They usually wake up before I do. It begins with a slight throb in the armpit, then a shooting pain somewhere under the nipple followed by a crushing sensation around my sternum. All right, all right, I'm awake. Tired, but awake. They want cereal: very crunchy, with very cold milk. And even though it's only five a.m., I must obey The Titties. They are the boss of me. I am their slave.
First Trimester
Three days after conception, my body disconnected from my brain. My own desires and commands became second-class citizens as my newly impregnated vessel began its own independent mission, the
serious task of making my child, or should I say its child, because until I hold that baby in my arms, my body is running the show, and I have been forced to relinquish all control. That first week, just days after sperm met egg, the urge for fresh orange juice came from somewhere below my collarbone. Had to have it. But I don't eat citrus, bad for my joints, hadn't had an orange in a year. Too bad, we must have it. I bought the o.j., drank it and wanted to cry, it was so delicious.
Same week, during a vigorous yoga class, the room started to spin. I was fainting. Fainting? I don't faint. But I was, and something said, no more yoga. Go rest. We need rest. We who?
By week three, it was all I could do to keep up with the demands of my body, its nucleus of desire coming not from my uterus, but from my breasts. They were the only obvious sign of my condition: my new, fake-looking tits, growing daily, growing away from me, taking on a life of their own, unconcerned with my habits, as if I were really just in the way of their needs. The cravings emanating from my breasts came on with a violent urgency, filling me with panic, causing me to scramble through the day just to keep up with their instructions.
During the transit strike, they wanted pastrami on rye, with lots of mustard. Mostly I was vegetarian, but on that day I drove through
The baby daddy was probably less willing to accept this craving than the cheese danish emergency.
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horrendous traffic to get to a Jewish deli on the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge. The sandwich was orgasm-inducing. I ate the whole the thing in my car in the parking lot of Whole Foods, my original destination. Later that week, it was fried chicken. "I can't eat that shit!" I yelled at my new 36Cs. Off to Popeye's I went. Then it was Taco Bell, then Swanson's TV dinners, then bagels, then construction workers. The Titties wanted a construction worker, and not just any construction worker. He had to have a five o'clock shadow, a flannel shirt and Timberlands.
And there he was. It was about week six when the blue-collar cravings kicked in. It was an aggressive craving, like the pastrami, and was bound to get me into trouble considering that the baby daddy was alive and well and probably less willing to accept this craving than the previous week's cheese-danish emergency. But there I was, exhausted, no make-up, pajamas still on under my ugly down coat, half asleep and walking my dog when The Titties made me slow down and look up the block. He was perfect, a New Jersey special, probably some sort of Italian and Irish mix, dark skin, angular face, light eyes, scruffy beard. He was reaching into the back of his red pickup, his worn jeans tucked into his big Timberlands, his quilted flannel with a big rip at the elbow.
My skin hardened. I almost came to a halt. Something in me started planning my attack. I could push him into his truck. He could fuck me in his truck. Maybe he like big boobs. I could show him The Titties and lure him into the cab of his truck. He could do me from behind, maybe even up the ass. Wait, I hate up the ass. No, The Titties want up the ass. Fuck, what was happening?
Then he turned around. He must have seen my expression, my scarlet cheeks. He leaned against his truck and gave me a slow smile. Wow, younger than I thought. Even better, The Titties said. And really really handsome. "How's it going?" He asked. He actually spoke to me and my crusty, unwashed face. I knew that if I let myself speak,
I kept hearing his scratchy voice: "How you doin'." I was scared to leave the house.
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I would say "Fuck me in your truck now!" I shortened the dog's leash, looked straight down and forced myself quickly past his grey-green eyes and 501-encased penis.
I walked the dog for a long time, and when I came back, the construction worker was sitting on the sidewalk. Like a cartoon of a coyote looking at a chicken but seeing a fried drumstick, I stared at him like he was lunch, a cock on a stick. Again he said hi, reached for the dog, patted her head. I wanted to shove his face in my cleavage. I managed a smile, and got my dirty self back home.
"That was close," I said. You blew it!, yelled The Titties. Now they were mad. They kept freeze-framing the view as he bent over: the jeans, the boots, the hard little ass. Over and over again, like a money shot. I felt obsessed. I couldn't stop planning my seduction, my opening line: "No questions, no names, motel off the turnpike, right now." I would wear a corset, no bra, just boobs, presented like fruit. I would sniff his young, sweaty, caulk-and-drywall-flavored body until I devoured him like a breakfast burrito. I kept hearing his scratchy voice: "How you doin'." I was scared to leave the house.
The next day, equally unwashed and ungroomed, feeling like shit, The Titties and I went to the post office. Lo and behold, they were gutting a building on the same block: construction workers. The Titties dragged me to the work site. Ahhh, Eastern Europeans. Smokers, hard workers, serious expressions, chiseled features, good sexy boys. Here came one carrying a stack of two-by-fours. A stack! So strong, look at that set jaw, that dangling cigarette, those eyelashes, the sweat on the neck. The Titties were impressed. They wanted me to flash him, offer him a handjob. He raised his eyebrows as he walked by, clearly thinking, Who is this woman staring at me? I dragged the Titties home kicking and screaming. I had to get a grip.
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