Birthquake

by B. L. Berry

  We both snort, and a tiny smile plays on my lips. “God, imagine that. Going into severe depression after having the world’s most perfect penis for just one night only,” I say.

  Tara lifts her head to the ceiling, deep in thought. “No other man could compare. It’d be perfectly pink and glistening. Smooth, but not too veiny. Just the right length, and thick enough to make you wince at first, but not so much it hurts.”

  “Mmmm …” I hum in a daydream. That does sound pretty perfect.

  “Oh, and the manscaping would have to be impeccable.”

  “Good call. No woman has ever said ‘I love a good hairball.’” I try to joke.

  We both manage to laugh softly, and the tone turns somber again. Tara looks at me softly, genuine concern etched across her face. I never once considered the possibility that these overwhelming emotions could be postpartum depression. But how would I know? I’ve got nothing to compare it to, and it’s not like this is something I expected and was prepared to deal with. Depression is a bitch and can happen to anyone.

  Clearly.

  “Penises aside, there is help for postpartum depression,” Tara affirms. “Talk to your doctor. Let her focus on you so you can focus on truly enjoying this time with your new family. Promise me, Hen.” She wraps her pinky around mine and gives it a gentle tug.

  “I promise,” I whisper back, knowing just how important this promise is to keep.

  The baby monitor lights up as Lillian starts to babble to herself. She didn’t nap nearly long enough. I stand up to go and get her.

  “Hey—” Tara reaches out and takes my hand. “Why don’t I get some quality time with the little lady? I think you may feel a little bit better if you jump in the shower by yourself for a few minutes.”

  I look down at my shirt and take a whiff at my armpit. It is pretty foul, and I’m not sure if that questionable stain on my shirt is melted chocolate or something more toxic.

  “Do I smell that bad?”

  Tara shoots a narrowed look my way. “I’ve been around hobos who smell better than you, Henley.”

  And with that, I drag my exhausted, stank ass to the bathroom to de-funk my body.

  MILK FACIALS AND SLIP N’ SLIDES

  One thing that doctors, classes, books and even Tara failed to tell me about was just how much having a baby changes everything about your life, but more importantly, your sex life. Before I got pregnant, sex with Jeff was constant. While I was expecting, the sex was off the charts orgasmically delicious, albeit embarrassing more often than not. Whenever I wanted it, I wanted it right then and there, and usually Jeff was more than happy to oblige. But now that Lillian is here, the sex — while mostly nonexistent — is more loving and intimate on a completely different level.

  Jeff appreciates me and my imperfect skin, and takes the opportunity to worship every fiber of my being. I can’t help but wonder if it’s like this for everyone, or if it’s a simple testament to Jeff’s kind-hearted nature and pure soul.

  The first time we had sex after Lillian was born was a total disaster. One night after dinner I had bravely proclaimed, “I want to do you tonight,” to which Jeff happily complied. After the usual warm up, we quickly realized that sex at that moment was going to be an inevitable failure. Unless, of course, you consider the tip of his penis was inside me briefly as success. I was in so much pain that I cried, and Jeff panicked and pulled out. At first I thought it had been so long that we’d simply forgotten how to do it, but really, it was my body rejecting everything that Jeff was giving. My breasts leaked at mortifying and inopportune moments during foreplay giving Jeff a milk facial, my vag was dryer than the Sahara Desert, and the whole ordeal couldn’t end fast enough.

  We tried again the following week, and this time I didn’t cry. I may have been so sleep deprived that I dozed off at the end, but Jeff knew better than to challenge it.

  The third time Jeff was hellbent on bringing me to climax, and it was the first, and only time, I’ve actually faked it with him. He tried so damn hard, and I couldn’t let him feel like a failure. I knew it was my issue. But when he gets it in his head that he’s the one in control of my orgasmic destiny, there’s no talking him down. And so I channeled my inner Meg Ryan a la When Harry Met Sally and gave a performance that made me want to thank The Academy.

  I still feel bad about that.

  But at least it made Jeff feel good about himself. As far as I can tell, he has no idea that I faked it.

