by Karina Halle
“A womb?”
“Well, yeah. But it’s a place the baby wants to stay cozy in. That’s not a bad thing. You did a great job. But now…she needs to be evicted.”
Her forehead wrinkles, her blue eyes watering. “I don’t want to be induced, Linden. I’m scared.”
“You’ll be fine. They do it all the time. You heard what the doctor said.” I squeeze her hand for reassurance though to be honest, I’m a little scared too, though that’s nothing new. The last nine months have been a lot of me being scared. And horny. Scared and horny, a bloody brilliant combo.
“I know,” she says. “I just wish I could have her naturally. You know, that she would do what babies are supposed to do and COME THE FUCK OUT!” She yells this last bit, staring at her stomach with all the fire in the world.
My phone rings which brings another roar out of her.
People have been calling and texting and emailing non-stop for the last two weeks, starting from a few days before the due date. Everyone means well but it’s getting annoying with my parents and her parents and our family and friends asking every hour if she’s in labor yet.
“Ignore it,” I tell her. “I’m ignoring it. I’ve told them a hundred times already, if you go into labor, they’ll know about it. Baby, you just need to relax.”
“Are you talking to me or the baby?” she asks dryly.
“Both,” I tell her. “Here, let’s get you cleaned up.”
I clean up the pad thai from her shirt and grab her arms, gently hauling her up to her feet. I start to lift the tank top off of her but she grabs the ends herself and turns her back to me to take it off.
I sigh, hating how bashful she is at a time like this when there’s absolutely nothing to hide anymore. “Why are you hiding?”
“My boobs look like watermelons.”
“And I love watermelons. What’s your point?”
“My nipples are the size of dinner plates.”
“And I eat dinner from dinner plates. Come on. You know when you give birth you’re probably going to shit yourself on the table. Watermelon boobs are the least of our worries.”
“Argh,” she moans, throwing the tank top to the ground and grabbing another one from the dresser. “I’m tired of being huge, I’m tired of barely being able to move, I’m tired of my back hurting, I’m tired of my maternity clothes. I’m just plain tired.”
“Look, if you’ll just let me…”
She slips the shirt over her belly and gives me a pointed look. “What? I just had the spicy food. If I eat anymore Thai food, I’ll explode. Not in a good way. I’ve had pineapple every day for breakfast but I haven’t seen any cervix-softening, or whatever it promises.”
“Ah, pineapple. The cervix softener,” I say, imitating a fabric softener commercial.
“I’ve been going for a walk, morning and night,” she goes on, throwing up her hands. “Nothing. I’ve had dates, asparagus. Even the damn bouncy ball.”
“How about I make you another cup of raspberry leaf tea,” I tell her. That’s another baby-ejecting method that’s supposed to work.
“Fine,” she says and we head out into the living room. I help her ease down onto the sofa and put the kettle on, taking a quick look at my phone. A missed call from my brother Bram and a text from our friend Kayla, all the way out in Scotland, asking me if Stephanie’s popped yet. I ignore them for now.
“What about acupuncture?” I ask her.
“Ow, no. I’m getting an epidural, that’s the only needle I want near me.”
“Squats?” I’m just listing off things I’ve found on parenting sites and Google. Trust me, when you’re about to become a dad, you’re soaking up as much advice as you possibly can, from the mundane to the totally crazy.
“Are you kidding me?” she asks. “I’ll probably throw out my back.”
“Well, there’s always that one thing you keep saying no to.”
“Foot massage?”
“That,” I say. She hates anything to do with feet. “And the evening primrose oil.”
“Did we even get some?”
“I picked some up the other day when you were having a nap,” I tell her. “Even the doctor said it was an option.”
“Okay,” she says. “Although I doubt I can even reach very far.”
“That’s why I’ll do it.”
“Linden,” she whines.
“Stephanie McGregor,” I say sternly. “As your husband and father-to-be of our soon to be born child, I’m not giving you much of a choice here. You’ll let me apply this oil and you’ll let me do it while you have your tea.”
