“I had the most vivid sex dreams last night,” said herself at breakfast. She still retches after every second spoonful of porridge then follows it with a manic laugh. We’ve concluded to it is a bizarre pregnancy symptom or maybe the baby is trying to communicate with us. It’s amazing how you adjust to your new normal.
“Oh it doesn’t matter… but I now have a shooting razor blade type pain in my right nipple,” she said whilst checking the time.
“Did you experiment with bondage with some hussy?” We both were taken aback by my use of the somewhat archaic word that is hussy. I think the last time I heard it being used was by a nun in my school. The hussy was wearing a beaded necklace, only “modest” necklaces with crosses were allowed.
“It was a few people Birdie, but it doesn’t matter! Pregnancy just makes you really horny in the second trimester.”
“For other people apparently.”
“Listen let’s not fight, I’m pregnant, I’m not myself.” And she’s right, she’s not herself, she’s potentially two people which is really fecked up when you think about. You’re totally outnumbered in any argument and only asshole partners try to tell a pregnant woman that they are right. This is the one time that herself as a socially accepted excuse for wanting to eat coal whilst yearning to ride anything in leather chaps.
We met for dinner after work. I watched as herself made her way to our table. I noted her eyes being draw to multiple pert arses and revealing boobs. My partner had turned into a dirty old man.
“You’d want to reign in the auld salacious gaze there love before you get us kicked out.”
“I can’t feckin help it Birdie, I just have sex on the brain.” She started fiddling with the breadstick very vigorously until it snapped.
“You just wanked bread.”
“Now my feckin left nipple is shooting with razor blade like pian.” She took another breadstick and started fellitio on it.
“Would you feckin stop giving head to bread!”
“You’ve been transformed into some 70s porn star and I’m very conflicted if I’m honest.” On one hand happy days but on the other hand was I enough? I really can’t function on less than seven hours sleep and by the wild look in her eyes sleep was for the weak.
“Am I really that bad Birdie?” She started to caress her breasts over her dress, something that had drawn attention from the waiter which prompted him to ask, “is everything OK?”
“She’s pregnant, heartburn.”
“Ah, yes,” he nodded knowingly at me. He knew that heartburn was codeword for sex-crazed hormonal missus, “congratulations,” he added as he squeezed my arm and winked, “I recommend you start drinking espressos like us Italians.” I nodded solemnly.
“I’ll have one to go.”