But I have a theory. I think it’s all deliberate. I think God plans for those first days home with a new baby to suck donkey balls. Because afterward? Everything else-the shitty diapers, the regurgitation, the constant changing of clothes and bed linens, teething-they all feel like a walk in the park.
After a few more days, I realized my mother wasn’t just being a bitch. She was actually giving us solid advice. Because together, Kate and I were able to figure it all out.
You know how dogs have a bark that says, Let me out or I’ll piss on your recliner? And another that says, Just give me the squeaky toy, you sadistic son of a bitch? And even another one that says, I’m not playing. I’m literally going to chew your face off now?
Babies aren’t much different from dogs. There’s a cry when they’re hungry. One when they’re tired. Another one when they’re bored, or when maybe their nose itches and they just don’t have the manual dexterity to scratch.
In any case, once you figure out the Language of Crying Baby? Life is a whole lot sweeter. And quieter.
Plus-here’s the kicker-in spite of the exhaustion? The frustration? The crying that makes you want to puncture your fucking eardrum with a meat thermo?
You love them anyway. Fully. Fiercely.
Intensely.
You wouldn’t change a thing about them-wouldn’t trade them for all the freaking iPhones in China. Sounds strange, I know. But that’s just how it is.
Screw the Peace Corps. Parenthood is the toughest job you’ll ever love.
Images
So now, two years later, back to the porn-worthy sex . . .
I slide my hands under Kate’s ass-kneading and lifting-bringing us closer. Rocking us faster. My forehead hovers close to hers and I open my eyes. So I can watch.
I’m greedy like that. I want to soak up every gasp-every flicker of pleasure that dances across her exquisite face. Pleasure I’m giving her.
I know Kate’s body as well as I know my own. There’s a contentment, a confidence, a power, in that knowledge that I can’t fully explain. We’re completely in sync. Joined body and soul. A well-lubed machine working in tandem toward that moment of pure, hot paradise that I’ve only ever experienced with her.
Kate’s breathing changes. It turns panting and desperate, and I know she’s close. Sweat trickles down my chest. I move harder, grinding against her-inside her-with every forward push. Warms sparks tickle my spine and tighten my balls. Heat spreads down and out until every nerve in my body is shaking. Quivering. Begging to explode.
Sweet Jesus.
My hips rock back, and I pull almost all the way out. Then, for a second, I freeze. We teeter right on the edge. Together. Savoring the sensation of that perfect moment-right before you come-where it feels so fucking good. But you know it’s about to feel even better.
I slam my cock inside her, burying deep as Kate’s hips jerk upward. She spasms hard around me, gripping me tight over and over, while ecstasy wracks my body, making me shudder.
I hold on to Kate’s ass as if my life depends on it. I press my lips against her neck to soften the sounds I can’t control. “Kate . . . Kate . . . fuck . . . Kate . . .”
It’s astounding. Fantastic. But not unusual. ‘Cause we’re just that frigging good together.
I exhale harshly against Kate’s skin as I come back down to earth. But I don’t move yet. I just don’t have the will. I’m considering going back to sleep. On top of her.
She won’t mind.
At least that’s what I think, until Kate performs the move that seems to amuse every woman on earth. And causes every man on earth to want to squeal like an impaled pig. Without warning, she uses her powerful pussy muscles to squeeze my extremely sensitive dick.
Guys hate that. We don’t think it’s funny. Kate knows this.
I jerk back, pull out, and roll off her.
I try to look annoyed-but don’t quite pull it off. Because Kate’s eyes are sparkling. And she’s giggling. And she looks so messy-haired, flushed-faced, just-fucked beautiful, that it’s impossible not to grin back.
She knows that too.
I whisper, “Hi.”
“Hey.”
I turn on my back and Kate scoots closer, resting her head on my chest and her palm on my stomach.
My tattoo? Noticed that, did you? Yeah-I got another one right after James was born. It’s straightforward, nothing flashy. But it’s as meaningful as Kate’s name on my right arm.
It simply says James. Right over my heart.
“So,” Kate starts, “big day today, huh?”
I run my fingers through her hair. “No. Next week is a big day. Today’s just a technicality.”
