The temperature has been over a hundred every day this week. It might be enough to push Musette over the edge. Thank God she’s home now, protected by the air conditioner. The swamp coolers here at the office can’t keep up. We’ve had the plumbers in five times.
My boss is headed to another television set. He’s tired of the teenager. He does love babies though. Calls them store cats. He almost got one today. The sweet thing is under the tenth percentile. The hospital forgot to schedule our appointment. They’re going to have to induce. Pitosin is a drug that we should become familiar with. They’re going to start by eroding Musette’s cervix. A pill goes in, attached to a string and eats away at the cervical wall for twelve hours. After that, they insert balloons.
It’s going to be intense, says the midwife. We’re looking at forty hours. The one thing that I had not wanted was pitocin, says Musette. But this is exactly the sort of situation that it is designed for, say both the midwife and myself. The baby will do better outside of your womb. Your placenta is not working. Things are not going well. The baby’s growth has plateaued. She doesn’t use the word retarded this time. I keep going back to the void, the failed baby, the relief. We’ve unboxed all of our gifts. It’s going to be hard to get a refund at this point. Musette had been keeping the receipts in her purse, but I spilled water all over it yesterday.
I’ve been greedy from the get go, so selfish, I could have avoided all of this back in Brooklyn when Musette first brought the idea up. Now I’m here in Salt Lake, listening to her reject my grandma’s full name in favor of the nickname, which is our dog’s nickname, and which I’m more than happy to let her call her, so long as she please just let me have what I want.
Her little sister is sitting across from us, and I’m doing all that I can to deduce whether or not she’s wearing a bra. She’s got a short black skirt on. She pulls it up a little each time she sits. Her twin is wearing a polo shirt with her work’s logo embroidered on it. She pulls up the the sleeve of her right arm to have Musette feel her shave. Two little scratches on the upper arm. Maybe she got them having sex. She must feel empowered here. A cathedral to her image. So many cum rags of mine have fallen in her honor. There is a trash can beneath my nightstand filled with my appreciation. They must have some idea what the box of tissues next to my side of the bed is for. I don’t need lotion, don’t want it, don’t use it. I like making as little of a mess as possible, and I’m up for the friction that a bare palm provides. Not much like a pussy, but I’m more of a narcissist than anything else, a voyeur.
It could be anywhere. It could be you. I don’t know your name from Adam’s. You’re somebody that I went to school with. In the end, you break it down, and look how alone we all are. Who among us hasn’t thought about ending it all? Those of you who haven’t live the most fucked up lives. I don’t even know where to begin. Telling everyone at work that the baby is running small.The dingle dongle is still in the back of the pussy. You can feel her head if you push deep enough. Fuck the girl good, and you’ll make an impression in her brain. Skull scooped glory hole. No way does the midwife have longer fingers than my dick. I’ve measured it. It was a twelve incher last I checked, fully erect and shoving the ruler into my groin. Haven’t checked in a while. I might be off six or so inches. I used to be obsessed. I would hang waits from the tip, trying to stretch it. Compare it to my best friend’s. Touch them together. Nothing has turned me on so much since. Sticking the photos to stop signs. Removing them later to avoid fingerprint detection. All the little babies looking up at my baby penis. A pedophile’s dream package. Can’t stop thinking about it… after all these years. The thought still surfaces. I keep coming back. I refuse to see the kid. He’s a fireman now. I don’t even follow him on Facebook. I doubt that he’ll be coming into the store. He’s not the reading type. Last time I saw him, we were watching Cinemax After Dark. I was more into it than he was, but we both loved masturbating in front of each other. Sometimes there were more than just the two of us. We’d call our friends over and have a jack off party. And goddamnit bro, we liked to wrestle. I was usually the ref. You know, the voyeur in me. It can’t be helped.