Sex Driving Miss Pansy

Partner fell in lust and love with a twelve year old boy. Not really. Because this is an adult situation, what I really mean is that before I was pregnant, I looked like a barely legal adult boy. Age doesn’t have much to do with this, so much as the fact that I was a skinny, scrappy, bounding with energy, flat-chested bundle of boi. And I loved it. I loved getting “sir”-ed; I loved identifying as a transboy when they’d have me at their events; I ate up attracting gay, male chicken hawks with a spoon.

But there is no way to be pregnant and look like a young adult male. No way. Zero. Even if I remembered to get my haircut to its typical short, flirty cut, I still have ginormous boobs, a belly beyond belief and hips that are spreading to allow a tiny human’s head to pass. While I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would (skin rashes and the first trimester’s morning sickness aside), Partner is unexpectedly having a stronger reaction to my new form than either of us anticipated.

When I proposed a legal union with cake, Partner got hard. When we peed on sticks and found out that we were pregnant, Partner got hard. All of our commitments and changes have led to fucking like bunnies. He poo-pooed my worries that I would no longer look like his typical tricking mark and for three months I believed him and I was too nauseous and exhausted to notice that perhaps his sex drive was waning. But somewhere between the stress of moving, getting hitched and watching my body change, I stopped getting hit on.

His mouth says that I am still hot, but our sex lives are no longer connected. He only wants separate outlets. Everybody needs great porn. I would never begrudge anyone awesome porn, but the more I encourage wanking the more I notice that there is a sex drive, and it’s just not for me. He wants to go out tricking so that he can have his traditionally alloted amount of space and variety, but I find myself struggling with my own convictions and an absurd wave of jealousy.

It is really beyond difficult to have one’s worst bodily nightmare come true, to have a near tripled sex drive that was already high, to not get any sex from Partner, to struggle to find a tricking partner who is interested in fucking somebody with a tiny creature kicking the entire time, to have no energy to go out dancing, to not be able to have a lovely sedative prop in the form of a beer ….. and then to bless Partner to go out and have his completely separate sex life, when we typically shared at least some of that drive. Personal rejection plus a demand for favorite activities that I can’t currently indulge in? Recipe for tears. More stereotypical femininity that I hate.

Shouldn’t we be immune to this? Shouldn’t a rabidly queer Partner be flexible enough to be attracted to my ripe glow? Shouldn’t Partner be willing to read any one of the bazillions of sources that say that his cock could not possibly injure or disturb the growing infant? Shouldn’t I be independent enough to find myself some hot, sober trick who is interested in fucking my new look and feel? Am I really so affected by a list of cliché concerns and jealousies that I get weepy enough to look like I’m a slave to my hormones?

I’m going to have to dig deep into my bag of Queer Magic to solve this one. I am trying to understand that fear of or distaste for fucking pregnant chicks is valid. I am struggling to maintain open pathways of communication between Partner who doesn’t want to disclose any details of his current drive and my overwhelming cravings for his body and throughts. I have to not cry every time he does give me snippets of information. I have to pretend to be asleep and stay quiet in the bedroom while he wanks, lest I squash his lusts further. And I may have to acknowledge that just because there are things that I can’t have – late night dancing, beer and his cock hard for me – it is no reason to deny him freedoms. Sadly, and in a self-serving way, containing myself and letting him have some completely external variety may be the only way I currently have to hang onto my former convictions and to let him get enough of his ya-yas out to come back to me with any kind of interest.

It’s probably ill-advised and self-defeating to give into the catharsis of a huge tantrum where I yell things about “hypocrisy” and “betrayal” that are ultimately untrue and unfair. I grow worried for the well-being of my Hitachi Magic Wand, though. It’s motor is going to overload. But buying new, vibrating electronics is probably cheaper than shouting that I miss me and I miss him while I stomp my feet. I miss the sense of Queer invulnerability that came before our banal sex drive woes and stereotypical body silhouettes. There are lots of button-downs with lace that I can hide under a sweater vest, but there is no way to be pregnant and look like a twelve-year-old boy. There is no way to be pregnant and look like a twelve-year-old boy. There is no way to be pregnant and look like a twelve-year-old boy. Deep breaths.

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The Hippies Are Bullying Me

If a little boy pops out, we might have him circumcised. We could have his little, tiny penis put on the chopping block. A crazed, unreasonable doctor will manipulate the itty bitty foreskin and hack it off with a dirty razor, causing our newborn baby unimaginable pain and scarring him for life. I want to have a little boy circumcised just for the glee it will cause me to hear the infant scream.