  Eventually, we found our rhythm again. It just took a lot of patience and the mentality that we had the distinct privilege of rediscovering each other. Things weren’t exactly in all the same places that they were a year ago, and so Jeff turned it into a game learning how and where I wanted and needed to be touched in my new skin. He has a distinct way of making me feel radiant.

  I’m truly the lucky one out of all three of us.

  “She’s snoring louder than a freight train,” Jeff reports as he tiptoes back into our bedroom, shutting the door as quickly as possible.

  “Thanks for getting her down for the night so I could jump in the shower.”

  “No thanks needed. I’m her dad. And that’s what dads do. Besides, you were overdue. Again.”

  I don’t argue because he’s right, though a little recognition that I’ve been getting better would be nice. Talking to my doctor about all the stress and how overwhelmed I felt since returning from the hospital was a game changer. Hesitantly, I took her advice and accepted a low dose prescription for Zoloft and found a therapist who I didn’t want to punch in the tit. I definitely feel better overall, and it’s nice being able to talk to someone other than Jeff or Tara about leaky boobs and how I feel like a failure because I kept feeding Lily when, in fact, all she wanted was a fresh diaper.

  I sorta feel like a brand new me.

  Jeff saunters to the side of our bed. When he pulls off his T-shirt, I allow myself to quickly gawk at the glory of his pajama pants hanging low on his hips. The scruff on his face is sexy as hell.

  Jeff crawls underneath the covers, turns off the light on his side table and pulls me close to him. “She’s perfect. You know that?” he says, the glow from the television illuminating his proud smile.

  “I do. Clearly, she takes after me,” I jest. Between the two of us, any good qualities Lily has will come from Jeff. If she has the grace of a drunk panda with two left feet, then we’ll know she takes after me.

  “You took the words right out of my mouth, woman.” Jeff kisses me softly. He tastes of peppermint mouthwash, and it makes me want to kiss him again and again until I’m dizzy.

  His arms wrap tighter around me, and I relax into his protective hold. I love how he claims me as his without a single word and without going all caveman on me like the guys do in those romance books Tara left me to read. His touch is nothing but love.

  A rerun of The Late Night Buzz plays softly in the background, and I can’t believe how far we’ve come the past few months. He’s a natural as this parenting thing, and can calm his baby girl down in less than two rap songs turned lullabies. And the days where I struggle to keep it together, Jeff manages to keep both Lily and me in one piece. The man is a miracle worker. And my personal lifeline. Witnessing him tackle fatherhood head-on has been nothing short of a turn on, and I want to spend the rest of my life repaying him for his infinite badassery.

  Jeff starts to rub small circles on my back with his fingertips and I release a soft whimper. The delicate cadence has a soothing effect on me that I’ve come to crave.

  I throw an arm over his hip and gently begin to mindlessly write naughty phrases on his ass with my index finger like I did when we first started dating. And just as I think he’s dozed off into dreamland, he opens his eyes, narrowing them at me and says, “What are you talking about? You don’t even have a cat!”

  I giggle, surprised he was paying any attention. I had traced the phrase feed my kitty, but the euphemism was lost on him in a sleep-deprived stupor. I’ll need to be mor
e overt here.

  “Let’s try this again,” I say and begin writing more words with my fingers now that I had his attention.

  My fingers danced over his boxers, in what I imagined with a beautiful, flowy script as I inched dangerously close to his sensitive spots in the process.

  “Umm …?” Jeff narrowed his eyes at me, trying to concentrate.

  “What’d I write?” I try to stifle my smile.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you wrote stuff my muff … part my pink c … and …” his face grows increasingly red, “yam my dam?” He props his head up on his elbow and looks at me curiously.

  “Actually, that last one was jam my clam,” I correct him with an easy confidence like I was reading off a grocery list.

  Jeff tries not to laugh. “You sound like Tara. But either way, if you’re feeling it, I’m down to clown.”

  “Ew! Don’t say that,” I sit up abruptly.

  “What? Those phrases are textbook Tara.”