A pause hangs in there. Finally, thankfully, she concedes. “Fine. But no funny business. Just stick the oil up there and get out.”
I can’t help but smirk. You’re supposed to put the oil inside, like a greasy suppository. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Only I’m going to make it feel good.
Once the tea is ready, I give her a cup then head to the washroom to dig out the bottle of pills I bought. When I come back out she’s sipping from the mug and watching me with wary eyes.
I shake the bottle at her. “You’re going to have to take off your leggings, or I’ll do it for you.”
She can’t even reach for her leggings if she tried. She rolls her eyes. “Fine, take them off.”
Is it sad that this will be the closet I’ve gotten to her nether regions in the last for-fucking-ever?
Focus, Linden, it’s not about you.
I get down on my knees, and take off the leggings, rolling them down, only to have her say, “I haven’t shaved my legs. Sorry. I know I’m gross.”
Honestly, I’ve barely noticed. All I do notice is how silky smooth her legs feel under my hands, just the thrill of my palms skirting over her thighs and calves.
I’m hard in seconds.
I don’t want to scare my dear wife off though. I stifle the groan that wants to come out and bite my lip to keep it all in. I’m lucky her stomach is blocking her view of my face because I know I have the look in my eyes and the moment she sees that, she’s going to shut this all down.
After the leggings are off, my fingers go back up and curl over the edge of her panties. I’m pleasantly surprised to discover a wide band of lace, like she’s secretly wanting to keep feeling sexy and feminine, even though she won’t show it.
Her body tenses beneath me as I start to pull them off. Hell, I’m tense too. I have zero idea what I’m doing here or what’s going to happen. I just want the baby to be born, I just want Steph to feel good.
I pull them down over her feet then slowly slide my hands back up.
“The oil, Linden,” she says, though there’s a bit of a tremor in her voice, like she’s afraid that she’s going to like this.
“Just relax,” I tell her soothingly as my fingers gently brush against her skin, my thumbs doing a soft sweep of the delicate area between her thighs and pussy. I’m pressing my luck, but I don’t care. To just be touching her like this is driving me crazy.
Before I get carried away, I take the bottle and shake out two pills. I break open one so that the oil starts to run over my fingers and then take the oil and gently apply it to her clit.
She takes in a sharp breath. “It’s supposed to go inside me,” she nearly gasps and I can see her hands clenching the couch.
“It will, relax,” I tell her. “I read this is the way you’re supposed to do it.”
Sweet little lies.
I slowly rub the oil up and down her until she lets out a breathless groan. I have never heard anything so intoxicating in my life. I’m torn. I don’t want her to ever stop making those sounds but on the other hand, if she keeps going, I’m going to come in my god damn pants.
“Oh, Linden,” she moans.
Bloody hell. While I’m still rubbing the oil on her, feeling her get more swollen and slick beneath my fingers, I reach down with my other hand and undo my pants, taking my cock out of my briefs and stroking it with the same oi
l.
Jesus. Who knew this would be so damn hot.
“I’m close to coming,” she cries out softly.
“I know my dick got us in this mess but my dick will definitely get us out of it,” I tell her, grabbing her hips and pulling her toward me. “I promise.”
“Okay, hurry,” she says, quickly sliding a pillow underneath the small of her back. Our eyes meet as she does so, her hair wild and over her face, and I don’t think she’s ever looked so beautiful and crazed by lust. I’ve missed that expression. “Just don’t hurt the baby,” she adds warily.
“I won’t last long enough to do any damage, believe me,” I tell her, my pulse quickening, and I position my dick to her entrance and slowly push myself in, inch by glorious inch.
She gasps and I can’t help but ask, “Are you all right?”
“It’s weird,” she says, gasping again as I go in deeper. “But good weird. Like…painful and full and foreign and…nice. So nice.”
