Sex After My Partner's Vasectomy Was the Most Freeing, Transformative Experience of My Life

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I met my partner when I was 14 years old. Although he started as my best friend's older brother, over the years, he became so much more than that. We had incredible chemistry, the kind that always has you on the same wave length — thinking alike, wanting the same things, sharing similar interests. To no one's surprise, he eventually became my boyfriend, and although we navigated a rocky on-again, off-again relationship with many breakups over the years, we always found our way back to each other.

Seven years into our relationship, I moved overseas to pursue a new career path, and he followed me. To our surprise, 11 months after living there, I found out I was pregnant. At first, we were excited. We moved back home shortly after and settled into our newfound life as an almost-family of three. My pregnancy as a whole went rather smoothly, but childbirth nearly ruined my life: an emergency C-section scarred both of us emotionally, and we decided against ever having more children and having to undergo the same experience again.

Despite always being careful with contraception after the experience, I became pregnant two more times and terminated each pregnancy. I just couldn't do it again, and neither could my partner. Both abortions were not without their hardship, though. I wished for different pregnancy experiences and couldn't believe that, despite being on the pill and using condoms, our contraception had failed us.

In a sense, I felt victimized by my fertility and let down by my body. Why couldn't I just have a normal sex life without all the worry all the time? Although we had never directly spoken about it, my partner must have felt a similar way. He decided to get a vasectomy exactly six months after I had my second abortion.

Personally, while I felt like the decision might have been a bit premature given that we were only then in our early 30s, it really did seem like the wisest decision for us as individuals and for our relationship. Sure, there was a sense of finality to the idea of having a vasectomy — we definitely wouldn't be having any more children with it — but at the same time, it felt as if we should have taken this step years ago.

When it came time to have the vasectomy, doctors generally advise waiting at least a week to have sexual intercourse after the procedure — and even then, we needed to be careful, which meant using some form of backup contraception for a couple of months. I decided to stay on the pill, which meant we'd be able to have condom-free sex for the first time in 13 years.

The thought of having condom-free sex excited me; it felt like a huge change, both physically and emotionally. Before, it felt like I'd lost my carnal, animalistic sexual energy. Sex began to represent all that could go wrong in childbirth and the torment of having another abortion. I became afraid of intimacy and found that I couldn't be myself during sex. Oftentimes, I felt myself mentally drifting off, unable to let myself be present in my body.

But now, finally, with the vasectomy, our moment had arrived: we'd be able to have sex without the nagging thought of a potential pregnancy in the back of our minds. It would be the first time I could throw myself into being fully present without dissociating halfway from the trauma of having had three unplanned pregnancies with my partner.

I was so excited, I even masturbated the day of my partner's surgery, thinking of the thought of our bodies soon coming together without fear.

When the time period passed, the sexual anticipation was at an all-time high. My partner came home from work without our child, who was having a sleepover at his grandma's house, and just the sight of my partner turned me on. I ran up to him and kissed him deeply. We didn't speak about sex at all, but there was the unspoken truth hovering between us that we would soon have the most freeing sex of our lives.

After a light dinner and a shower, we made our way to our bedroom. We started to kiss, gently at first, and then more urgently as we began to take off our clothes. Mentally, I was deeply present. I felt every caress, every stroke; our skin-on-skin contact was filled with tingling sensations, and I was wetter than I'd been in years.

When we started to have sex, I moved on top, riding him with an abandon that I had never experienced before. I bent down to him, my back arched, and kissed his neck, slowly nibbling at the colorful tattoos that lined his skin.

"Turn around," he whispered in my ear, and even the sound of his voice gave me goosebumps. I did as he asked and rode him reverse cowgirl style, losing myself in the moment, circling my clitoris slowly and cupping his balls with my other hand. Next thing I knew, he was propping himself up and turning me around.

"Look at me," he said. And it's then that I burst into tears. As they ran down my cheeks, I felt the weight of all the morning-after pills and unplanned pregnancies leave me, and my body literally felt lighter. The tears were a great release, and I knew my partner understood them to be about his vasectomy, and all the freedom that it now symbolized for the both of us.

Suddenly, I shuddered and moaned deeply, feeling the release of my orgasm. And without removing his gaze from my own, my partner orgasmed hard, too. I felt him come inside of me with zero ounce of anxiety in my body.

Since my partner's vasectomy, sex is spontaneous, fun, and far more adventurous. I've become less fixated on being careful, and I've since turned my attention to new ways of being together physically with my partner. Now, instead of asking my partner about the condom after sex, we use the space to connect.

It's amazing how incredible sex can be when you don't have to worry about the possibility of pregnancy — something my partner and I know all too well.

Correction: A previous version of this article misstated the amount of time doctors recommend waiting before having sexual intercourse after a vasectomy; it is about a week, not 48 hours. POPSUGAR regrets the error.