  I shake my head because I couldn’t care less about the mention of Tara right now. “No. There’s nothing sexy about the phrase down to clown.” I shudder as the words roll off my tongue. There are some things you don’t joke about, let alone joke about when you want to have sex. And the last thing I want is visions of Stephen King’s Pennywise lounging in my loins as Jeff goes down on me.

  “Oh. And jam my clam is?” He smiles smugly.

  I want to yell that we’re wasting time. That right now I’m feeling the good vibe, and he should just shut up and roll with it because who knows when I’m going to be craving him like this again. That any minute our dear, sweet daughter is going to lose her shit and one of us is going to run in there to take care of her no matter how close to orgasm one—or both—of us may be. That the longer we prolong this game of hide the pickle, the more engorged my breasts are going to get and the more likely I’ll turn into one of those fountains where everyone stops and stares because fluid is freely flowing out of a body part.

  You know exactly what I’m talking about, little marble boy who pees into the fountain.

  Either way, he makes a good point. And so I tell him such as I lace my fingers through his with a shy smile. “Fair point. But this time it’s different. Trust me.”

  Neither of us says anything for a few moments, and he looks into my eyes like he’s trying to gauge if I’m being serious or just fucking with him. Which I totally want to be in the literal sense.

  “Are you sure?” He raises his brows.

  I nod.

  He looks at me unconvinced. “I know in the battle of sleep versus sex, sleep will win with you one hundred and ten percent of the time. I’m pretty sure you’ve fallen asleep during sex with me at least once in recent history.” He fake coughs, trying not to show his bruised ego.

  “Why are you questioning my libido, Jeff? Just shut up and kiss me.”

  His lips come crashing into mine with one fist in my hair and his other hand grabbing my thigh, hitching it over his hip. We make out like a couple of wild, horny teenagers who have been left alone for the first time.

  And it’s glorious.

  We’re a frenzy of tongues and moans and hands grabbing at flesh. And when he doesn’t dare push things further, I realize he’s waiting for me to make the next move.

  I shift my weight and push myself up so I’m sitting, looking down at his handsome face. And then I pull my tank top up and over my head, freeing my breasts.

  “God, you’re so sexy.” He watches me in awe.

  I lean down and kiss him madly and fervently, letting one of my hands wander down his abs, and massage his dick to life. But to my surprise, the colonel is standing tall at attention and ready for battle. Jeff groans into my mouth, and before I can loosen the tie on his pajama pants, he’s flipped me onto my back.

  Slowly Jeff slides his hands down my body, gripping my waist with just enough force to make me purr. He trails kisses down between my breasts, taking care not to touch them (probably to avoid another milk facial) and across my stomach before deftly removing my panties, leaving me exposed for his taking.

  He looks at my imperfect body reverently, but it doesn’t make me uncomfortable.

  It makes me feel alive.

  And beautiful.

  I reach out and grab his hands, placing them in between my thighs, encouraging him to touch me. As he delicately strokes my body, he kisses my swollen breasts ever so gently, and I say a silent prayer that the ladies don’t overreact and go into fire hydrant mode.

  My fingers stretch out, reaching to touch his length through his pajama pants, but he grabs my wrist and pins it against the mattress. He nails me with a look of sincerity and care. “You’ve spent so much time taking care of us. Tonight, let me take care of you, Henley.”

  Jeff wastes no time getting intimately reacquainted with what’s below as he alternates using his hands and tongue to coax obscenities from my lips and shudders from my body. He’s working in overdrive, and my body is responding in record time. We both know we’re working against the clock. Lillian could wake up at any moment and who knows whatever freakish post-pregnancy thing my body could surprise us with next. Soon, I am a heaping mess of breathless lust and sweat and…

  Holy shit, is that a building orgasm I’m sensing? Stop the presses! Hallelujah! I was afraid this day may never come. Or maybe that I may never come again.

  Either way, I need him.

  Inside of me.

  This instant.

  “Lube … now,” I pant as I writhe under his skilled touch.

  While I know I feel like things are well oiled and ready to go, a little extra grease is just the ticket to keep the engine running smoothly.