“As long as you come,” I tell her because this is far more than just nice. This all feels like heaven to me, fucking my wife, finally, our last moments together as just a duo, a couple, before we become a family. Her big belly rises between us, a symbol of something bringing us closer together, not an obstacle in the way. Funny how it’s taken sex for me to finally really feel that.
I pump in a slow, deliberate rhythm, my fingers tighter on her hips and then I know I don’t have much time. I’ve missed this so, so much, every single inch of me feels electric and alive.
I reach over and stroke her clit and the pressure is enough for her to throw her head back against the couch and cry out, “Oh my god!” as her whole body stiffens before she starts to quake around me.
Fucking hell. I pump faster and faster, trying to be delicate and hard all at once and the orgasm tears through me just as it’s going through her.
Come on baby, I think to myself with what little brain power I have. This is your signal to get a move on.
But whether the baby is listening or not, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so human before. I come so hard and long that I feel reduced to a primal being.
“Linden,” Steph says, her voice rich and throaty. My blood pounds loudly in my ears and it takes all my strength to not collapse against her belly. “I have no words.”
Once I catch my breath, I gently pull out and get my pants back on before sitting on the couch beside her. I stroke her belly. “Having a baby yet?”
She shoots me a sated grin. “No. But I’m mad we didn’t think of that sooner.”
I give her a look. “You mean you’re mad you didn’t agree to it sooner.”
She sighs. “Yeah. Was it good?”
“For me?”
She nods, looking shy and unsure as she bites her lip.
“Baby blue,” I tell her, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead. “Might have been the best sex of my life, if not the most memorable.” I pause. “But aside from the outstanding orgasm, are you feeling anything baby related?”
She shakes her head. “No. But the outstanding orgasm was worth it.” She gives me a soft smile. “Thank you for being so patient with me. I know I’ve been such a pain in the ass.”
“And you know I love your arse,” I tell her. “I love everything about you. And you have every right to be uncomfortable and miserable, every right to do anything you want, do anything you want. You’re creating a life in here. You have all the power in the world and I’m in awe.”
Tears well in her eyes before splashing over. “I’m sorry,” she sobs. “That’s so sweet. I don’t know why I’m crying but I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” I tell her. “And you’re crying because you’re an emotional mess,” I tell her, patting her belly. “I’ll make you some more tea.”
The rest of the day goes on without incident. I finally answer Bram’s calls and when he invites us out for dinner with him and his girlfriend Nicola, I accept. Nicola is Steph’s closest friend and she has a child of her own, Ava, so Nicola is used to being the sounding board for many of Steph’s worries and questions.
“Are you sure I should leave the house and go out in public?” Steph asks as we stand outside the apartment, the sun setting low on the city of San Francisco. “People stare at me.”
“Because people always stare at the pregnant lasses,” I tell her, holding her hand. “And why not? You’re a sight to behold, a miracle of life and nature and all those things wrapped into one.”
“They’re staring at me because it looks like I swallowed a beach ball,” she says, rolling up the sleeves of her cardigan. But there’s an easiness to her words, her posture more relaxed, which makes me think that the sex earlier, as quick as it was, had a great soothing effect on her.
Bram soon pulls up in his BMW and gets out of the car.
“Hey, sorry I’m a wee bit late,” he says, holding the back door open while I help Steph into the car.
“No worries,” I tell him, “even though I think Steph was this close to changing her mind.”
“Steph,” Bram says to her, “you need to get out of the house. You’ll go crazy if you don’t.”
“Newsflash,” she says to him as she sits down. “I’m already crazy.”
I get in on the other side and Bram drives us through the San Francisco dusk while Nicola and Steph chat about the baby.
“Well have you tried sex yet?” Nicola asks with discerning eyes. “I mean, I absolutely do not want to hear about it if you have but I have to ask.”
Steph and I exchange a glance. “Just this afternoon,” I tell Nicola, rather proudly.
“And nothing?” she asks.
Steph shakes her head. “No. An orgasm and that’s it.”