Are you kidding me? That’s what you think a circumcision is really like? New-age pressure appliers need to get a grip and stop assuming that the only motivation for circumcision is perverse genital mutilation. Like everything else in life, it comes with a slight risk, but we would have a super expert doing it, a boob ready to pop into his mouth for comfort, and, honestly, newborns are less sentient to pain than most of the farm animals that we slaughter and consume for dinner. I’ll comfort him beyond reason every time he wails for whatever reason, but crying isn’t going to stop me from changing his diaper or enforcing naps when he is grumpy, so why would it stop me from catering to Partner’s preference for a boy to be circumcised like he was?

Partner is a gay man and an HIV counselor at a clinic that regularly hands the fresh news that they are positive to men who pop in for testing. He and his generation of queer boys have lost almost all of their mentors and elders to HIV and AIDS and I would not dare begrudge them hypersensitivity to HIV risk, including the recently publicized info that uncircumcised penises transmit STIs more easily. It’s a valid terror on their parts and an acceptable reason to enjoy the appearance of protecting their children just like every other parent in the history of the planet.

Sure, the little boy tots will loose some penile sensitivity, but when was the last time you made out with a man who had trouble orgasming due to a lack of foreskin rather than a lack of confidence? Most men aren’t really starving for more sensitivity in the cock area. And how about the Jewish community? Should we really be panning a long-held religious belief that doesn’t horribly disfigure the vast majority of the cherished and beloved wee ones who are subjected to it? Honestly, I think the just plain old nostalgia over the types of penises that Partner has had in his mouth and favorite porn is enough. If he has a son and decides not to circumcise him because he would be proud of the spawn’s potential to someday act in an au naturale Euro Cream feature, I shall just smirk and relish that we all have absurd dreams about the lives that our children will be allowed to choose when they are adults.

I’m also going to subject my baby, boy or girl, to vaccinations, again with the boob ready for comforting. Not everything that makes our offspring cry should be avoided. You know what would make the alien cry a lot more? Pertussis. Not fun for anybody, and a lot more dangerous that the vaccine that definitely doesn’t cause autism. Frankly, I will even enjoy the extra napping it does on vaccination day. That little trauma that zonks it out means an extra hour of relaxing, reading and sanity for me.

I will obsess over my little one’s safety and happiness and potential to achieve all things good and exciting. I will nurse it from my boobies if I can make it work. I will cater to its every whim when I have the presence of mind to do so, but all of the pressure-applying Attachment Parenting fans need to take a deep breath, stop proselytizing like crazed right wingers and recognize that parental sanity is good for children. The pressure to be constantly wholesome, crunchy and granola is just as bad as the pressure to constantly be wholesome, Christian and pure. The mental health of Daddy and Papa letting a full, warm, dry and safe peanut scream for fifteen minutes while they practice not killing or shaking each other is noble, not scoff-worthy. Informed circumcision, bottle feeding, sleep training, vaccinations and disposable diapers are not the devil. They are parents protecting the most loved miniature people in their lives the best that they can. Back up off this.

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Parents’ Prerogative

I have seen the genitals of my unborn child, and I’m not telling you what they look like. I mean, they’re awesomer than your mom’s, but no details beyond that. Partner and I went ahead and found out because at both of our ultrasounds, Little Alien went spread eagle, and no mater how fuzzy those black and white surrealist sonograms are, basic anatomy isn’t that hard to grasp. I don’t mind when my Alien’s gender question is at the end of a string of other questions, but when it comes up first, I somehow doubt that the asker is anybody I want to hang out with for more than thirty seconds.

I love gore and body facts, including genitals, as much as the next guy, but I don’t really see how knowing the gender of a tiny creature, or a full-grown adult, really helps us interact better as humans. Not initially anyway. Sure, before I buy lingerie or sex toys for somebody, it’s helpful to know how they identify, but telling booger jokes with tots doesn’t require any of that. Neither does dressing babies. They aren’t capable of protesting which colors we dress them in until they’re at least one, and at that age, they usually still fall for being offered two options, as long as they get to pick from them, even if they are both tutus or both bowties.

It’s a parent’s prerogative to decide in which manner to scar their children. Every single parenting style has up sides and down sides, and at least I am thinking about which scarring route to take. Do I want to pay so much attention to its feelings that I turn it into a self-centered squish bomb? Do I want to teach it that candy and animals products are evil? Do I want to make it so sporty it only takes remedial classes? Do I want it to spend so much time in the library that it can’t carry a conversation? No! I simply want to offer it a wide variety of gender options, despite its genitals. There will be down sides to this – like when it screams at me as a teenager for asking all of its friends how they identify – but this is my particular itch. Gender freedom is one of the many ways in which I will permanently mark this child. Once it can talk, learning appropriate use of swear words will probably be a bigger challenge than choosing its pronouns.

