I Told My Husband I Never Had An Orgasm. His Response Shocked Me.
The night I met my husband, we slunk into a faux denim sleeper sofa, a hand-me-down that resided in my parents’ basement for years, after too many PBRs and tequila shots. I insisted he watch several episodes of Scrubs, clumsily bringing my body closer to his on the squishy cushions, my limbs made limp by alcohol. Only a few months later, after one half-hearted attempt of moving that metal more-machine-than-couch, we gave up and I accepted the loss of my deposit as I moved out of my favourite urban apartment with antique chevron pine floors and into his tiny suburban house with a red door, three minutes from my childhood home, shrinking back into a town I’d longed to grow out of. In that house, a large overstuffed sofa covered in a nubby hunter green and white wide stripe greeted you just beyond the front door. It is where I sat, stoic, unable to look at the small white stick resting on the side of the bathroom sink, a blue plus sign quickly emerging — …
