god, Alice… Alice… yes…” he moaned. He had never called me by my first name before, but the ease at which it came to his lips made me guess that I had featured in his fantasies many times. The very thought, and the sound of him calling my name, made my pussy quiver.

I dug my nails into his ass and pulled him closer, taking him in completely. He only lasted three or four thrusts before his cock jerked in climax. I sucked hard and swallowed, holding his length in my mouth as the last few spasms spent themselves, and then I pulled back his foreskin and licked him clean.

He was panting hard, and the next time I looked up at him, I could see that he was worried that he might have done something wrong by coming so fast. I reached up and squeezed his hand. “You were delicious,” I told him. I helped him the rest of the way out of his jeans before standing up and looking over his body hungrily. “Let’s go to the bedroom. I still have a lot to teach you.”

I was raised by conservative parents, so of course, I was going to save myself for marriage. I was quite sure of that, right up until the night in college that I found myself in a car with a man, making out. He was a few years older than me, and definitely more experienced, but there was something kind of goofy about the way he asked me if I wanted to “go steady” with him. The moment I said yes, I knew deep down that it would eventually lead to sex. How could it not? He wasn’t a Christian. He wasn’t going to wait until marriage. More importantly, my libido, which had lain quiescent through my adolescence, had suddenly woken up and said, “Yes, please. I’d like some of that.”

Of course, I had to find a way to make it okay with my conscience. I wouldn’t sleep with him until I knew I loved him, and that he loved me. That’s what I decided the night in my dorm room a few weeks later, when he crawled up under my shirt and played with my breasts for the first time. Less than a month after our first date, I told him I was ready. We couldn’t possibly have known each other well enough by then to be in love. But that’s what my mind needed to let my body get what it wanted, so I believed I was in love rather than lust.

That night, I tried to create a sexy outfit, from a wardrobe that belonged to a good Christian girl. I wore the one skirt I owned that wasn’t below the knees, and a top that could be unbuttoned. I daringly undid one button more than usual – not that my tiny A cups created any cleavage. My underwear was, in retrospect, hideous. I cringe just remembering it.

We both had roommates, so we ended up in a cheap motel. There wasn’t much talking, because we were both too nervous. Me, because it was my first time, and him… well, because it was my first time. He had never been with a virgin before. He started by eating me out, and must have been badly disappointed at my lack of response. My mind was racing. “What is he doing? Is that his tongue? Is he really licking me there? Why would he do that?”

“Believe it or not, it tastes good,” he told me, when he had finished. Things improved once we got back to kissing and touching, which felt better to me. I daringly put my hand down to touch his erection. I wasn’t sure how to handle it. I think I was afraid of hurting him, so I only touched it lightly.

We were in missionary style. He tried to be gentle, but it hadn’t occurred to him to bring lube, and I hadn’t known to. It hurt when he broke my hymen, and it continued to hurt with each thrust, but I didn’t mind. Despite the awkwardness, and the fact that the sex was terrible, my body was responding. It wanted what was happening, enough for me to ask for another round of terrible sex the next morning.

We got better at sex, but we were never well suited as partners. We got married when I graduated college, even though I had a sinking feeling that I was making a horrible mistake. But I couldn’t call it off. If I married him, then I had at least saved my virginity for the man I would marry, even if I hadn’t waited for my wedding night.

The same logic kept me married to him for almost ten years. I couldn’t divorce him, because divorce was sinful. I had vowed “Till death do us part”, and I simply could not break that promise.

Meanwhile, the sex, that had been so good for the first few years we were together, started to go downhill. He stopped initiating. Eventually, he started complaining when I initiated. He was always too tired. He said that I was too demanding, that I was trying to wear him out. If he caught me masturbating, he laughed at me. The shame, that I had almost overcome, started to return. He made me feel like there was something wrong with me for wanting sex. He never called me a slut, or any other names like that, but he didn’t have to. The disdainful expression and the mocking laughter was enough.

Still I stayed, because I couldn’t imagine leaving. I became more and more secretive about my masturbation, always afraid of being caught. I bought toys, but rarely used them, because he would hear them and know what I was doing. Most men, if they walked in on their wife playing with a vibrator, would be turned on and join her in bed. He never did. I don’t think he felt threatened by them. I think he was contemptuous of them. He had first been attracted to the innocent, inexperienced girl, and the more I tried to assert my sexuality, the less he was interested. Though my libido never slackened, my insecurities told me that I was unsexy, unattractive. Unwanted.

The internet saved me. I started to flirt with men online, and they flirted back. I started to feel like, just maybe, I might be sexy. I had cybersex – quietly, fully clothed, just reaching my hand inside my clothes to touch myself under the table, so that if he walked in, I could pull my hand free and hide the chat window before he noticed what I was doing.

It’s embarrassing to admit that it took the affirmation of men to rebuild my shattered self-esteem, but it’s the simple truth. Every time I made a man come with my words, typed onto a screen, I felt empowered. Every time a man told me I was hot, I grew stronger. I began to see that my high libido, so long a shameful secret, was a highly valued asset.

And when I was strong enough, I set myself free and ended the marriage that would never have existed except for shame.

I like to think, in another reality, there was a me who made out with the hot man in the car, and had awkward terrible sex with him in the motel room. She let him teach her about sex, and then had an amicable breakup a few months later when it became obvious that a long-term relationship wasn’t going to work. She moved on, dating and fucking men that she wanted to have sex with, whether they were marriage material or not. She wasn’t ashamed of her toys, and if any man was bothered by them, he was soon kicked to the curb.

Maybe the other me met someone and settled down, or maybe she didn’t. I’m sure she had her own set of problems that I’ve not experienced. But one thing she didn’t experience was shame. And for that, I’m envious.