I also plan on scarring it in other ways. I’ll make it share its toys beyond the call of duty, making it overly generous and easy to take advantage of. I’ll let it see slightly scarier horror things that it should. I’ll over-explain mechanical and scientific processes that I find fascinating. I’ll let it think that believing in Santa and anybody’s god are on equal footing. And if I ever catch it being a bully, or even not standing up against a bully, I will make it feel so bad about itself that it will wish is was Jewish or Catholic so that at least it had an outlet for all of the guilt. That is, if it manages to not be the victim of the bullies itself. With this gene pool, it’s going to have a huge forehead, poor eyesight, allergies to everything and a pretty good chance of being autistic, considering how many awkward tendencies run in this family.

Everybody has some afflictions, and I’m excited to choose some that will match the traits that crawl out of the shallow end of this gene pool, including muddling its gender traits, starting by not telling you which biological gender it appears to be so far. Keep guessing.

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Tatas, Bosoms, Fun Bags, Mamary Marvels

What should I do with my new boobs? I admit, at first, I was not pleased with the prospect of big boobs. I have always said that if I was offered free top surgery with no psych strings attached, I’d do it. All of my favorite boy clothes would fit twenty times better if I had no boobs. And I am a stomach sleeper. Huge, painful knockers meant I couldn’t sleep on my belly even before it was the size of an autumnal gourd. But now that I am rocking elastic pants, I find myself admitting that the grass is always greener on the other side, and that I should take advantage of this. There are people who would kill for these knockers, so maybe I better try to enjoy them, functionally and fashionably. I could push these boy boobs into some seriously awesome drag.

I love the idea of bikini tops – something glittery or with a busy print. Perhaps a pattern that would be innocent if my melons weren’t so immense – multi-colored hearts with ruffles and kittens. But where would I wear such a thing? I’d be very willing to take beach vacation just to justify the slathering of my belly with creamy sunscreen. It would be nice to float in an infinity pool instead of sinking – as I bet these puppies are buoyant – but then I’d also have to face the fact that those pretty drinks that come with umbrellas are alcoholic and off limits. And I am now discovering what drag queens and badass fat girls have always known – they don’t always make sexy clothes in the sizes of the folks that could actually rock them. Most bikini tops are really quite padded and I bet that a size “large” is a C cup.

My double DDs and nerdy liberal arts degrees have already swaggered in some sweater vests. All of the un-lacy black hand-me-down clothes from friends and family been life-savers with my everyday styles and perversions. I can turn any ill-fitting button down shirt into dork chic by putting a little bit of argyle over it and letting the collar stick out. But I think I could pull of some sequins right now. I wonder if I can find some hot, cheaper-than-maternity fat chick holiday gown. Surely, there must be a hubba hubba low-cut cleavage shirt that I could wear around the house with some lipstick. I don’t think I am ready to wear it out of the house yet, but indoors, it could go nicely with my elastic pants and some of Partner’s special party mascara.

It’s likely that I will poke myself in the eye with the make-up applicator or drop the applicator down between the chi chis and lose it forever. I guess, if it’s a good enough place to lose cookies crumbs and drips of melting ice cream, it’s good enough for feminine frills as well. In fact, better than dressing up the DDs might be putting things between them. I could hold pencils there instead of the always likely-to-fall ear. I could tuck recipes in there. I could be the recipe holder for Martha Stewart. I could actually be the sultry leading lady of an adventure movie and tuck something inside that pillowy cavern to pull out at the key moment to save my romantic interest’s little subplot. “Oh, you think you lost the treasure map? Nope! It’s right here in my bra, and my boobs are so big that I could hide it there without you noticing a raised and wrinkled patch under a flat shirt! X marks the spot, baby!”

And not only will I tuck practical emergency cash into my supportive underwire, but I will also take everything off and put some dirty stuff in between, too. I could now envelope entire hands or a face. Motor boating me would no longer be just like a squeaky pair of floaty wings. I’ve got two yachts over here! And don’t think that I’m above enjoying the thrill that the knockers are big enough to provide a penis with all-around, almost-to-the tip slip and slide privileges. Who cares if it’s a markedly girlie technique, my usual response to a penis is still in tact. “Yay, it likes me! Look how pleased I’ve made it with my skills.”

