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They say sex just ends when you have a child. You’ll be too tired, you’ll have a million more things to clean, and giving birth destroys your body. I thought maybe we could put the baby in the hallway so we could close the door and still fuck. But a friend told me she was in too much pain in the first weeks after birth to get out of bed for nighttime feedings, much less walk to another room. The baby sleeps between her and her husband now, so that she can just roll over when the baby needs to eat.
If I had to choose between having a husband or a baby, I’d choose a baby any day. According to our cultural scripts, husbands are assholes who don’t do the dishes, won’t go down on you, and might kill you. Babies look at you adoringly, enjoy hugs, and are small enough to physically control. Apparently their heads smell good, also. Sacrificing your sexuality on the altar of motherhood might not be so bad, if the other option is a husband.
But what happens when your partnership doesn’t follow those rules, when you’ve got a genderqueer, feminist coparent instead of a dudebro? What happens when the choice is between dirty queer sex that it’s taken you decades to find and a squalling blob who can’t wipe its own ass? Will a good-smelling head make up for the loss of the best thing that’s ever happened to me?
There’s a particular queer joy in fucking with zero risk of creating another human. We have our own sexual fears, but we also operate in a parallel universe that removes us from the capitalist grind of raising future workers. In queer Never-Never Land, nobody gets pregnant by mistake, and no one has to buy a minivan and move to the suburbs.
But we were curious. We picked this baby, this salty little kicking thing, created from two sets of genes from two genderfucking people, because we wanted to try to raise someone. We wanted to know: What would it feel like to be pregnant? And I had the universal arrogance to ask a question that can never be answered: Could I do a better job than my own parents?
The baby will plant me firmly in Wendy territory. In a few months, I will not be able to leave the house at all without considering the needs of a small person. But we’ve agreed: We have to fuck, no matter what, even if sex looks physically different than it used to. We can still throw long, maximalist dinner parties and stay up too late. We can keep jam jars of pocket change on the counter, labeled “Never-Never Land” with a piece of tape, so we don’t forget to save up for visits.
If queer people have taught me anything about gender, it’s that we can be Wendys and Peters at the same time. Peter, when he’s not flying away, is a person who seeks out and celebrates pleasure. Wendy, when she doesn’t resent Peter for leaving her the grunt work, is devoted and trustworthy. We can take care of ourselves like Wendy so that we both can take care of a baby. We can keep that queer taste of pleasure in our mouths, rejecting picket-fence capitalist parenthood like Peter. It’ll take effort, but I think it’s possible.
At the beach in Portland, Liz said it was a new moon, a good time to set new intentions. She went to the labyrinth behind the shore to smoke weed and I stayed in the river by myself. I hadn’t been to any strip clubs, and I knew there wouldn’t be time for any before I went home. I felt my feet burrowing into the warm wet sand underwater, and I dug my toes in so I could stay in one place. People on pleasure boats with life jackets and beer koozies sailed downriver. The current wasn’t strong, but I could feel it faintly against my thighs. I closed my eyes, and I felt like maybe it was possible to stay in one spot, even with the river running past me, without flying away. ●
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Source : https://www.buzzfeed.com/toritruscheit/queer-never-never-land