Mother F%@*er.

The D-Train #3

Hello, friends.

This one ain’t for the squeamish. 

Here’s a story about my sad, old vagina. Let me start off by saying that I haven’t had sex in a long, long time. 

The last time I did the deed I was nine months pregnant with my second kid, enormous, and very uncomfortable. I was doing that thing where you google every possible way to make a baby come out of you, and I had already tried acupuncture, yoga, red raspberry leaf tea, evening primrose oil, bouncing my hoo-ha on an exercise ball, and eggplant parmesan (possibly the least weird thing of all). Sex was the nuclear option, as there were few things I wanted to do less at that point, but I was willing to do whatever it took to get that baby moving out. Little did I know that was the last time I would have sex. I will admit, knocking boots when you’re that pregnant is comical, but the most memorable (“memorable”) part about it was my ever-charming ex-husband telling me mid-bonk “this is horrific.” Yay. (This is why my therapist gets paid all the moneys).

And I haven’t had sex since then. So THAT’s awesome.

I remember the first time I had sex after I had my first kid eight years ago. It was absolutely TERRIFYING. I remember being exhausted, having zero sex drive, and being straight-up petrified of anything else going, um, up there. In labor I’d had a urinary catheter, a balloon catheter, and a doctor’s fist rammed up my crotch to break my water. Although that labor ended in an emergency c-section, afterwards I basically wanted nothing to do with anything going near my lady bits ever again. I approached that first sex much like getting a vaccination – do it quick and get it over with – and hoped it wouldn’t last too long. 

The trouble is, since my ex-husband announced he was divorcing me so soon after having my second kid, I still haven’t had that terrifying first postpartum sex. A friend told me that what I am experiencing is called Sex Amnesia. Which I think essentially means that I’m a virgin again? Basically? And dudes, it’s terrifying. I lost my virginity like 25 years ago and there’s probably a very good evolutionary reason why humans are only meant to go through that horror show once. At this point I’m pretty sure that the only way I could get through the awkwardness of a first postpartum fuck with some rando would be to get blackout drunk – and, come on, people. I’m seriously 100 years old. I drink two glasses of wine and have to go home and put my feet up. 

In the interest of research for this newsletter, (and because my friend told me I was now free to enter into an era of pure “sport fucking”), I signed up for a Bumble account with a fake profile just to see what kinds of dudes were out there. Within three minutes I was being matched up with a jackass who went to my high school. Balder now, but still just as sucky. Nope, no thank you. I entered in an age range from a few years younger than me to a few years older and came to the not-at-all surprising realization that all the dudes my age are fucking OLD. I know that I’m a middle-aged mom, and not exactly Kendall Jenner myself (hell, I’m not even Kris Jenner, for that matter), but Jesus, dudes. The entirety of Bumble within a 40-mile radius of my house was your dad. And sometimes your grandpa. It wasn’t…great.

And then there’s me and my hang-ups. I definitely don’t want to date any divorced dudes. I COULD give a divorced dude the benefit of the doubt, but you know what? I also don’t have to do that. I’m old, and I haven’t even finished this season of Stranger Things yet. Besides, I’m 99% sure that any divorced dad in his 40s is 100% garbage. If another woman threw out that trash, why do I need to go digging through the can? But on the other hand? A single dude in his 40s who never married? That right there is some classic man-baby. Sure, a guy could have very good reasons for why his marriage did not work out, or why he never found the right woman to settle down with – but do I need to sift through those reasons? No, no I do not.


For a split second there I thought that the only way I would ever have sex again would be if I found myself a nice, hot widow. But Jesus, that’s a depressing thought. Also, there aren’t really that many widows? Unless I branch out to dating 80-year olds. Which is a distinct possibility, and then as long as I keep him away from the Viagra, I at least I don’t have to worry about having that first postpartum sex with someone? 

Guys, I think that the answer is pretty simple, and I’ll just never have sex again. A woman reaches a certain age, and so goes her utility, right? I hereby declare, I am putting myself out to pasture.


Tell Me One Thing.

Let’s talk about sex, baby. After your divorce, did you go full Sport Fucking? Or did you swear off the dong for good? Maybe you switched teams and met an amazing woman? Or entered into a life of celibacy? PLEASE SPARE ME THE GORY DETAILS, YOU PERVERTS. Just the facts, please.

Remember One Thing.

I locked myself out of my house recently, and there was absolutely no one else to let me in. I had to spend $100 on a locksmith to get inside, and I was so angry at myself for being such an idiot. Dudes, if you find yourself flying solo for the first time in a billion years, hide a key under the mat or something. Some lessons cost more than others. Consider this one a gift, on the house.

Listen To One Thing.

Ok, so this one is obvious, but it never gets old. 

Liz Phair forever.


Amy Blair