Until I find some clearance wrack rack-revealers (perhaps a summery sundress to do the laundry in, plenty of leaning over with that chore), I’ll settle for can-can dancing in the mirror and tempting Partner to believe that I enjoy being groped and admired in typically scoffed at ways. I should really be taking advantage of this enormous drag opportunity. I should get some wigs and false eyelashes. High heals might end badly. I’ll just stick with lip gloss and Googling the upward order of bra sizes. They both make me a little dizzy, and the ladies are still growing. As long as I don’t drown between them, I’ll dress them up in style and shake them for the neighbors who can see in the windows.

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Eat Me

The second trimester is, so far, everything it is cracked up to be. I have more energy, an inspiringly high libido and creative spurts all over the place. And I am starving. Ravenously hungry. Each pang seems like a normal hunger at first, and then the Alien *demands* a little bit more, a little over the top. Nothing I wouldn’t have done in the past, just …. more.

In my quest to seem like a good hippy, I eat a lot of produce and I love fresh fruits and vegetables. So I drooled and patted myself on the back for chopping a seasonal, local, heirloom Jonathan apple into my granola – mind you: packaged, store-made, oily, sugary granola, but not a bad breakfast. Until an hour later, when I would have killed certain people for a Kit-Kat or pumpkin muffin. I was murderous for a seasonal treat. I couldn’t possibly sit down to write without another pre-lunch snack.

This time a Golden Ginger apple, juicy and pear-ish, that went equally well with the faux-nutritious granola and soy milk. Lunch, half an hour later, a full hour before noon, was an Empire apple – red, yellow, tart and almost as crisp as the granola. I licked the vaguely healthy flax seeds form the bowl. I was pleased when a pumpkin seed stuck between my teeth, prolonging the sweet, nutty bliss of chewing.

I gave in to the bullying of the Little Creature, admitting that I wanted more sugar than even fresh, amazing pommes could provide. Now that I can feel The Semi-Autonomous Region kicking and rolling around in ways that are probably not just farts brewing, I feel more willing to cater to its cravings. In the name of being a good placental host, I went to the newly unpacked moving box of kitchen goods and hefted the family-size peanut butter jar (that I had considered foolishly leaving behind) all the way to the couch. A full bag of chocolate chips tagged along for the ride. Two spoonfuls is all I needed to save the neighbor lady. I didn’t answer the door when she knocked to give me mis-delivered mail. It was the only way that I could guarantee her safety. I may have eaten her.

So, that’s what pregnancy has done to me and my neighbors. I cave in and eat processed sugar and the occasional mail carrier. What is my pregnancy doing to others? Dear Partner is caring and concerned and overwhelmed by nesting instincts. My mother has declared which yarns she has purchased for projects that will keep her happy for months. My brother has stopped calling, taking insult at my breeding so far from where we grew up. My Grandmother can’t remember that her stuffed bear isn’t a living dog, but she has memorized the due date and pauses form ranting about her evil nurses long enough to talk baby. Bazillions of friends send well-wishes that run the gamut from touchy-feely to feisty mocking.

I love chicks who know that they don’t want kids. I’ve always loved ankle-biters, but I adore safe abortions and millions of varieties of birth control and women who know they are not interested in being absorbed by the boogers, poops and fevers of a squalling teethers. But just like not all parents appreciate non-breeders awareness of their child-hatred, not on non-breeders appreciate my badass new shape.

“Ughn, Fatty, you want to punch those people who say you should be glowing?”

Hey, but, uhm, I am glowing. My belly rocks. I haven’t gained any unhealthy weight. Sure, there are patches of dry, red skin and I’ve put off a haircut for far too long, but that’s normal. Yeah, I am wearing elastic pants, but I still have legs good enough to walk across a city before nap time, and don’t my huge tits make up for the un-bikini silhouette?

I always knew that I was in the small minority that thought pregnant ladies were hot hot hot time to rip their clothes off and do whatever their hormones asked of me. Mmmm, curves that don’t stop, ravishing skin and hair, the ultimate female form. Lick them from head to toe like a Venus out of a painting. Plump, juicy, hummina!

I’ve always wanted to do dirty things to pregnant women, and assumed that there were a few others like me. They post on Craig’s List. They are interested in sensuality goddesses of fertility. But, as always, I wonder if the a guys out there that I would bang are interested in a bonus hole and awesome melons attached to a boy. Not only do I have a random boy-ish factor, but I wonder if the men interested in pregnant booty calls know about the exhaustion, the dry skin, the bumps of fat that come with the jugs, the absurdly dark nipples and the protective Partner that comes running to check on me if I stub a toe or make a slightly uncomfortable face.

