Baby Love

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Baby Love by Carellin Brooks          

When I was six months pregnant, I took out an ad in the newspaper. It began “Knocked-up Dyke” and went on to specify the sort of sex I was looking for: “infrequent but incredible.” The infrequent bit was a nod to my current circumstances. I already had two lovers. The first lover was my official girlfriend, who lived in another city; the second was a man I had picked up along the way, intending nothing more serious than a casual affair. The man stuck, as people sometimes do; my girlfriend, who by all normal standards should have been outraged, did too. It helps that they like each other.


Two lovers should be enough sex for anyone, but it wasn’t for me, not in that state. In addition to the sex I was having, there was the sex I was dreaming: I was always trying to sleep with someone who refused me, either through circumstance or plain old lack of interest. When I woke, I would stare upwards for a long moment, feeling my convexing abdomen and planning, like an addict, for my next fix. Maybe I would visit my girlfriend; maybe I would call the man and entice him over. Clearly, I needed more.


The only response I received to my ad made a witty mention of Baby Gap, so I contacted its writer for a date. Afterwards, she took me to her house. We touched for the first time in the dark kitchen, which smelled of the dogs that had been unceremoniously ejected into the backyard. She made a noise in her throat and I breathed faster. It was the first time I had had sex with a stranger since I became pregnant, and I was not sure what to expect. Would I find it difficult, the strangeness of somebody new? I had no time to wonder. She touched me urgently, her urgency sparking my own. Her hands moved gently over my belly; elsewhere, they gripped me firmly. She said, “Yes.” Later she stroked me, murmuring how beautiful I was, in my strange state. In the morning, she told me how she had felt the fetus stir, in the night; then she got up and made breakfast.


We are conditioned, these days, to the virtues of self-reliance. But my date knew, somehow, what I would never have admitted, to her or anyone: that
I wanted, in my doubled state, to be worshipped. She knew, without being told, the mechanics: not to lean too hard on my abdomen, the right way to use her mouth, how to take what I had to give from my still-strong arms and hands. But the best thing she was able to offer was her understanding of what
I had become. My growing breasts with the obscenely dark nipples, the new lushness of my labia, the small person gathering minutely in my womb; though she had never met me before, she recognized all of these bodily
markers and more. In doing so, she told me a story of myself and of what I was
becoming — told it not with words but with her body rolling against mine, her gasps and the way she held on, tightly.


We get what we need, I suppose, and my three lovers — the girlfriend,
the boyfriend and the date who still hasn’t told me her name because we both like it that way — are giving me plenty. But the dreams still come, and the bigger I get, the more I think I can take inside of me.

Carellin Brooks and Nerve.com