‘Not a problem Trisha,’ a thick-set woman sporting a close-cropped haircut says from where she’s stood next to a pregnant girl covered in tattoos. They might as well have a sign above them saying LESBIANS in big, black writing.
The stick insect unlocks the door. ‘Come in everyone!’ There’s a nervous energy about this skinny woman that’s already setting my teeth on edge.
We file into the room.
The four other couples take up position in a semi-circle around Trisha in front of some large sponge mats. Jamie and I slot ourselves in on one end in front of a spare mat and try to look inconspicuous. It doesn’t work.
‘Welcome my friends!’ Trisha says to us, clapping her bony hands together in delight. ‘You must be Laura and Jamie.’
‘Yep, that’s us,’ Jamie confirms.
‘Excellent. We run quite an informal class here. The best thing to do is just listen, watch and join in as you pick things up, okay?’
We both nod a little uncertainly.
‘Goody goody gumdrops!’ Trisha exclaims happily.
The phrase ‘goody, goody gumdrops’ is not one you want to here spouting from the mouth of someone who’s supposed to be a healthcare professional.
I turn to look at Jamie. He looks like somebody has just flicked him on the testicle, so I assume he feels much the same way.
Trisha goes to an iPod dock on a table at the back of the room. She puts her iPhone into it and plays with it for a moment.
The room is suddenly filled with what sounds like Free Willy being raped.
‘What the bloody hell is that?’ Jamie cries.
‘Oh don’t worry!’ Trisha says. ‘I like to get the mood for the class right with a little whale song.’ She looks at the thick-set lesbian. ‘Could you get the lights for me Ashley?’
The woman does as she is bid, while Trisha produces another black electronic device from her bag and deposits it on the table next to the iPod dock, switching it on as Ashley flicks the lights off.
From the spherical black device beams of light erupt, bathing the room in fake starlight.
‘Oh Jesus Christ,’ I hear Jamie say under his breath.
Free Willy is still being sexually molested, but now the assault is being conducted in the icy depths of space.
The other couples deposit themselves on the floor. We reluctantly follow suit.
Trisha starts to speak, her words punctuated by the aquatic sex crime going on in the background.
‘Welcome once again all of you.’ Beeeeeeoooooowwww. ‘I’m pleased to see you all back, along with some lovely new faces.’ Beeeeeeooooowww booo. ‘In this evening’s class we’re going to concentrate on labour breathing.’ Ikky ikky ikky beeeeeoooowwwwww. ‘Then we’ll move on to discuss post labour pain management.’ Beooow beooow beooow boooooooooooo beeooowww. ‘Any questions so far?’
Jamie raises a hand.
‘Yes Jamie?’
‘Any chance we could lose the whales and the stars? I can’t decide whether I should be beaming down to the planet or trying to fuck a humpback.’
That put the both of us in Trisha’s bad books for the rest of the evening.
She did turn off the whales, but insisted the stars stayed on.
What got me was that the others in attendance didn’t seem to bat an eyelid at this strangeness. They obviously felt that it was a perfectly normal part of preparing to give birth. Unless they were all Star Trek fans who worked at Seaworld I failed to see how this could be the case.
We willingly take part in the breathing exercises to show we aren’t complete outsiders.
Jamie is told to help me keep a rhythm by talking calmly and holding my hand, squeezing it in time with my breaths while I puff and blow like a malfunctioning steam engine.
Next to us are Lolly and Brian.
Brian has one hand on his wife’s back, the other on her upper thigh. He keeps squeezing her leg every time she breathes out in a manner that sounds almost orgasmic. It’s quite nauseating.
‘And now, please change places,’ Trisha tells us.
‘Excuse me?’ Jamie says.
‘You need to change places Mr Newman.’ Trisha’s disgust at his dislike of her whale music has pushed him into surname territory. ‘You need to know what your wife is going to experience as much as she does.’