Maybe I should just settle. I should eat whatever I please, but make myself in the mood for girl tricks instead of men. Perhaps fewer hairy feminists would notice or dis-enjoy the realities of a gargantuan, gestating eater of unimaginative snacks. Though, I doubt even they would overlook the cannibalism that should happen if my neighbor rings the doorbell while I am holding a bottle of katsup.

I just ate cold lasagna leftovers.

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Faggot Barbie Sparkle Dream House

I was never the child who sat and imagined my wedding dress or bridal bouquet, but I did steal my grandmother’s enormous JC Penney catalog and let my feet turn to pins and needles while I caressed its glossy, cheaply-inked pages. Its size is even more impressive when you consider those thin pages. Even with thin pages, they present pound after pound of page-turning House Porn. I, the faggoty little catalog size-queen, skipped all of the outfits (except maybe the underwear sections) to head right for the bedding, towels and sheets.

Just look at that quilted Matalasse coverlet! 1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets? Imagine so many pillows piled on the bed that when I waltz out of the shower, fully moisturized and smelling of vanilla and lavender, I can simply cast aside my plush, oversized, brightly colored bath towel, let it land on the antique braided rug and collapse for a nap amidst the mountains of goose down and shams.

I think duvets are the best invention of all time. Duvets allow me to change the color scheme and mood of the bedroom without buying a new quilt. After only a short wrestle to get the functional blanket inside of the fashionable exterior, I can have sleeping quarters that reflect the tone of the day or night. If I want to sit propped against clouds of cotton and flannel while I admire the day passing by outside of the window, looking as cute as a tween movie character, I can. When a trick soils my precious snuggle companions after being impressed by their appearance, the linens can quickly be switched out for the freshly washed set that was waiting in the wings. If only I owned a house and had a bedding budget, life would be a glamorous, luxury hotel.

I still don’t have an enormous bedding budget, but that’s ok. I have enormous other things and Partner just bought a house! A house for me and my duvets! Wood floors to pad around on with my cute socks, a washer and dryer to launder my thick and plentiful kitchen rags, air space for me to scent with cooking and spices! There will be no white picket fence. There will be mismatched throws tossed on the cheap couch, there will be much jumping on the not-overly-precious bed and there will eventually be a toddler wiping boogers on the carefully chosen wall colors. We’ll probably have to hang a huge rainbow flag outside above the rose bushes and vegetable patch, to make sure we don’t look too straight. And a leather sling dangling in the corner of basement wouldn’t hurt either.

Oh, all the accessories at once! Table clothes, area rugs, curtains and side tables with a child, dressed as I please until it is old enough to choose for itself! Hush your mouth about Western culture’s over-indulgence with privileged space. I know that six families could take shelter under this one roof. I do plan to adopt future kids and use my resources for good, instead of evil. But for this weekend, I shall prance around in the new living room with my chin and Barbies held high, for today we move into the Dream House, where pink ruffles are acceptable on beds and children and where all of the Barbies kiss each other. Barbie’s boobs might still be better than mine, but my kitchen kicks her plastic four-poster canopy in the can.

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Attack of the Testicles!

Were you aware the testicles are not just for fashion? It’s not just that they look good in jeans. Those charmingly elephantine orbs of silly putty that I nuzzle and seriously consider putting in my mouth are functional as well. Anatomical drawings, biology courses and the general continuation of the species would lead one to suspect this, and their supposed functionality was the reason we were on birth control, but to actually come face to balls with the reality that those little Christmas ornaments that parade through the living room while looking for clean clothes in the morning are responsible for more than very dirty porn scene imaginations is a bit startling.

None of my strap-ons ever got anybody stuck in a situation where a dainty, delicate flower Partner passes up Best Lesbian Erotica to marinate in a bubble bath with a heavy, likely-to-get-soaked parenting tome, Who’s Your Daddy: And Other Writings On Queer Parenting. The gametes straight out of the weakest point of male martial arts and splits-doing had me reading The Book of Dads in the living room armchair, with my elbow propped on top of Home Game: An Accidental Guide to Fatherhood and Confessions of the Other Mother: Nonbiological Lesbian Moms Tell All. These books are all, actually rather charming. Just as charming as the testicles.