  Jeff complies and grabs a bottle of Liquid Astroglide from the top drawer of the nightstand. In one swift motion he flips open the lid, but when he squeezes some clear liquid onto his fingertips, the whole damn lid pops off and the entire contents of the bottle spill into his hand, dripping down onto his leg and our sheets.

  We look at each other in stunned silence, and I can tell Jeff is thinking what do I do now?!

  For a split second, I contemplate running to the bathroom to grab him a towel, but my body is throbbing, and common sense takes over. Opportunities these days feel rare, and even rarer is me feeling like I’m mere thrusts away from finally achieving orgasmic bliss after months of a post-childbirth draught.

  It’s been far too long, and a woman has needs, damn it!

  “Oh, the hell with it!” I say, grabbing his wrist and slathering the lube across my nether regions, stomach and generally anywhere that my skin is exposed … Which is basically everywhere.

  I need help.

  And I need him.

  And I need both of those things right now.

  “Get over here,” I command, pulling Jeff on top of me and guiding his glorious length right in between my legs, giving it a few slick strokes in the process, and I can’t help but smile at the obscenities he mutters under his breath when I do. I boldly grind my hips against Jeff, wordlessly begging him to enter me. But before he does, he holds his weight above my body and gives me that look of adoration. And I’m reminded that mere eye contact with Jeff is way more intimate than words will ever be.

  “I love you, Henley. And I always will,” he says with such promise as he leans down to seal those words with his kiss. He thrusts his body into mine and takes pause, allowing me to adjust. I wince, but try not to show any discomfort on my face because even though it’s still a little painful post-baby, John Cougar Mellencamp was right …

  It hurts so good.

  “Shit, woman.” He shuts his eyes tightly and presses his forehead against mine.

  Overwhelmed with sensation and desire, I throw my head back, exposing my neck and moan. Jeff seizes the opportunity and licks down my neck and begins to glide in and out of me with ridiculous ease.

  The feeling is simply indescribable.

  We easily fall into a quickening rhythm, our bodies turning in
to a goddamned Slip N’ Slide and our bed a freaking amusement park. He holds his body weight up with one arm and gently starts to caress my breast with his other hand. It’s still greased with the lube, and gliding all over my body. He knows this is a no-fly zone, but neither of us seem to care.

  “Oh my God,” I breathe and pray to no one in particular, digging my nails into Jeff’s ass for dear life. I will be seriously pissed off if his dick slips out right now. All of my senses are heightened, and I’m in a liberating state of free fall where nothing matters except for this moment, this sensation, right here and now.

  “Henley!” Jeff cries out, and for a split moment I fear I’ve clawed a chunk of skin from his left butt cheek. “I’m so close, I don’t think I—”

  And mid-sentence, he manages to hit just the right spot on my body that sends my muscles clenching as I sing an aria toward the rafters. And I swear there are fireworks behind my eyelids. It’s all so very dizzying and breathtaking as I ride out the waves of euphoria.

  The orgasm gods must be smiling down on me tonight because never have I ever climaxed that hard, that fast without the assistance of Walter, my secret vibrator. Jeff chases my orgasm with one of his own and collapses onto my chest in a dramatic oomph!

  “Ow!” I wince, pushing him up and off of my boobs. “My boobs are so tender right now.”

  “Oh, shit! I’m sorry, babe.” Jeff rolls onto his side and flashes me a lazy, yet apologetic love-drunk smile. He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. And maybe in a way, he is.

  “What?”

  Jeff inches toward me and rests his head on my pillow. “Remember when you told me that Tara said sex after a baby was like throwing a hot dog down a hallway?”

  “Yeah,” I pant, shooting a warning dagger his way. If he dares say anything about me being loose, then the life he saves will be his own. I pull the sheet up and over my breasts, trying not to appear as vulnerable as I suddenly feel.

  “Well, she was wrong. Sex with you is better than ever. There’s this unbridled, uninhibited quality about you. It’s fucking hot.” He leans over to give me a soft kiss on the cheek, and I feel the heat rising in my face.