I never used to think of sex as anything but fun. When I finally lost my virginity at 24 (like the TikTok kids say “we listen and we don’t judge!”), it was like opening Pandora’s box—except the box was my pants and the Pandora was my newly broken in vagina. Naturally, I spent the remainder of my 20’s making up for lost time. And by that I mean, I was a total slut (humblebrag!)
Even when my husband and I started “trying to conceive,” sex was still hot. We’d get tipsy at dive bars then come home and bone all over the house, go on fun weekend get-a-ways and do it on the balcony of our hotel room, or wake up in the morning and throw in a quicky before work. Sure, the stakes were a little higher—unprotected sex with the added bonus of maybe getting pregnant instead of hoarding Plan B—but it was exciting and fun.
And it worked! I got preggers right away and nine months later, I popped out an adorable baby. I knew right away I wanted another. Pregnancy, childbirth, the miracle of life—it was all so effortless. I legit thought, What’s the big deal? You decide you want a baby, raw-dog it for a few weeks, and voilà. Done.
Then we started trying for baby #2.
Fast forward four years and let me tell you, banging for one week every month for 48 straight months will turn your once-sexy escapades into a literal grind. Sure, we had breaks for IVF retrievals and transfers, but the rest of the time? MILITANT. I wasn’t just trying to make a baby —I was basically an unpaid employee of my own uterus.
And here’s the thing about TTC (trying to conceive): the mental load is like a wrecking ball, and it always swings hardest at the woman. My husband? His job was to get hard and show up. To his credit he was a star employee. Me? Oh, I had a whole-ass checklist: pee on ovulation sticks, track the consistency of my cervical mucus (spoiler alert: runny = good), measure my basal body temperature like I was a piece of uncooked meat, track my period, initiate sex at exactly the right times, and then pee on yet another stick just to sob over another negative pregnancy test at the end of each month.
Oh, and that doesn’t include the weeks we did IVF and I gave myself daily hormone shots, and had my vagina probed with the girthiest ultrasound wand to ever exist while Dr’s whispered about my “diminished egg reserve” on a regular basis. Rinse and repeat. Every month. For four fucking years.
Over time, sex turned into the least sexy thing ever. I was texting him stuff like, “WNTTT”
which was shorthand for “we need to try tonight.” I didn't even have the energy to text him a full sentence let alone be a freak in the sheets.
Like I said, I used to be a fun, slutty person! I once got kicked out of a club in West Hollywood for making out at a table. I boned my BF in a bathroom at a wedding. I went home with my waiter at Buca di Beppo! But now? Now, my idea of seduction was shoving a tube of Pre-Seed into my vagina like I was greasing a baking pan, and barking, “I’m ovulating.”
One night, we finally hit rock bottom. Our toddler had just gone to bed, and it was “go time.” We threw down a towel (classy, I know), turned off the lights, and just... waited. Not for romance, not for passion. For the kid on the baby monitor to stop squirming long enough for us to get this sad, sweaty chore over with.
And there we were: two exhausted parents, in crusty clothes, lying in the dark, staring at a grainy baby monitor, just trying to muster the energy to make another life.
But here’s the thing: that baby never came. After four years of trying, it became clear that baby #2 wasn’t in the cards for us. The “why” doesn’t matter as much as the “what now?” Because now, knowing we’re not going to have another baby, I’ve found myself struggling to reconnect with sex for what it used to be: fun, freeing, and something I actually wanted to do.
TTC turned sex into a job—a thankless, repetitive job with no PTO and no bonus. I want to feel sexy again. I want to want sex again. But every time I try, I feel the weight of those years pressing down on me: the ovulation kits, the condescending fertility Drs, the negative pregnancy tests. Sex stopped being sexy, and I’m still trying to find my way back.
We’re done trying now, and yet the trauma of those years lingers. I’m hopeful, though. I’m hopeful I’ll reclaim that part of myself—the part that used to sneak off with a waiter or pin her husband to the wall after one too many margaritas. I’ll find her again. But for now? She’s lying low, probably hiding in a pile of used ovulation sticks, waiting for her cum-back tour.