The quaint notion that the realities of reproduction astonish absolutely everyone who falls prey to them is refreshing. It is not just I, the rabid queer, who is surprised by the physiological signposts that come with having a kid. It is a delight to read about lesbian moms’ intense, instinctive, chemical protectiveness over their young. Timid but persistent jealousies over the closeness of breastfeeding are not unique to dykes, and insane, obsessive detailed wonder over offspring is not the sole property of birth parents. Neither are impulses to throw the screamers overboard.

All candid parents – adoptive, straight, accidental – are struggling to come to grips with how snot, poop and precocious inappropriateness lead to both over-protective world wars committed for love or serene nap time world peace inspirations. The tales of tiny failures followed by raucous successes and the anecdotes of botched expectations leading to triumphant parenting prowess appeal to me more from the books aimed at dads than from the books aimed at moms. Certainly, plenty of moms are just as impudent in the face of expectations as many dads, and vice versa, but the literary stereotypes lead me to relish the books about the dichotomies of fatherhood and to only sneak eyeballs full of books that I will continue to pretend not to own – A Girlfriend’s Guide to Whatever and Skinny Bitch Tells You How To Do Everything Right.

I would never laugh sympathetically at a pregnant woman’s horror over newly gained weight. I’m definitely way above hiding the grossest parts of pregnancy from Partner, because I know that he should and would support every little detail of my leaking, expanding glory during this natural and empowering process. I am certainly not disgusted by my own bodily changes, and I would never dream of marveling over the tiny differences between the biological sexes that are so magnificently magnified in a scenario like this. Those things aren’t funny or interesting. I would never read about those.

But the appeal of loving eye-rolling over the uncontrollable hijinks of one’s spawn and Partner has always been one of the biggest perks of parenting for me. One of the best parts of being an expert manny is saying “Yep. I know all about the ridiculous thing you just experienced” and beaming at the thrashing, barfing, swearing or otherwise misbehaving kids. As a manny, I was as close as I could get to the inside of parenthood, and now I might actually get join the suddenly even more valid masses by owning one of my own! What a great club – to sit around looking tired and disheveled but radiant with love over toddlers’ antics, partners’ wildly ridiculous parenting styles and the trials of inane domestic life. With a real, bona fide, full time license. I’m not faking it anymore. I have one that’s not a loaner. Oh, to throw my hands up in the air with the joy of permanent adoring annoyance! Bliss.

I know that there are real fears and horrible smells and handfuls of heartbreaks – the books point those out too – but I assume that my standard compulsion to laugh neurotically at myself will take over and I will quickly smirk at my own foolish attempt to open the creaking door that stands between me and definitive proof that the Little Alien is still breathing. I cannot address my terrors effectively. I will move forward to join the comedy club staunchly and blindly hoping that I am not saddled with any of the bigger tragedies of parenthood. I must focus on the hilarious parts that come along with the surprise that those aesthetic and sneaky testicles did something to me while I was distracted by all the moaning and hair pulling. What next? Nipple rings, wrist cuffs and vibrators will also prove potent? Heaven forbid.

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It’s Gay Already

Well, the fetus is gay already. It hasn’t even proved that it’s viable yet and it’s draped in a rainbow flag.

I was first inappropriate in the ultrasound tech’s room by gleefully shouting, “Holy shit! The alien has a heartbeat!” The lovely, understanding ultrasound tech – with her cute pseudo punkass dye job – was a consummate professional. She demonstrated how to call it a “Little One” and wasn’t remotely awkward about Partner’s and my clearly non-standard appearance. She guided the glowing radar paddle across my belly with aplomb and grace, gently coaxing the Little Alien to show us its good side for sacral neck fold counting. But the Larvae was having none of it and repeatedly turned it’s back at the camera, flipping us off and mooning us all at once.

This is when the ultrasound tech noticed the Thing’s arms. At first it seemed just a chatty comment on the limb’s positioning, and then, when her pleasant astonishment continued, it became apparent that our Alien was gifted in the long and lanky department.

“Wow, that arm is really out there. I mean, that is a really long arm. Did you see those knuckles?”

And then, in a move familiar to all who have sat next to my lewd lesbian humor for more than thirty seconds, I held up my hand and said, to the sweet, thoughtful ultrasound tech, “Have you seen these?” Wiggle, wiggle. Wink, wink.

I am gifted with the ultimate lesbian hands. My fingers are long enough to tickle ribs from knee-height, skinny enough to fit into even the tightest spaces and my gangle arms and elbows provide excellent leverage. Everybody notices my fingers, whether I point them out or not. I should have played piano, I should have played basketball, I should have played something other than your mom on her plastic-covered sofa, which is great protection she squirts.