“Hey,” I nudge her gently on the arm. “It was an outstanding orgasm, if I recall correctly.”
“Yes, yes,” she says dismissively.
“I have to say it’s been nice not to have to listen to the both of you yammer on about your sex lives over the last few months,” Nicola says.
“Bloody right about that,” Bram adds under his breath.
“But,” Nicola goes on, “honestly sex is the best option. You don’t want to drink castor oil and orange juice, believe me. Just orgasm the next week away. At least you get to have fun sexing it up while you wait.”
Steph sighs. “You’re right. I just didn’t know how it would feel with the baby and Linden’s dick all up in me like that.”
“Can we not?” Bram asks, glaring at us with disgust in the rear view mirror. “Please?”
I laugh. “My lips are sealed.”
The restaurant Bram and Nicola take us to is in the Castro, a well-loved Mexican eatery with a flamboyant vibe. True to her fears, everyone in the restaurant stares at Steph as she comes in but at least no one asks when she’s due, if she’s having a boy or a girl, you know, the usual questions. Instead everyone just drinks margaritas and even Steph orders a virgin one.
“You know, you could have a Corona,” Nicola says. “I had one the day before Ava was born. It helped. Don’t know how, but it did.”
“A beer?”
“Yeah. I had a beer and the next day I was in labor. Totally fine.”
Steph considers that. “Fine, I will have a beer. You sure it can’t harm the baby?”
“Steph, even the doctor said that having the occasional glass of wine wouldn’t be harmful,” I remind her. “You have played it extremely safe the last nine months, hell even before you got pregnant. You want the beer, go for it. It’s Corona, it’s pretty much water anyway.”
So when the waiter comes back, Steph orders a Corona along with her virgin margarita and we all give a little cheer, happy to see her living a little, plus a toast to the baby that won’t come out.
Then we have a nice meal full of mariachi music and banter and spicy enchiladas, while Steph enjoys her beer with so much gusto that she looks like she’s having an orgasm all over again.
I take a moment to loo
k around at the table. Bram, Nicola, Steph. This will be the last time in a long time that the four of us will be out having dinner like this. There is a whole world of 4 AM feedings and changing diapers and baby food ahead of us. There is a whole new world ahead of us, period.
And even though it saddens me to say goodbye to the life I know so well, I know that this next step is going to be even better. My world is going to explode in the most amazing way.
I’m going to be a father.
I think I’m finally ready.
“Ow,” Steph says as she bites into one of my leftover tostadas, adjusting herself on her seat.
“Too spicy?” I ask, my own face still hot from the cayenne.
She closes her eyes, frowning. Shakes her head.
“No, I –“
Suddenly a faint pop, like someone cracking their knuckles, fills the air.
“Oh my god!” Steph cries out, her eyes flying open.
The sound of water trickling to the ground, like someone knocked over a drink.
She stares at me in joy and horror. “My water just broke!”
And thus starts the most panicked restaurant evacuation of my life. It’s all a wee blurry but I’m sure I stood up on my chair and yelled, “She’s going into labor! I’m becoming a bloody dad right now!” before someone handed me a shot of tequila, which I quickly downed. Then another.
Then Bram bought a round of shots for everyone in the restaurant while Nicola and I helped Steph, who was babbling nonsense about being so embarrassed about the mess on the floor and wanted to apologize to the restaurant owner and the like. Somehow the three of us made it out to the car, while Bram paid for the bill and started dancing with the mariachi band like the crazy uncle he’s apparently going to be.
I can’t say the rest of the night was any clearer. I remember thinking I had to hold it together, that I kept doing the damn breathing exercises that had been prescribed to Steph. Not out of solidarity as she started to breathe through her painful contractions, but because if I didn’t breathe properly, I was going to pass the fuck out.
Nicola drove us to the hospital because Bram was too intoxicated and after they dropped us off, she went back to our apartment to get the bag we’d packed for the birth.