doctor first declared Sarah was carrying twins that a vision of Sarah with our future children popped into my head and subsequently wouldn’t leave, making me suddenly and acutely aware of what I stood to lose if things went to shit. In my recurring daydream, or whatever the fuck it is, Sarah is snuggled up in our bed with two little girls—two dark-haired beauties with their mother’s olive skin and sparkling eyes—and she’s telling them a bedtime story in Spanish. The entire scene takes my breath away, but the thing that slays me the most is how the girls look at their mother with rapt attention, reveling in her every word like she’s casting a magic spell on them, while Sarah gazes back at their little faces with the purest look of love I’ve ever seen. Up until that vision barged into my head (and promptly took hold of my every quiet moment), I thought my life with Sarah was the culmination of human possibility. But now I know there’s an even higher peak—and the idea of losing what I’ve seen scares the living shit out of me.
I’ve tried countless times to erase that vision from my head, hoping to save myself from unfathomable grief and certain insanity if things ultimately turn to shit (because, let’s face it, everything always eventually turns to shit when it comes to me), but it’s no use. I’ve seen the divine original form of my ultimate happiness, and I can’t un-fucking-see it. It’s as if I’m remembering those little girls snuggled up in bed with Sarah instead of imagining them. And with each passing day as I wait for the other shoe to drop and shatter me, my anxieties wrap ever more tightly around my neck, loosening only during those blessed times when Sarah and I are alone in our cocoon built for two.
“So, husband,” Sarah says, running her hand through my hair again. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”
I stop kissing her tattoo and exhale. No pleasant conversation with a woman throughout the history of time has ever started with those words. I glance up at her. Please God, don’t let her launch into an in-depth probe of our feelings right now—I’ve got a gigantic boner and I just want to fuck my beautiful, pregnant wife to escape the near-constant ramblings in my head.
She smiles down at me, her cheeks flushed and her nipples erect. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my hormones have been going a bit wackadoo lately,” she says.
Is this a trap? I’d have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to have noticed Sarah’s ultra-vigorous sex drive lately—a happy perk of her pregnancy I’ve been only too happy to accommodate.
“Well, to put it bluntly,” she continues, “for the last month or so, I’ve been wanting my hunky-monkey husband to fuck me like I owe him twenty bucks—but he simply won’t do it.”
I raise my eyebrows.
She laughs. “Did I get your attention, my sweet Jonas?”
“Definitely. I don’t part with twenty bucks easily.”
“So, here’s the deal, hubsters. For months, you’ve been extremely careful with me—and that’s totally understandable and sweet—and, yes, I’m well aware Dr. Johnston told us not to get too freaky-crazy during my third trimester, whatever that means—and I certainly agree we don’t want you denting our poor babies’ heads with your gargantuan hard-on—but I think you’ve been taking the ‘careful’ and ‘gentle’ thing a wee bit too seriously. I say this with love—well, no, that’s a lie; I’m just horny as hell—I think it’s time for you to just screw the crap out of your pregnant wife like she’s your sorry-ass bitch.” She pats her belly. “I’m a beach ball, baby. Go ahead and bounce me.”
I’m speechless for a moment, trying to process everything she’s just said.
“I’ve been really jonezing for The Arch lately. Wasn’t that yummy? We haven’t done that one in a while. Or the folding deck chair? Or maybe the pile-driver?”
I motion to her belly. “Kind of impossible right now. What do you say we revisit these grand ideas in about eight weeks or so?”
She bites her lip. “Aw, I know. But I’m starting to feel a little penned in. I think if we put our heads together, we could find something that simulates crazy-freaky. What if we role-play? We could pretend we’re in Thailand and I’m a train wreck and you’re pissed as hell at me?”
I open my mouth and then close it again. I cannot believe she’s invoking