Jamie stands up and puts his hands on his hips. ‘Do I? I mean, really?’
‘Indeed.’
I decide to join in the lively discussion. ‘Er… I kinda think Jamie’s right here, Trish.’
For the first time, Trisha looks properly displeased with us.
Her narrow face gets even narrower. ‘Please Mr and Mrs Newman, I am a trained professional. These techniques will help you a great deal through the pregnancy, but only if you allow them to.’
‘Alright, alright,’ Jamie says and flaps his hands. He pulls me up and takes my place on the mat, grumbling to himself.
‘Now then gentlemen and lady,’ Trisha says, her soothing tone returning. ‘Please repeat what your wives were doing. Deep, rhythmic breathing while your spouse helps you.’
Jamie reluctantly starts the exercise, while I try very hard not to laugh as I grip his hand and watch his face turn purple.
‘And faster gentlemen and lady please,’ Trisha bids them. The three men and one lesbian all speed up their breathing rate.
The room now sounds like it’s been invaded by a crowd of horny walruses. I wasn’t prepared for how much aquatic mammal life you encounter during an antenatal class.
‘Faster please!’ Trisha commands again.
Now Jamie is really going for it. It feels like an air of competition has filled the room: Who can breathe the loudest, fastest and hardest? Typical boy (and apparently lesbian) behaviour.
I grip on to my husband’s hand for dear life as he takes it up another notch.
The collective grunting has reached a crescendo when Jamie, having built up enough air pressure in his body to float a hot air balloon, emits a loud, sharp fart that cuts across the grunting like a knife through butter.
…or should that be cheese?
Immediately he stops the exercise and goes crimson.
I try so, so very hard not to burst out laughing.
In my efforts not to further compound Jamie’s embarrassment I slam one hand over my mouth to stop a bray of laughter escaping.
Usually that would be the end of it, but I’m over thirty weeks pregnant and my body is no longer entirely under my control. This goes double for my bladder.
In short, I pee my pants.
Not a lot, mind you. We’re not talking Niagara Falls here - but it’s certainly enough to make my knickers good and wet. Thank God I’m wearing a dark pair of maternity dungarees.
‘Oh Christ, I’ve wet myself,’ I tell Jamie under my breath. Unfortunately the whole room has gone silent in response to Jamie’s bottom trumpet and the statement carries to everyone.
‘Are… are you both well?’ Trisha asks hesitantly.
Oh yes Trisha. We’re just peachy, thank you. My husband’s about to follow through and I already have. This evening is right up there with our wedding night.
‘I think we’ll be going now,’ I say in a bland voice.
‘Oh really?’ Trisha sounds downcast. ‘But we haven’t got to the chanting yet.’
‘Another time perhaps.’
I help Jamie to his feet. He’s being uncharacteristically silent, which probably isn’t the worst thing in the world right now.
Steering him with one arm, I waddle in the direction of the door.
‘No worry Laura!’ Lolly pipes up. ‘I piss myself too the other day!’ She snorts with laughter and points at Brian. ‘And he fart in front of my father at wedding!’
I know she’s trying to make us feel better, but surprisingly enough, it’s not working.
With as much speed as a woman in her third trimester can summon, I propel my mortified husband out into the corridor and bustle towards the main entrance. I don’t risk a look back,
just in case Trisha is following us with a couple of adult nappies and half the continent of Antarctica.
That night I had a dream I was giving birth to a dolphin in a Chinese restaurant. I woke up drenched in sweat, with a pounding heart.
If that’s what private antenatal classes do to you, then I’d rather go without, thank you.
I’m going – alone - to one of the free classes run at the health centre this week.
It’ll be boring, run of the mill and packed with mothers-to-be, but at least I won’t have to worry about incontinence or space whales from another dimension.
Love you and miss you, Mum.
Your incredulous daughter, Laura.
xxx
Jamie’s Blog
Sunday 10 November
Like Salt n Pepa once requested in song, let’s talk about sex.
