The husband would walk in on his wife with the plumber, divorce her, loose the children in a viscious custody battle, get screwed on child support, and end up living in a tiny 1-bedroom apartment and driving a 1987 corvette that needs body work.
The wife would become an alcoholic slut, and spend the next several years boinking everything with a pulse and neglecting her children. Eventually, she’d settle down with “Randy,” a 23-year old motorcycle mechanic with a methamphetamine problem and poor teeth. He’ll spend all of her money before knocking over a convenience store and leaving her all alone in the world. Again.
The male child will become a goth of the worst sort, wearing white facial makeup, dyeing his hair black, and wearing floor-length black robes to school. He will be mercilessly picked on by his peers, and will spend most of his free time writing angst-ridden poetry that has about as much sophistication and unique insight as “Police Academy XIV”. In college, he’ll become a furry and spend four years walking around with a plush tale hanging out the back of his pants. He’ll ditch it in order to get a job, and eventually settles into a reasonably normal life, but he’s forever marred by the stigma of having had his first sexual experiences while wearing a giant raccoon suit.
The female child will, inexplicably, manage to come out relatively unscathed by staying as far away from her destroyed family has humanly possible. She’ll go to a community college, transfer to a four year school, get a BSN and embark on a succesful career has a nurse. She’ll marry a good man, and will enjoy a prosperous life, until her husband will come home early from a business trip on a day she’d taken off of work to supervise a plumber replacing her garbage disposal…
Also, women wouldn’t speak except to grunt and holler unconvincingly.
In fact, sex would become worthless as every woman would never look as if she were enjoying it at all. There’d probably be a law somewhere that says you have to pull out and jerk off at the end of every act.
Phooey.
Men would have to wait, foot tapping, hand on the side, eyes looking upward, while cumming copious amounts of love juice, that seemed to never end. And then, do it again.