The theme of the past few days since my last post has been the battle between do I want food or do I want sex? Or does Dave want food more than he wants sex?
This cycle has ended up being the first fucked up one since I first started charting a year ago and didn’t really know what I was doing. I should have ovulated by day 20 at the latest, which was last Wednesday. However, my body had other ideas this month and decided to keep me guessing. And shagging. And guessing. And shagging. And guessing. And shagging. EVERY OTHER FUCKING DAY.
But then Christmas fell. Originally, had my body done what it should have fucking done in the first place, the issue of fitting in sex over the Christmas weekend wouldn’t have been a problem. Because we wouldn’t have had sex. Simple as that. But because my cervical mucus was still fertile, and my temp spike still didn’t come, we were faced with trying to keep up our every other day routine whilst staying at my parents’ place, eating like pigs and drinking ourselves into a stupor.
And so the dilemma was presented:
Do we eat? Or do we have sex?
Last Friday we had a super session in the sack. It was a proper pick me up after my shit morning. Dave blew a big load because he was so turned on (sorry darling) and I was positive my spike would come the next day and we would have lots of swimmers up there waiting to impreggo my eggo.
Except it didn’t happen.
Therefore our plan was to try again on Christmas Eve. Except we ate. We ate 27000 calories. Each. And then we drank.
I tried my best NOT to give Dave the judgemental eyebrow raise as I watched him drink. First the 4 beers. Then the wine. Then the mulled wine. When he cracked out the Rennies indigestion tablets I knew it was game over. I wasn’t even going to attempt to get him hard after that.
So I thought, Christmas morning nookie! But then that didn’t happen because… well, presents.
Dave suggested an afternoon quickie after Christmas dinner. But then that didn’t happen because… well, constipation.
I suggested Christmas night sex. But then that didn’t happen because… well, we were D R U N K AS A S K U N K.
So Boxing Day morning rolled around. Dave is allergic to the family dog so he was struggling to breathe by this point and just needed to get back to our own place. Still, I tried it on. I shoved my ass literally onto his penis. But then that didn’t happen because… well, it would have killed him frankly.
We headed back home. Dave PROMISED me we would do it that night. I had a bath. I shaved. But then that didn’t happen because… well, we had the Boxing Day hungover shits. Y’know, when your body decides to teach you a lesson and make you pay for abusing it for 72 hours straight? Yep. THAT.
Well I proper sulked that night. That morning I had woken up to a massive drop in my temperature that could have either been interpreted as a 2dpo fallback, or from all the drinking I did on Christmas Day, or from ovulation. We needed to have had sex on Boxing Day basically to have our bases covered because I wasn’t certain Friday’s sperm would have had the strength to survive.
When I woke up on the 27th and saw my temperature had shot back up I was in a quandary. Did I give Dave the silent treatment because it looked like ovulation was the day before and we missed a vital opportunity? Or did I interpret the drop to be due to alcohol and a 2dpo fallback rise? I sought opinion from my girls online and they said there was no harm in getting another one in that day just in case that was ovulation and my egg was still hanging about.
As it happened, Dave fancied some nookie later that day anyway so I knew I was on a promise. But he still held all the power and control. He demonstrated this perfectly when I secretly tried to stuff my gob with my 14th sausage roll that day.
“Put the sausage roll down.”
“It’s either THAT sausage or MY sausage.”
Fuck you Dave. Fuck you.
Well. Fast forward 2 hours and bearing in mind I was looking and feeling the size of a whale, I was looking for an easy lay-on-my-back-and-you-do-all-the-work kinda shag.
Dave had other ideas. Dave thought I’d already ovulated. Dave thought this could be wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am-pressure-is-off kinda sex.
Dave got a bit carried away with the role-play. Let’s just say I nearly said hello again to all 27000 calories of Christmas snacks when he tested out my gag reflex. Oh, and when he wanted me to wear heels and bend over whilst he held my arms behind my back. Really Dave? REALLY?! You want to try out new things whilst I have 17 cheese, pickled onion and pineapple sticks swimming in my stomach?
I went along with it mind, because he thought I’d already ovulated and I knew this level of kink would get him to deliver what I really wanted from him. What I wanted from him all weekend. His man-seed.
I confessed all afterwards. I explained that I wasn’t sure exactly WHEN I ovulated but it had definitely happened now and we could stop.
“Does that mean I’m all done now? I can wank again?”
Yes darling. You can wank again.
And I can get back to eating my body weight in sausage rolls without you emotionally blackmailing me, you bastard.