This whole pregnancy thing comes with a plethora of unimpressive side effects. As my body changes, I’ve been stricken with things like nausea, heartburn, fatigue and general tenderness and malaise – all of which I’ve read up on, or been told about, so none have been any great surprise.

Amidst all of the bleh, there has been one wonderful and unexpected condition that I’ve never heard of, or seen referenced in any of the pregnancy articles or literature I’ve come across thus far:

I am having the most intense sex of my life.

Which is saying a lot; the boy and I have always done well horizontally. Our usual bedroom MO is to make a session last for as many orgasms as he can get out of me. These days, all he has to do is, uh, put the key in the ignition to get me to where I need to go. I simply cannot handle all the goodness. It’s ridiculous – yet strangely fantastic all the same.

The other night, I teased him that I’m training him to become a wham, bam, thank-you-ma’am kind of guy.

“Never,” he scoffed. “But I am the guy who will always give you exactly what you need.”

I had to laugh. He’s so cocky.

No pun intended.

Lately, it’s favourite letter of the alphabet.