First Dates Dating While Pregnant

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Some people date during pregnancy because they’re hoping to find the one with whom to raise said child. Others are just really horny. Whatever your motivation, bear in mind that having a baby puts an immense amount of pressure on even the most solid, well-established relationships. You’re dangerously tired, the baby cries and gets sick and cries again, and if you’re like a lot of people, your sex drive completely vacates the building. The last thing you want to be dealing with on top of all that is the fallout of a breakup. So, unless you’re open to taking that risk — and starting a serious relationship during your pregnancy — it pays to be upfront from the very beginning that you’re just looking for something casual.
I remember I wrote in my own Tinder profile, “7 months pregnant — solo mum by choice. Not looking for a co-parent, just looking for some fun before the baby arrives.” After all, there’s no point in hiding the fact that you’re pregnant (that would have been impossible for me anyway by the time I felt well enough to have sex), and I wanted to be clear from the beginning that I wasn’t open to sharing my baby.
If you’re planning to date while you’re pregnant, that’s great. (After all, a little-known fact is that during pregnancy, there’s a massive increase in blood supply — including blood flow to your genitals, which makes anything sexual feel hot.) You will do fine and likely have a lot of fun. You just need to be wary of a few things.
If you’re one of the lucky few who doesn’t get sick, you’ll be good to go from day one. Otherwise, get a Netflix subscription and a truckload of crackers, and batten down the hatches until you feel better.
There are plenty of people who are drawn to pregnant bodies. The only issue there is that you may run the risk of being fetishized — which, by the way, can be a hell of a lot of fun! But if you’re uneasy about that idea, stick to using headshots in your online dating profiles as a starting point to weed out the fetishists.
The things I used to like sex-wise weren’t the things I wanted at seven or eight months pregnant. A casual lover came to visit me once and leapt straight into doing things the way we’d done them six months earlier. Old Me had liked it hard and rough and fast; New Me apparently wanted slow and gentle. The date was a complete flop.
You get gassier for one thing. Right at the crucial moment during a one-night stand, I started farting and couldn’t stop. I had no choice but to grit my teeth and try to ignore it until it was all over. After that, my orgasm kick-started six hours of Braxton Hicks (false contractions). Needless to say, I barely slept all night.
Unbeknownst to me, I’d developed an epic snore during my pregnancy. I only discovered this when I was at a new lover’s house for a long weekend and woke up the first morning to discover she’d had to spend the night on the couch.
If you like to walk on the wild side, you’ll need to do your research about safety and pregnant bodies. My first date after the morning sickness subsided was with a kinky butch on an interstate work trip. I couldn’t lie on my back for long because it made me dizzy. I couldn’t lie on my right side for long because it put pressure on my liver. I had to leap up midway through making out and shut all the doors because the smell from the kitchen was making me feel nauseous. My head always needed to be higher than my belly, I didn’t want to put my hands above my head, and I was so uncomfortable on a daily basis that I certainly didn’t want any more pain in my life, which canceled out the majority of her plans. The list of things I didn’t want her to do was so long, we ended up opting for good-old vanilla sex instead.
On another kinky interstate Tinder date, one I scored right before the cut-off for being too pregnant to fly anymore, I was better prepared. This date was into ropes and bondage, so she diligently spent an entire day reading and consulting doctors about safe ways to tie me up. The hardest thing was finding a position that was comfortable for me. I couldn’t be on my knees because my gigantic belly made me topple over. I couldn’t be upside down because of heartburn. I couldn’t stand for long because my feet ached, and lying down was such a complicated process involving pillows and bolsters that we ended up with me bound in a beautiful pattern of shibari knots while sitting comfortably on a kitchen chair.
I don’t mean with sex — as long as you’re safe, you can keep doing that right up to the end (or even during labor, as many do for pain relief!). But no, I mean careful with your emotions. Your hormones are running high at this point. In my final weeks, I somehow got it into my head that I wanted to get back together with my ex (we’d split up years ago, but we’re now good friends). So what did I do? I asked her to be there with me at the birth. I cried when I imagined us exhausted, all covered in blood and sweat and holding a newborn baby together. She was in a committed relationship at the time and was completely unavailable, but I was swept up in a hormonal romantic fantasy, and if I’m honest, I was also a little scared. I was on the brink of something huge, and the idea of having someone I loved holding my hand was comforting. In the end, the birth was a complete catastrophe, and in the chaos, I didn’t even consider calling her in.