But every once in a while, somebody notices my fingers’ length without recognizing the obvious lesbian applications. Before the ultrasound tech, there was the distant relative at the family reunion who didn’t realize that I was the gay black sheep, banished for my digital prowess. The poor, poor dear went on and on and on, embarrassing herself by talking to the black sheep for long, unaware minutes on end – “Hm. No basketball? No piano? What could you do with those fingers? What could you possibly do with such long, long fingers? There must be something that you could do with those long fingers!” – whilst my ne’er do well friends made steamy, rude gestures out of her field of vision and preponderance.

It’s looking like the little alien will inherit these disproportionately queer carpals of marvel status. We can’t even tell if it has a penis yet, but those little knuckles are flailing out there, just looking for somebody to wonder about their possible uses. Like it wasn’t already guaranteed to be gay, even before the outstanding appendages.

Once kids can make their own will known, I generally respect their wardrobe and activity choices, but until that time, they are excellent accessories. Whichever set of chromosomes pops out is going to be doing some tree climbing and flower picking in a pink sequined shirt with blue overalls and holes in the knees. Until it can pick it’s own tutus, hairdos and footwear, it will be dressed in a steady stream of rainbow jumpers, plaid flannels and prissy argyle sweater vests. Bow-ties if they make them that small.

It’s going to grow up surrounded by musicals, trance techno, folk music and socially conscious hiphop. It’s going to eat tempeh and sustainably farmed local beef while snickering at tuna salad, fish taco and sausage fest jokes. I predict it will have impeccable “How does your stuffed elephant identify?” gender manners by kindergarden. It’s gonna have uncles with boobs and aunties with testicles and very confused grandparents who love it anyway.

Even if this prospective kid wasn’t refusing authority to moon the finger-impressed ultrasound tech, I’d say it’s pretty much guaranteed to be gay. At least culturally. And if it decides, in true identity politics form, to label itself otherwise, who better to sympathize with it’s feelings of estrangement from it’s natal culture than parents who have to fight to stay in the queer boat anyway? I guess it can be whatever it wants, so long as it understands u-haul jokes and why the lab tech is blushing at its firm yet supple fist. We’ll invite it home for holidays even if it dresses boringly and refuses to admit that Amy Ray is the hottest thing since pre-packaged baked tofu.

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Do you know how many of the joys of life you have to avoid when you get knocked up? I can’t have beer, except for illicit sipping. Thalidomide is out all together. I can’t have x-rays or x-ray goggles or get oogled by Super Woman. Does she even have x-ray vision, or does her stack of boobs and lack of cool powers make her a good oogling choice in this scenario?

Bazillions of things are supposedly unsafe for pregnancy, and I am half-heartedly attempting to follow a few of them. I get lots of sympathy whenever it’s clearly a coffee time of day and I wave off a steaming cup and point to my belly. “No no, none for me. I am with child. But if you find this act pathetic and adorable, feel free to slip me some extra bacon.”

But when is the sushi sympathy time of day? How can I make that supposed limitation sounds as tragic as it is? I knew about the limitation and ignored it, to find out that the most delicious thing I put in my mouth last week wash raw fish. Which is sad for my sex life, but great for my stomach that churns at the drop of a hat and really, really appreciated the un-cooked salmon shmeared with cream cheese and the side of bacterial endangerment.

You know what else is supposed to be just as dangerous as following all of my friends off of the cliff when they attended satanic Nine Inch Nails concerts? Soft cheese. Feta and brie are risky to my delicate constitution. And while I’m consuming them in bulk on top of crackers and salami, I will also be attempting to thwart the guilt of shoving another no-no into my system. Deli meats are off limits.

Not only does the butcher or deli guy never think I am cool enough to chat with (even when I ask him for his favorite recommendations – what, do I look scared of liver and sweet meats?), not only do I have hairy-tattooed-arm-envy, not only will he not be my best friend and bring fresh sausages to my potlucks, but now I am also supposed to shun him and his wares all together, lest I catch listeria from that smoked turkey with avocado and extra unwashed tomatoes. Hold the sprouts. Those are packed full of toxoplasmosis.

Never mind that I have never in my life gotten even a little sick from the raw eggs in cookie dough, but I should now avoid those slim chances for almost an entire year. I’m not allowed to buy a cat and a horse and gallop over to the litter box to clean it. Now is the time to avoid toxic cleaning products that I never should have owned in the first place. I also can’t get laid in the hot tub or warm my always freezing toes in the sauna. I can’t even sleep flat on my back.