More specifically, sex with a pregnant woman.
Oh my.
It goes through stages.
During the first few weeks of the pregnancy I was more likely to have sex with the entire Australian women’s volleyball team than I was with my wife.
I couldn’t really blame her though. In that period of time, when she wasn’t peeing in the bathroom she was throwing up in it, and when she wasn’t doing either of those she was fast asleep. Slipping her a length would have been virtually impossible.
The one occasion she gamely tried to give me a blow job it ended with her head in the toilet bowl and me nursing a freshly squeezed penis.
I resigned myself to a few months of healthy masturbation.
It wasn’t too bad all things considered, especially because Laura knew full well what I was doing and condoned it. There’s something decidedly appealing about being given permission by your other half to wank yourself into insensibility on a regular basis.
Then, as Laura went into the second trimester things changed for the better.
With the nausea and fatigue subsiding she suddenly perked up and turned into what I can only describe accurately as a total fuck monster.
Even in the first fledgling weeks of our relationship (when I wasn’t poisoning her with bad chicken and she wasn’t dumping me for her ex) Laura was never this rampant.
The pregnancy hormones may have made her more emotional than a thirteen year old One Direction fan, but they also gave her sex drive a kick up the arse that I was barely able to cope with.
After about a week my cock looked like battered salami.
She looked adorable at that stage, though. The growing bump adding to what I consider to be the best curves in the world.
Plus, I had the bonus that for the first time in our relationship Laura preferred it on her knees doggie style, because it was the most comfortable position for her.
Woo hoo!
Then we entered the third trimester and things understandably started going downhill again.
I’m not all that good at reading the minds of women, but even I can appreciate that swollen breasts, piles, a bad back and a massive belly aren’t exactly conducive to sexual arousal.
I resigned myself to once again beating it like Michael Jackson – this time with some fresh wank bank material from our recent second trimester exploits.
Colour me every shade of surprised then, when last night Laura turns to me on the couch in the middle of a particularly dull episode of Four Weddings and puts her hand over my sleeping penis.
‘Baby, I’m horny,’ she says into my ear in a husky voice.
What’s this? Little Jamie wonders, stirring from his malaise.
Laura squeezes him gently, waking him further. Blimey, and there I was thinking I’d have to settle for you ringing my neck tonight after Laura has gone to bed. Now it looks like I may get to fulfil my true purpose in life. Wahaay!
‘Are you?’ I reply, incredulous.
‘Yeah. Have been all day. I have no idea why.’
‘But what about… you know… that.’ I point at the enormous dome sat in front of her.
‘That’s just fine where it is,’ she whispers in my ear. ‘I want your cock in me, baby.’
And I want to be in you Laura, little Jamie exults, setting off on one of his legendary laps around the metaphorical track.
For some reason my heart is beating like crazy. Laura and I have had sex more times than it’s possible to count, but because she’s heavily pregnant it feels like something completely new – and just a wee bit strange.
‘Shall we go into the bedroom?’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ she says and squeezes my groin one more time.
I’m up like a shot and out the lounge door with my jeans already unzipped.
I notice I’m alone.
On previous occasions my wife would have either been right behind me, or just ahead, wiggling her tight little bum as we hurry upstairs.
Now though, I look back to the couch to see her still trying to get up. It’s rather like watching a tortoise stuck on its back.
I shake the mental image before it ruins the moment and hurry back to assist her off the couch.
‘Give me your hand, sweetheart,’ I tell her and together we manage to heave her onto her feet.
I’m off again, out the door and up to the –
Still no Laura.
Back I go and now she’s leaning against the TV, one hand on her back, agonised expression on her face.
‘You okay baby?’ I say, hurrying back again. I’ve now covered the entire length of the lounge three times and my cock is starting to display signs of chaffing.
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
I place a warm hand on the small of her back and give it a rub.
‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ she says. To maintain the sexy mood she once again gives my genitals a squeeze, re-affirming little Jamie’s belief that he’s going to see action this evening come what may.
Together – slowly – we make our way out of the lounge and up the stairs.
In the bedroom I rip my clothes off in nanoseconds. Five minutes later we manage to remove the last of Laura’s, and she collapses on the bed like a beached Minke whale.
I must find whales sexy as my penis is ram-rod straight and ready to go.
I don’t know what it is about Laura being pregnant, but it drives me crazy.
Perhaps it’s how lovely and curvy she is, perhaps it’s how soft and creamy her skin has become, perhaps it’s the knowledge that my child lies inside her, an affirmation of our love, sexual compatibility and my virility.
…nah, it’s the humungous tits, isn’t it?
‘How do you want to do this?’ I enquire, in the manner of a removals man asking his partner how they should get a three-seater couch through the front door.
‘Spoon me,’ Laura replies and rolls herself to one side with an audible grunt.
She’s not left me much room on the edge of the bed but I don’t want to make her roll over again. I don’t have a block and tackle handy to help her with it.
I lie down behind her and nibble her neck.
She takes little Jamie in one hand and starts to administer a slow hand job, the likes of which I try to achieve on my own all the time, but never quite accomplish.
‘Right then, let’s take this slowly,’ she says and guides me between her legs, sticking her bum back for ease of access. ‘Slowly… slowly…’
‘Left a bit, up a bit,’ I continue.
The removals firm of Newman & Newman eventually achieves a successful entry, after a few moments of careful movement.
I reach one hand around my wife and caress her belly as we make love.
Everything is going swimmingly until my daughter decides she’s had enough of this shit for one night and delivers a karate kick to Laura’s abdomen that Steven Seagal would have been proud of.
‘Oow!’ Laura shrieks and bucks her hips.
My position on the bed is already precarious thanks to the way she’s lying and having her thrust herself backwards turns precarious into untenable.
‘Fuck a duck!’ I wail and fa
ll off the bed.
In an effort to prevent injury to my still erect penis I twist in midair like a champion diver so that little Jamie is pointing skywards. Unfortunately this means that my back is the first part of my anatomy to come in contact with the carpet.
The air is driven from my lungs, winding me painfully.
Meanwhile, back on the bed, Laura has rolled onto her back to settle the baby down. She does this a little too quickly and tweaks her already complaining spine.
‘Oww!’ she cries with a sharp intake of breath.
‘Damn it!’ I shout in pain, one hand going to my own back.
There we both lie, writhing in respective agony, one on the bed, one on the floor. It’s like the worst advert for Nurofen you’ve ever seen in your life. Looking down from above, we could be partners in a very strange synchronised dance competition for sado-masochists.
‘Are you okay honey?’ Laura asks.
‘I think I’ve done my back in.’
‘Let me have a look,’ she says with concern, and begins to roll towards the edge of the bed.
Looking up, the first thing I see appearing from the bed covers above my head is the looming bulge of our unborn child. It’s like watching a pink sun come up, only sideways. Laura’s face comes into view shortly afterwards, a strained expression writ large across it.
‘Can you move?’ she enquires, voice somewhat muffled by the duvet.
‘I don’t know,’ I respond, still wincing as I rub the small of my back.
‘Let me try and help you,’ she suggests and moves even closer to the edge of the bed.
I realise this already disastrous evening could get a lot worse in very short order if Laura loses her balance right now.
Concern for my own well being is paramount, but even that is trumped by my concern for the baby if Laura falls off the bed, drops the intervening two feet between us, and pins me like Big Daddy.
My arms go out.
One grasps Laura’s belly to steady it, the other flies in the direction of her head - the only other part of her anatomy I can see.
I’m sure she appreciates me stopping her tipping over, but her gratitude is lost in the screech of distress that arises due to the thumb I’ve just stuck in her eye.
Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 Page 8