After all, once the baby has arrived, you’re going to have so little time for — or likely interest in — dating. So, as Janis Joplin once said, you may as well “get it while you can.”
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"I can’t hide how serious I am about my plans for the future, and why should I?"
When you Google “single and pregnant” the results are predominately based around survival, and for good reason; the solo-and-pregnant struggle is real. Though the single-parent-by-choice movement is growing bigger all the time, it’s still not an intentional decision for the majority of the population. As a result, most articles seem to focus on how to get through the next nine months with some shred of sanity, and stress the importance of asking for help. I’m not saying these narratives aren’t important—pregnancy is hard with any relationship status, and “getting through it” is so often the verbiage used regardless of whether a woman is in a relationship. Growing a human is a strange, uncomfortable, foreign endeavour even at the best of times.
But when I decided to get pregnant on my own—a route that made me feel more in control than relying on finding a partner that could potentially not stick around—I was determined to challenge the norm, to ask unexpected questions, like “Forget survival, what about fun?” If Miranda in Sex and the City (a pregnant icon in my books) could hit the club with her girlfriends and carry on having single sex with eligible bachelors, what was to stop me? Maybe that’s why, like going to spin class or eating sushi, I never thought twice about dating through my pregnancy. In my (perhaps naive) opinion, fear is the worst enemy of a healthy mom (and healthy baby).
Back in January, I was spending my New Year’s Eve in Palm Springs at a mid-century dream home with a group of kickass women. I’d made the decision a few weeks earlier that once back from vacation, I’d start actively pursuing my plan to get pregnant on my own via donor, and I was feeling pretty excited about the future. One evening, the pack of us ended up splitting pitchers of margaritas and plates of nachos at a local Mexican spot, and on our way out I overheard a heated conversation among a group of women at the table next to us. “If you have a kid and someone shows any interest in you, you better lock that down no matter what, because it’s probably your only shot!” one woman said, her friends all nodding in agreement. Though their conversation was anything but personal, I felt attacked.
This sentiment seems to be echoed almost everywhere I turned. When I wrote my first essay for FLARE, about my decision to become a single mom by choice, someone commented on the Facebook post that I “could have found someone…”, and a large number of my DMs and emails have centered around the question, “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be alone forever?” I definitely get where people are coming from with the it-will-be-so-much-harder-to-meet-someone-now stance—in a lot of ways, they’re right. It definitely won’t be easy, but, on the contrary, I think making this decision has changed my dating life for the better.
Though it wasn’t intentional, I find myself with newly shifted standards that mirror my new life path. I still find the same sort of fuckboi types attractive, of course—you know the ones: man bun-sporting, skateboarding thirty-somethings that spend their entire income on tattoos and craft beer, swear they’re “feminist,” and just can’t seem to decide what they want in life, never mind in a relationship. But now, in the rare case when I’m on Bumble and can’t help but swipe right on that motorcycle-riding (spoiler—the motorcycle is usually not really his) band guy who still lives with his parents, the most miraculous thing happens: That type of guy is no longer into pursuing me. Thanks to my ever-expanding bump, I can completely avoid the type of partnership that would most likely have ended in a lot of wasted time—and wasted tears. Now that I’m six months into my pregnancy and undoubtedly showing, I can’t hide how serious I am about my plans for the future, and why should I?
By making the choice to power ahead with what I know is right for me, I have created an accidental filter that blocks the non-serious and non-committal. Yes, being pregnant on my own cuts down the population of people interested in dating me, but is that such a bad thing? Men who want nothing to do with children steer clear, and with my intense love of kids and desire to be a mom they wouldn’t have fit into my life plan anyway—pregnant or not. Men who want to date but aren’t interested in committing come clean with their intentions right away, saving me potential months of agonizing over why my new suitor won’t let me meet any of his friends or answer my texts in a timely fashion. And then there are the totally clueless, confused men who ask questions like “Um, are you even allowed to have sex while pregnant?” or “So what, do you not get a period now?” I don’t think I need to explain why I’m happy to avoid those ones.
Once I noticed the shift I wanted to test this whole theory out on a more measurable scale, so I settled upon a research strategy. I made three online dating accounts on three platforms—Bumble, Tinder and Hinge—because, science. On both Tinder and Bumble I laid everything out upfront with a profile that read, “Single and pregnant via sperm donor. I was ready to be a mom and hadn’t found the right guy, so I went ahead without him. If that doesn’t scare you, let’s chat!” Hinge made matters a bit more complicated, providing no space to write any sort of custom bio or information, so with suitors there I would actually have to tell my matches after they had already decided they were into me. For a hot minute I thought about swiping right on everyone I came across to gather data on a wide sample of the population, but in the end I decided it would be more effective to follow my usual swiping tendencies and study how different the experience actually was while pregnant. Had I committed to a lonely sad life, destined to “lock down” anyone who so much as looked my way?
