The Motherhood Walk of Fame. Shari Low

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      Then one day, something really strange happened. It was the launch party for my second novel and I’d spent the whole day in a flurry of excitement, dread and panic. What if no one came? What if the book didn’t sell? What if that cow from that glossy celebrity magazine gave it a bad review? (Incidentally, she did, and one day I swear I’ll track her down.) Anyway, flurry, flurry, flurry…and then I realised that I felt ill. Nauseatingly, gut-twistingly ill. And much as everyone tried to tell me that it was excitement, nerves, stress, etc., etc., I knew differently. I knew. I just knew. A trolley dash round Superdrug, a quick detour into Marks & Spencer’s toilets and seventeen more pregnancy tests confirmed that I was not, in fact, a stressed-out, overexcited basket case. I was pregnant. Cheggers. Up the duff. Banged up. Or as Carol would say–I had a cake in the cupboard.

      Some women were born to be pregnant. Demi Moore. Kate Hudson. Catherine Zeta-Jones. They glow, they bloom, they blossom. Unfortunately I wasn’t one of them. I peed. I sweated. I swore. I went from slim to sumo in about three weeks and spent the rest of my pregnancy humping around the collective weight often adult seals. By the time I actually gave birth I was the size of an aircraft hangar.

      So it’s fair to say that in those months, our sex life was rather infrequent. Definitely less often than a new moon and only slightly more frequent than an eclipse of the sun.

      After what seemed like the gestation period of an African elephant, babe was born, ooohs, aaaaah, gurgle, gurgle, and we called him Mac. In actuality we could have called him Contraceptive because that was the effect. He was either sleeping between us, or on top of one of us, or we were taking it in turns to walk the floor with him while the other grabbed a quick hour of shut-eye on the couch.

      But here’s the weird thing. I’ve heard of this same situation happening with other couples and normally there is one of two fairly predictable outcomes. After a few months, the sex life reverts to situation normal. Or alternatively, the bloke gives up waiting and takes to shagging his secretary.

      In our case, it was neither.

      On the bright side, Mark didn’t go off with his secretary–and I’d like to hope that has more to do with the fact that he adores me than the reality that his secretary weighs sixteen stone, has nostril hair and answers to the name of Harry. Instead he just kind of shut down on the sexual side. Gone. Fun over.

      I suppose I should have paid more attention to it at the time, but to be honest I was grateful. After all, it’s not as if I was throwing my knickers at him and demanding he ravish me once a night and twice on weekends and bank holidays.

      Aaaw, I thought, he’s just so considerate. So undemanding.

      I thought it was all perfectly normal, to be honest.

      And at least I did get the mandatory birthday and Christmas shag.

      Nine months later, Benny came into the world. Two babies in sixteen months. And despite the probability that my privates could now be a prototype for a new Channel Tunnel, we were ecstatic–years of infertility and now we’d somehow managed to buy one, get one free.

      It was great for our hearts and souls, bad for our sleep patterns and nuptials.

      Another zombie-like year later, this time with two babies in tow, I realised that my idea of an orgasm was now a thin and crispy pepperoni and anything with Liam Neeson in it. I’ve always had a thing for him.

      However, it wasn’t the end of the world. I loved Mark. He loved me. He was amazing with the boys. He kissed me like he meant it. He told me he loved me a dozen times a day. We’d cuddle up on the couch every night and enjoy those blissful six and a half seconds before one of us fell asleep. We both revelled in every little new thing that our kids did.

      ‘Guess what, honey, Mac said “mummy” today.’

      ‘Mac ate a whole banana.’

      ‘Benny managed to projectile vomit all the way to the other side of the coffee table.’

      We were happy, contented and together. We still laughed at the same things, understood each other and led a pretty peaceful existence–apart from one time when I suffered a particularly nasty reaction to the dangerous combination of sleep deprivation, a hormonal blip and a few glasses of vino and tried to pummel him with a packet of Pampers for forgetting our anniversary.

      But I was happy. Ecstatic. We had so much going for us: my husband was my favourite person over two feet tall, we had two gorgeous boys, a nice house (apart from the mucky corners) and great friends.

      The positives definitely outweighed the negatives. I could live with the fact that my writing career wasn’t exactly setting the world alight, Mark was working horrendously long hours, and despite his flash salary the exorbitant cost of London living meant we only had £3.63 in our savings account.

      I can remember the exact moment it struck me that I should be concerned about my sex life. Or lack of it. It was late in the evening and I was sitting on the couch. Mark was lying sleeping with his head on my lap. I desperately needed to pee but couldn’t work out how to manoeuvre myself from underneath his head without waking him.

      The closing credits of Taggart had just rolled and I’d even refrained from belting out the ‘No Mean City’ theme tune at the top of my voice. I was aimlessly flicking through the Sky channels, trying to find something to watch, when I came across a documentary on the merits of naturism. At least I thought that’s what it was. Until the naked woman having a picnic in a field started sucking her own nipples and was then joined by a big hunky farmer in a state of excitement. Well, what the sheep in that field must have thought!

      It was shocking. Scandalous. Outrageous. Although I did make a mental note to sign up for a subscription to Country Life. But most of all, it was very, very…horny. I even forgot the urge to pee as I got tingles in an area that had been a distinctly tingle-free zone for longer than I cared to remember. Almost without clear direction from my brain, my hands went wandering–one under my bra (grey, overstretched, another mental note: must go lingerie shopping) and one down to the button on Mark’s jeans. I fumbled for a few minutes, before finally popping it open. God, I was losing my touch. In my younger days I could undress a bloke with one hand, in the dark, while simultaneously biting his ear, talking dirty and parking the car.

      Anyway…fumble, fumble, fumble, much squeezing of own nipples, breathing getting heavy (mine), zip coming down (his), penis located, gentle extrication from boxer shorts, gentle rubbing, then a little faster, a little faster still, then definite reciprocal hardening, then…SWAT!

      He swatted my hand away like I was a mosquito attempting to land on his Ambre Solaire.

      Okaaaay, I thought. He’s obviously still sleeping. He’s confused. He thinks he’s on a sun-lounger in Fuengirola and under attack by a predator. Of the winged variety.

      So let’s try that again.

      I psyched myself back into a lustful mood. The fireplace was now wearing my jumper and my bra was dangling from a lamp. My jeans were open, one hand was going south and the other was going back into Mark’s boxers for a repeat ambush.

      I ran my finger around the tip of his cock, slowly, softly, as he hardened again. Meanwhile my clitoris was throwing a ‘Welcome Back’ party as the DNA codes in my fingers consulted their long-term memory as to what to do.

      I gasped as the tingling reached my toes. My nipples hardened and I was starting to sound like Paula Radcliffe СКАЧАТЬ