Note: This article contains descriptions of sexual intercourse and may be NSFW.
My husband watches porn. There I said it. Not only does he watch porn, he watches a lot of porn. So much that if I’m on his computer and type something into his web browser, YouPorn.com is the first site that comes up.
The even crazier thing: I’m okay with it.
Let me explain.
Things weren’t always this way. Well, my husband did always watch porn. He confessed so much while we were still dating. When we moved in together, he watched porn on the TV downstairs while I was upstairs, reading. At first it did make me feel jealous. Our relationship was still relatively new, and I wanted to be the only woman who turned him on. I told him so much. His solution? That I watch porn with him.
“Don’t you get turned on watching other people have sex?” he asked.
“You mean watching a dazed, anorexic Hungarian lady with bleached-blond hair getting boffed by a pale, scrawny guy who looks like a Russian Mafia member? Uh, well, no.”
Okay, I’m being a bitch. I’m certainly in no position to judge. I used to work in the sex industry myself.
I just don’t get turned on watching porn. I watched porn before I met my husband, and I watched it a few more times with him. And, well, the positions the female actresses contort themselves into to get a good camera angle don’t even look comfortable. The male partner never spends much time performing oral on the girl either, which is something I like a lot.
So sue me, it’s not my cup of tea. I’ve had my share of hard-core, hair-pulling sexual experiences, but on a daily basis, I really prefer sex to be a little more tender. Plus, having to put up with the inane story lines and the god-awful production values…I’d rather close my eyes and imagine myself having missionary-style sex with my kids’ six-pack-torso’ed swim instructor.
Before my husband and I got married, the porn that he watched was just supplemental to our actual sex life. And we had quite a sex life. I don’t think a day went by that we didn’t have sex. We did other exciting things, too, like have sex in public in a yurt at Burning Man.
There were even a few instances when I was the one complaining when my husband said he was too tired, or had a cold or had eaten too much. I still wanted to get off, so I grudgingly used the Magic Wand.
But then something happened that almost completely destroyed my libido: those children I mentioned just a moment ago.
After two years of dating, my husband and I got married, and just three months after that I was peeing on a stick, learning I was going to become a mother. I was excited, nervous, scared. The pregnancy actually enhanced our sex life. I’m happy to report that pregnancy sex is indeed just as pleasurable as many women say it is.
But then baby number one arrived into the world via an emergency C-section. It would be five days before I went home from the hospital, and even after that, I was popping Percocet for the pain. Add to that learning to take care of a newborn for the first time. The baby slept in a bassinet beside our bed. If I merely closed my eyes, I would start to practically hyperventilate, I was so convinced the baby would stop breathing the second I nodded off.
I had absolutely no prior experience with babies. I had never even changed a diaper before. Now, I was learning to breastfeed, getting woken up at all hours of the night every night to lend a boob, all the while coping with spending my every waking hour with a baby who wanted to be carried most of time.
I was exhausted and probably suffering from postpartum depression. My OB prescribed Prozac. The drug had only a nominal impact. What I really needed was sleep. My husband didn’t want sleep; he wanted to start having sex again. We waited the required six weeks before we could have penetrative sex. We tried. Let’s just say, things were different down there than before. My vagina felt tight, and it hurt like heck to have him inside me.
I went back to the doctor, and she said that this was normal, that the walls of my vagina were just brittle after the birth. She recommended we use more lubricant, which we did, and eventually the pain went away. But just as quickly I was pregnant again with baby number two, only nine months after giving birth to the first one.
My husband and I still managed to get in a round of sex while baby number one took his nap. But my libido had taken a beating. I went back to the doctor to discuss going on some kind of testosterone drug to help increase my desire. She said she couldn’t prescribe anything, so I tried an herbalist. An elderly Chinese woman swung a pendulum in front of my belly while I held her hand. She told me my kidneys weren’t functioning properly and prescribed something called Sensual Fire.
There wasn’t even a placebo effect.
I was still getting used to never having any time for myself, performing chores like carrying an infant around in a Baby Bjorn for most of the day, which, of course, wreaked havoc on my already weak back, all the while baby number two (inside of me) tried the patience of my belly ligaments.
I was lonely and stuck at home a lot. I decided to venture out and join a stroller exercise class. I found the blond, Republican moms with long, angled bobs to be…well, let’s just say we had nothing in common. My mother-in-law was more interested in fêting her friends from the local synagogue than helping to burp her new grandson, and my mom had passed away a few years earlier. Then there were my husband’s complaints to deal with.
“I’m thinking of having an affair,” he told me a month after baby number two was born.
“Here,” I said, limply offering my palm while both children suckled my breasts. “Let me offer you a hand job.”
I told my husband that I was sincerely sorry that I couldn’t tend to his needs better. He eventually stopped talking about cheating. Instead, the amount of time he spent viewing porn skyrocketed.
I didn’t blame him. He had needs, and I wasn’t satisfying them. But I guess I kinda thought I had a good excuse. See, I had my hands full with a few other things, e.g., his two young sons.
Now while my eldest son napped, the baby was awake, and vice-versa. There went our chance for naptime sex. At night, when both kids finally went to sleep, I just wanted to fall into bed beside them. I knew my next wakeup was not far off.
I developed huge, dark circles under my eyes. We finally hired a nanny to help out part-time. I remember how each morning I used to wait for her at the front window like a dog waiting for his owner to come home. I’d see her pull her car into our driveway, and whoosh…I’d swing open our front door, pushing my kids into her willing hands. Afterward, I’d practically run back to bed, but not before I swallowed a couple of Klonopin.
Yes, I was a privileged, white woman who was too exhausted to give her husband sex. I began to thank my lucky stars that porn existed. Porn bought me a couple of extra hours of sleep and probably saved my marriage.
Even through all the chaos, I’ve always tried to make sure that not a week goes by without my husband and I having sex at least once. I plan romantic dinners out while we leave the kids to terrorize my in-laws. But more and more, I find the door to my husband’s office closed at night. Often I can hear the erotic moans of a female coming through the door from the speakers on his computer. I just shrug and turn up the TV.
I’m used to seeing the bottle of lube next to his computer. It’s always there, my husband never tries to hide it, and I don’t expect him to. Well, maybe when the kids are old enough to figure out what it’s used for. Until then, I just move the lube to a higher shelf. Last thing I want is to turn my head for a second only to find one of my young sons covered in a sheen of Astroglide.
And when my husband’s office door is closed, I know not to knock because it usually means he’s “busy.” This whole situation probbly sounds disturbing to women who aren’t married—or who don’t have kids. But to me, it’s quite normal.
Yes, my husband watches porn. And I’m more than OK with it.
Lara Michelle is a former writer for both Hustler and Playboy, has made documentaries about Mexican rock bands, and lived in Barcelona, Spain, where Ediciones B published her memoir, Confessions of a Dominatrix, which chronicled her experiences paying off her debts as a professional mistress. Her short fiction has appeared in the Midwest Literary Magazine, Foliate Oak, Cliterature, Penduline Press, ninepatch, and in an anthology called Off-Season. Her most recent essays have been published on Luna Luna Magazine, Quail Bell and Carnival Literary Magazine. This article originally appeared on xoJane and was republished with permission.
Photo via Aplomb/Flickr (CC BY S.A.-2.0)