Baby Trapper

I am sorry that I'm ruining your life with my beautiful vagina.

Picture this: It’s sick. It’s wrong. Pretty Baby, early 30s, shields his cock beneath his hands because he’s failed at monkhood, still somehow vows against fucking, and I am obviously such a rapist. Volcels are ruining our country. Dismantling the romance of planet Earth, so I slap his quivering palms away and pull down his beautiful blue jeans—these excite me because I’ve only ever been face-to-face with the crotch area of khaki shorts in my three-year monogamy speed run. His zipper now sits open just below the halfway mark of his dramatically solid archangel thighs. I can feel his tears fall from above, sliding down the glycolic acid, aloe vera gel, retinol, and Aquaphor-slicked surface of my forehead (in that order). The dreamers believe God cries for us all. We know not what we do, walking emboldened by honey and blind all the same. My eyes crawl to seek it, the pillar of his biology, and in an instant, I am blinded by pure, hot, white, beaming light. They’ve taken my eyes. Him and him. Just as I felt they would. And it serves me right, but I still have my hands and tongue and the world between my legs, and I will never learn. In the end, you will take me; that is how all stories end between two.

My 31-year-old almost-boyfriend is afraid of my pussy. For a few reasons: God is watching, and my lack of an IUD and fear of the Pill apparently makes me a baby-trap risk, and he’s so very smart, but not smart enough because he is so going to fuck me. I know he is, and I won’t even have to ask once. Pretty Baby so often reminds me that I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. I am very familiar with being a beautiful thing, but I’m also aware that this is the surefire road most taken to getting hard, red, and inside all the beautiful things of God’s Country: America. Some of his first words said to me, probably a neurotic almost-sonnet about the potential wonders of my vagina and how he couldn’t believe that, at the time, it was someone else’s. Now he fears what it could do to him. To us both. I really am charmed by how frequently he goes against himself. Despite his ugly, dated Catholic guilt and beautiful, new-age fear of pussy, Pretty Baby is going to fuck me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen because that’s all he’s been saying since the dawn of time, despite his lamenting about children and the concerning speed with which I take things.

A week or so ago, I made the mistake of saying “I love you” again. He doesn’t like to hear things he has a hard time believing, and I hate being misread. Do either of us have any actual idea of what we’re doing here? Isn’t it supposed to be as simple as when two people like each other very much and the matrimony of birds and bees? You love them, so you fuck them, yes? Seems our coupled blind faith aren’t of the same fibers. He thinks I’m cracking beneath the weight of whatever we do. I’m flailing, confused like a newborn would be. I’m sucking my thumb, my knobby knees clacking against each other. I’m five paces ahead, and I just can’t keep the mystery! I have no idea what it is that I want, and I’m demanding something anyway. So, he’s trying to end things before they’ve begun, before I can go, “No, no, sir, forgo the condom, please! I must insist!” trying to save me from himself, his cock, and my own stupidity. Noble as he is, he’s not my fucking babysitter, and I get to choose the stone which breaks my spine.

Pretty Baby and I have spent a long time crying at each other like children. All his apprehension annoys me, and I overwhelm him with my habit of being cloying. The goo that stains, neediness, my fear of silence, the line of questioning that could circle the Earth and then some, tape-measured—apparently “why” is the most grating thing for a man to hear, and what I’m trying to do isn’t acquire clarifying information but slaughter him for soup meat. And “I love you” is all the same despite how easy it is to say it and mean it, and it sounds incredibly rapey, but I wouldn’t do it again if he’d only ask me to stop. His sudden wallowing in emotional pussy dread has turned me into a total creep.

Every profession of love is like a gift-shop souvenir, an old postcard, a safety pin, change for a twenty to those who aren’t afraid to just do the thing. Unfortunately, this is unfathomable to others. And so, in each and every one of my refusals to relent, he tells me this: “You can come to me, and yes, do come to me, but I’ll make no promise as to what will come of it. What would you do if I refused to fuck you? We can kiss on the lips and hold hands in public, but I won’t fuck you. I won’t even put my hand down your pants. We can give each other sweet kisses on the lips and cheeks and eyelashes, but absolutely under no circumstances will I fuck you. I just don’t want you pregnant.”

I get it. I can be cute and dance around naked in the idea of me incubating this insane desire to “breed” at my age. Oh, I’m so beautiful and sooo fertile, please, please, please fuck me as raw as we were born!! Because I’m 21 and stupid. But I’m 21 and stupid; I can’t even bear the thought of children. Do you even know what those things are? There are far too many personality, mood, and eating disorders between the two of us alone. Our spawn would be the antichrist. It would be unethical to allow any semen splashing against my plush chamber walls at this point in time. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to come to that conclusion, but Pretty Baby, you’ve got to let me help you. Accept the wonders of our fairytale. I’m a maiden rolling around in grass within the confines of castle-ground meadows, my underclothes stained green, hair wild in the wind as I marvel at you upon your steed. “Oh, please don’t tell Father! Who knows what he’d think!” Fair knight, I want your heart and your beautiful ironclad cock along with it. Not your children. I have a million nudie mags to balance on my head as I tiptoe around your living room before the audaciousness to even think of investing in the kind of status that is bearing your seed. Get over yourself and inside of me. You’re far too obsessed with being in your 30s and already feeling the gray. And is anyone really important enough for God’s never-ending judgment, his unwavering gaze? Surely he takes an off day.

Free yourself. Pretty Baby, please allow us to get inside one another! Kill your guilt. We’re fucking. In the sun. In the dark. Braided around each other. I’m too young for the consequence of your religion; you’re too old to be this scared. I know, I remember, I once told you that you were cursed by karmic pussy, and that’s why you’re so... you, but I also told you that I’m here to protect you, did I not? I’m here to save our days, all I have is this burning desire and it is enough.

Despite my sexual bereavement, I know this: if he doesn’t at least try to get in between me in frenzied breath, guided and betrayed by hands so sure of themselves that they become sentient, as I rest upon his California king with radiant skin humming powder, candy, peony, vanilla down to my panties, he must truly fucking love me, or at least he thinks he does, or he’s gay. Why else would I be there? He’s so full-time that it should be against labor laws. Sure, he has a few minutes for “just friends” who bat their eyelashes at him with their soft hair flattened beneath their beautiful skulls upon his dryer-sheet-scented pillows, agreeing with everything he says simply because it feels so good to hear him say their name, and I’m sure for him it feels amazing to be the golden, shining beacon of some hot American babe’s battle with limerence for a time, but how is it that this patience extends to my abhorrently suffocating nature? Some things require a certain level of fondness and/or arousal so as not to destroy all that stands between two exhausting individuals attempting to be “involved.”

He once told me that he was so close to being done with this, me, and us. Bummer. Yet I have him still. “Have” being hyperbolic, but I’m working on that too. Pretty Baby has a low tolerance for anything mildly upsetting, and it’s because, like me, he’s a deeply selfish individual. At times, he cares not for anything but his own troublesome feelings about all that hardly matters in my dramatic pursuit of all that he is and all he will be. I know Pretty Baby loves me, and maybe if he doesn’t know it himself, he will eventually, when I can finally breach the door and all I know is how to wrap my legs around his back, squeeze tight, and hold still. Staying, like he does. Instead of the cold shove, our usual bitterness, the outcome will be much sweeter: warm and stinking of cherries and cinnamon and meatballs and custard and yellow cake and congratulations and “‘Apple’? That’s a sweet name for a little girl!” instead of all his fucking fear and my desperation.

Now we’re both sorry, and who knew it could be that easy? Maybe he’s right in avoiding my pussy.

— Dead Wife.

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