I will give most prenatal professionals credit for pronouncing loudly that “sex” is ok, but I doubt they and I are picturing the same activities. A few typical positions are covered, but what about strap-ons and fisting? What some straight people call “vaginal massage” I call slow-motion fisting, so it’s probably ok at half-speed, but what about slamming around? Common sense tells me to fist Partner instead of offering to receive, which is the direction that activity usually goes anyway, but would I just be uncomfortable bottoming or actually menacing the developing clump of cells if I slap on a harness to pound Partner’s bum?

Considering that I am wearing sweatpants and baggie underwear because I don’t want to suffer through anything remotely snug, it’s not super likely that I would really slam anything tight with my pelvis, but there have been a few nights that I would have overlooked the belly discomfort and stifled the yawns for the thrill of once again getting his feet up in the air and horrifying the new neighbors with the best shrieks outside of Halloween night. But I wouldn’t be dainty about it. Do I have to pass that up for nine months?

There is no answer to that question. Any doctor worth her salt would say to avoid harsh blows to a belly with an attached placenta inside. Any person worth her salt would say to pay attention to one’s own body. My brain, an often overlooked part of my body, says to take a nap and get on inside him with a lubed up black glove. But I’m not very good at listening, so I might sleep extra some afternoon so that I can awkwardly, timidly slide a dildo back and forth with my hips before I sheepishly admit I’m more scared of my strap-on hurting me and the potential spawn than a heaping plate of raw fish, unwashed sprouts, room-temperature deli meats and aspirin-infused soft cheeses served on horseback. My token thing to avoid will be my supple, leather harness.

Does having a pet avoidance mean that I can forget the rest and scrub cat pans with harsh cleaning products while Partner blows air into my bonus hole? Because did you know they tell you to be careful with oral sex, lest air blown into the vagina causes an air bubble in an artery or vein??? I don’t buy it. I bet shoving sushi up there would probably be ok too.

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My Pillow is Justine Jolie

I have named my new, perfect body pillow Angelina Jolie – it’s tall and skinny, firm but whimsical. Not only does she keep my hips perfectly aligned while I sleep, but she whispers me sweet nothings while I dream. She’s the ideal bedmate who never kicks and doesn’t care if I relegate her to the lumpy side of the bed. Or push her onto the floor. She never has breath that’s sickeningly sweet or like old coffee.

She rinses every single dish that she dirties and doesn’t tell a soul that I secretly think my new paternity pants are the most comfortable super slacks ever. They are better than most jeans, better than sweatpants and I look forward to the expansive elastic being just as helpful at Thanksgivings as for pregnancy. Angelina Jolie thinks that it is witty and charming that I have renamed my elastic pants and long, roomy shirts “paternity,” and she knows that I will still never say something as etymologically incorrect as “herstory.”

My pillow, Angelina Jolie loves that I am unemployed. She doesn’t mind using her ample fortune and bosom to support me whilst I flounder to find a job in a new city. It is hard to find a job as a goofy-looking queer, and it is hard to find employment as somebody with a pregnant belly that flashes “I’ll need a little bit of time off in six months” in neon and elastic. Now I have two mountains to climb. I have to find a job that’s queer-friendly and parent-friendly, both of which give me the appearance of non-professionalism. Never mind that I can spin words like candy, care for children with one arm tied behind my back and show up prepared and early for every meeting that has ever been scheduled; I’ve got short, blue hair and an expanding belly that can’t hide behind my impeccably ironed button-downs, mad skills with office catalogs and an uncanny ability to keep a meeting on track while still allowing for pleasant side notes.

What do you mean you can wear red, blue and pink hankies in your left pocket and be the most prolific worker in the office? I mean, Boss, that I finished everything on my list, half the stuff on their lists and then planned a Dudes With Beards Eating Cupcakes party in my free-time. I organized my sock and dildo drawer while my nicely constructed article on peace in the Middle East was spell-checking. I water the squash in my backyard and fisted your girlfriend before you were even awake this morning.

“Uhm, careful there,” Angelina whispers to me, as I update my resume by resting my laptop on her long, pillowy form, “These are not the best ways to prove responsibility, Mr. Handsome Dreamboat.” I grudgingly admit that what even my pillow knows is true. I’ll just have to count on highbrow ties, articulate interview answers, a strong handshake and exceptional references to help people overlook my appearance and condition. And, now that I think about it, Partner actually already has most of the astounding qualities that Angelina Jolie does, except for dish rinsing. Plus, he has a better butt and I really meant to name the pillow Justine Jolie, anyway. She has qualities that no other mere mortal can hope to keep up with.

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