The results, in the end, weren’t strikingly different than my past single-and-looking endeavours. I had tons of matches on all three platforms and, just like always, some were terrible at conversation, ghosted for no reason or seemed great but avoided plans to actually meet. Tinder yielded lots of somewhat creepy offers to come over and give me massages/feed my cravings/take care of me, and a few “wish I could have been your donor” comments. I dropped that app fairly quickly—being a pregnancy fetish to cross off a stranger’s bucket list felt a bit too sleezy, even for the purposes of my experiment. Plus I already had a couple safe, respectful, trustworthy hookup guys in my back pocket for those particularly horny pregnant woman moments.
Hinge in the end was also a no-go, as it’s a pre-set profile with images and trivia-style questions that can’t be tailored with a specific written bio. With no way to accurately explain I had a baby on the way until after matching—I felt nervous someone with a bad temper would go off on me for misleading him or “lying,” and though that never happened, a few guys did apologize, explain they just weren’t into it and unmatch. It was more than my delicate pregnant ego could take.
And then there’s Bumble, my ride-or-die in the dating app world. I’ve been using the cute little yellow hive for years and have had multiple successful relationships come about from it. I started to work directly with the brand on my Instagram, and I even spoke on a panel about sex and relationships they hosted this past year—so, yeah, I’m a fan. I’ve always said Bumble feels like the best place to find more feminist, educated guys, because the app is so clearly branded as female-created and gives all the power to the girls, with women starting the conversation once a match is made—it was time to truly put that idea to the test. Plus, having made the decision to take the reins on everything else in my life, it only made sense that I’d fare best on an app that gives me full control. Some women find the first “Hello” challenging, but I think it’s empowering, especially in my current, somewhat vulnerable state.
The first trimester of my pregnancy was almost identical to that cheesy JLo movie The Backup Plan. I was dabbling with Bumble while trying to conceive, but at that stage I didn’t feel like it was something I needed to share so I kept it out of my profile and first-date conversation. I ended up meeting a guy I liked a lot—our first date was at a cool craft brewery at the very start of summer: we watched a spectacular sunset, and kissed till our mouths were sore. For simplicity and anonymity, let’s call this suitor R. A couple months later at my ultrasound, I realized that I had unknowingly conceived the day before our first date.
I met a few other people, still unaware I was in the very first stages of pregnancy, but I didn’t click with any of them like I had with R. After that first date, we saw each other multiple times, and R told me he hadn’t felt this way about anyone in ages. Then he went to travel around Greece for a month, and shortly after I got a positive pregnancy test.
I reasoned it was wrong to tell him I was pregnant by a sperm donor via text message, so I avoided the subject in the lengthy conversations we had while he was away. As the weeks went on and he didn’t show any signs of going anywhere—even sending me a bouquet of my favourite coral charm peonies when he heard my senior pup had gone into surgery—I started to panic. I convinced myself that he simply wasn’t going to stick around—who would, right? We hadn’t even slept together yet and I was pregnant! I had all those voices in my head repeating “Aren’t you afraid to be alone forever?” and suddenly I was.
R returned from Greece almost exactly a month into my pregnancy and I was next-level nervous to see him. We had two dates in two days that stretched from an aura reading, to a sail boat ride, to an outdoor movie, and in all those moments I couldn’t find the words to tell him it wasn’t just the two of us on our dates, and never had been. Walking home from a screening of Rushmore, I finally took the plunge—I stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk and just said, “I didn’t sleep with anyone else, and I really like you, but I’m pregnant.” The next couple minutes were a blur of confusion, hugging and questions, but in the end he said something like “This is really scary, but the idea of losing you is somehow scarier.”
We immediately became exclusive, he bought the pregnancy book I was reading and shared his notes without being too imposing on me and my plans, and our dates continued to be as cute as always, just with a few fewer cocktails on my end. Everything was going great, until his friends got involved. Turned out his ex still shared his Kindle account and saw the pregnancy book we were both reading, which lead to a group text amongst his friends that I happened to be meeting that night. My refusal to accept a drink (I brought my own kombucha, because I’m classy like that) only furthered their suspicions, a
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