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She’s eaten dinner, taken a shower, prepped her notes for tomorrow’s meetings (and has done the dishes, gotten to inbox zero, and picked up the dry cleaning as well, but whatever) and now she’s waiting for her husband to drop trou and do her.
“Drop trou and do her.” Actual words.
The actual directive that she’d given him nearly two minutes before.
Ben has made little to no progress, and so Leslie waits—impatiently—and watches while he fiddles with the cuffs of his favorite plaid shirt. He goes to speak, stops, regroups, tries to begin again, repeats. It’s nearly a whole minute before he forces it out. “But what if—”
Leslie can’t help it; she wants it. These pregnancy hormones are wanting it all the time and he basically just… needs to give it to her. She wasn’t aware she was on the verge of her patience snapping until it actually happens. “Are you kidding me? You’re an educated adult human being. You don’t actually believe this. No, take off your pants,” she demands and shimmies up the bed, her bottom dragging the duvet up a few inches.
“No, I know that it won’t hurt the babies but I’m just saying what if—”
Leslie pushes her hair out of her eyes and turns to the bedside table, grabs her water glass and downs it. Best to be prepared. “What if what Ben? ...Are you kidding me? This is the third trimester! There’s no backing out now.”
“Since when is it the third trimester?” he asks, his head caught in the wad of shirt-and-sweater combo he’s trying (and failing) to drag over his head.
“Since,” Leslie thinks. “Technically, one day, three hours and roughly fifteen minutes ago.”
“Of course you would know that,” he says, finally freeing himself of the cotton and wool prison. “Of course.”
“You should know that too,” she accuses, her face scrunching up in that way that’s adorable but also means she’s on the verge of being legitimately perturbed. “You’re the father after all!”
He pauses, gives her a deadpan glance and says, “Leslie, you can’t pin it down to an exact time, that’s crazy.”
“I can, I did, it’s done, take off your pants.” Leslie does away with her shirt in the hopes of enticing him, tossing it over the side of the bed to land in the pile she’d left there the day before. She’s pregnant, she’s not doing the laundry, end of story (even if Ben doesn’t know how to properly fold her t-shirts.) She’s only twenty-six weeks along but she feels like a blimp (this is what a blimp feels like, she knows it, don’t question her on it) but she is certainly enjoying the perks of pregnancy cravings.
Thankfully waffles had stayed on her “Can Eat” list. She indulges in one every other day but finds all she craves are Burger King fries and kale—something she never would have eaten before. Other than having the distinct worry that she looks as though she swallowed a beachball the whole pregnancy has been pretty fantastic.
Tons of food whenever she wants, people will bring her things because her feet hurt all of the time and her increased sex drive helps to burn off all of the empty calories that she’s ingesting (or something, sometimes she just makes excuses for wanting to have all of the sex.) It’s a win, win, win, winwinwinwin, as far as she’s concerned.
Though as of late, Ben’s been hesitant to jump into the sack with her. She knows it’s not her body; Ben regularly indulges in moments of body worship which is nice (it’s great, honest!), but not exactly what she’s looking for. What’s she’s looking for specifically is ten to fifteen minutes of some serious penis and vagina interaction.
She doesn’t exactly demand it, but she wants it, and he knows she wants it, and it seems more and more like he doesn’t want to give it to her, for some reason.
Ben fiddles with his belt, moving slower than desired and Leslie blows a gust of hot air out that causes her hair to ruffle. Better to address it now; she’s kind of shocked at herself that it’s taken her this long to get around to it.
Can’t afford to be uneasy about anything with your husband when you’re about to pop out three human beings that he helped make. “What is it?”
“Nothing, I just…”
“It’s not nothing, obviously.” She takes a breath and then another, calms herself. “Ben, we’ve had sex before this. I’m confused why you’re hesitating now.”
Ben frowns and then sits down on the side of the bed, sliding a hand through his still-unruly hair. He sighs and Leslie struggles to sit up and walks across the mattress on her knees, draping herself awkwardly over his back, as far as she can manage. “Babe, what is it? You have to tell me at some point. You don’t actually think you can touch the babies in any way with your penis; no, you can’t think that. You know basic biology,” she says very quickly and almost entirely to herself. “So what is it? Come on. Come on. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”
“I forget that I married the most persistent woman in the Midwest,” he murmurs and then shuffles around so that their gazes can meet. He doesn’t touch her, which is odd. Very, very odd. Leslie angles her head back and assesses him, almost suspiciously, but he presses on. “I know we’ve been over this and over this and…you ever just find yourself…scared?”
“Scared?” she asks, resting her palms on his knees. “Uhm, have you seen me?”
Ben smiles sweetly with half of his mouth. “Yeah, I—”
“Ben,” she says seriously. “I’m terrified. Yes, logically I know that literally billions of people have done this before us and without the assistance and medical care that we have access to, but this is me, and I’ve never done this before, and yeah, I’m freaking out a little.” Leslie leans forward until she can rest her forehead against his.
They breathe together for a moment.
“Just a little?” Ben asks, shakily, waiting until she meets his gaze to grins.
It takes a moment, but she concedes defeat to his point. “Okay, a lot, but I’m dealing with it through food obviously, so, that helps.”
His laugh is quick in coming, and it eases some of her trepidation. He moves to take her hands in his and runs the pads of his thumbs over her knuckles. “I think you should deal with it through me, too. I mean, obviously I wouldn’t come between you and food, but if we could freak out together that might be good. That might help.”
Leslie ducks down and kisses him and Ben kisses back; it takes a minute to ramp up into something she can call foreplay, but she’ll take what she can get. “As long as,” Leslie pants against his lips, “you keep going to Burger King at one-thirty in the morning for me, I will freak out on you as much as you want.”
“I don’t mind.” Ben gasps and finally stands up, begins working on his belt for the second time. “Truth time?” He tosses the band of leather across the room and goes for his jeans. “Yeah I get you your fries but I get a Whopper, every time.”
“I though you’d put on a little chub!” she says in wonder and delight, eyes wide.
“Hey!” Ben says and his fingers still. “...wait, am I really?”
She placates him immediately. “Your love handles are getting a little love-handlier, that’s all. Better for me anyway,” she says and Ben frowns but then shrugs and takes off his pants. When he climbs on the bed, it’s with a grin.
“Right, no more freaking out,” he says judiciously.
“Okay, good, now that that’s settled,” Leslie resumed her position at the head of the bed, elbows resting on the pillow for leverage. “Gimme that butt.”
“You’re so weird,” Ben laughs even as he moves to take off her bra. “Let’s do this.”