One hundred sixty-eight hours. Eight thousand six hundred and forty minutes.
Not that I’m counting or anything.
That’s when it’ll be official. That’s when Kate Brooks is gonna marry me. When she’ll not only sleep in my bed because she wants to-but because she’s legally obligated to be there.
Husband and wife. Flesh of my flesh. What God has joined together, let no one who wants to keep his arm attached try to pull asunder.
Kate bites her lip. “Have the guys told you what the plan is?”
She’s referring to the bachelor party. My bachelor party.
My Las Vegas bachelor party.
The stag party is a night to celebrate the demise of a man’s singlehood, in the rankest, most depraved manner possible. Sex and alcohol are big themes. You’ve seen the movies-The Hangover, Bachelor Party . . . it’s the last hurrah. Like the night before you ship off to war or, if you’re a woman, start a diet.
The groom is expected to gorge himself on all the stuff he supposedly won’t be getting anymore, once he slips that ring on his bride’s pretty little finger.
Of course, Kate is not the average bride. And because our relationship-and our sex life-is better now than it’s ever been, at first I didn’t want a party. I just didn’t see the point.
For a few men, such as me, once you’re in love, all the other tits and asses in the world just sort of . . . blend together. It’s like . . . cars in the city-the honking, the revving, the screech of tires on blacktop. I hear them, I know they’re there, but I just don’t give a shit. I don’t glance their way, don’t stop to look. Not anymore-because I’ve got a top-of-the-line classic in my garage, just waiting for me to come home and ride her.
She’s the only one I want.
But eventually, the guys convinced me. Jack, Matthew, and Steven cornered me in the conference room and explained that the bachelor party wasn’t really for me. It was for all the other guys, who actually had to work to get laid.
Meaning the single guys and . . . you know . . . the ones who are already married.
After hearing them plead their case, I was on board. Between work, Kate, and the adorable little dictator that is our son, I haven’t had a lot of quality time with the boys. I figured it would be a good time-a night of bonding-a way to make some lifelong memories with my closest friends.
So when Kate asks if the guys have told me what the plan is, I answer, “Not really.” Matthew’s exact words were “The less you know, the better. Plausible deniability.” But I don’t want to tell Kate that. It’ll just make her worry.
She doesn’t let it go, however. “Well, if you had to guess, what do you think you’ll do?”
I shrug again. “Steak dinner, casino, drinking . . .”
“Strippers?”
Did you hear the change in her voice? The preemptive anger? The bite?
My eyebrows rise. “A visit to a strip club will probably be on the itinerary, yeah.”
She scoffs. In that you’re-such-a-prick kind of way. Then she sits up and crosses her arms. “Of course. Figures. Because you haven’t spent enough time in the company of strippers-you have to squeeze in another night’s worth before our wedding.”
Have you ever heard of the Missile Defense System-the MDS? Started by Reagan in the eighties, its sole purpose is to defend against another country’s attack. To destroy their missiles before impact. To deflect damage. The system doesn’t analyze the opposition’s argument. It doesn’t take the time to consider that maybe they have a valid reason for attacking. It simply reacts. Immediately. Defensively.
“Don’t get pissy-it’s a bachelor party. Are you trying to tell me Dee-Dee’s not gonna have a guy . . . or ten . . . shaking their junk in your face?”
Did I not mention that the girls will be coming along on our weekend adventure? They are. Delores thought it’d be fun to make it a group excursion, then split up for our separate nights of debauchery. I thought it was a fabulous suggestion-made me almost like Dee.
“That’s different and you know it,” Kate argues.
“Except it’s really not.”
“Will it bother you if Dee hired strippers?”
For years, Sister B told us there were no stupid questions. Boy, was she full of shit.
The mere thought of a half-naked guy who isn’t me grinding on Kate? It makes me want to destroy something-like a face. Go all Fight Club and break someone into mangled, bloody pieces until he’ll never resemble a human being again.
Maybe it’s caveman. Maybe it’s irrational and sexist and unfair. But that’s just how I am.
“Of course it’ll fucking bother me!”
“Dee-Dee says what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”
“Matthew needs to learn how to muzzle his fucking gander.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.