Cocktail Hour

Our eyes met from across a crowded room, just like in a dumb movie. She looked at me with what seemed like lust, her eyes gorgeous and blue and hungry, and it took me a second to remember I was carrying a tray of appetizers and that's what she was interested in. I giggled to myself; I'd smoked a joint with Ignacio before the reception started. That was the only way to get through our millionth wedding of the season.

I should have known I wasn't anything to lust over. That summer I was a skinny 20-year-old in a dorky catering uniform that didn't fit right, with a thin mustache that made me look like a dirtbag. And the woman I'd thought was checking me out? Through the crowd I could tell she was pretty, her blonde hair done up for the wedding, with a sweet round face. She might have been fifteen years older than me but I didn't mind. I liked a MILF as much as the next member of the American Pie generation.

Guests plucked eggs off my tray as I wandered towards the blonde woman, trying to get a better look at her. I got little glimpses as I got closer, and grew more interested: she had a huge pair of tits that seemed to defy gravity, hovering in front of her, creating a deep canyon of cleavage in a dress that wasn't even that low-cut. That was enticing, but what I saw when someone stepped out of the way made me stop in my tracks, almost losing my eggs.

She was pregnant. The kind of pregnant that makes people turn their heads, usually because they feel bad for the woman or they just can't believe what they're seeing. She was ready-to-pop huge, her stomach as big and round as a beachball, sticking straight out in a way that looked impossible. That belly was showcased perfectly in a long, flowing dark green dress, tied with a little black belt right under those amazing boobs.

In case it's not clear, I'm attracted to pregnant women. I always have been; I don't know why. And this one was so stunning and I was so stoned that I was openly staring at her. I shook it off, but had she noticed? Or was she just looking at my tray again? I continued forward, determined to get her the snack she wanted.

As I got within shouting distance I noticed her companions. First, a kid. A one year old? Two? I was never good with those things. Anyway, she was holding a kid on her hip. Her hips were wide, more pleasing curves under that green dress. She was talking under her breath with her other companion, her husband. A big balding dude with a gross goatee, looking way underdressed in a buttonup shirt with no tie and a grease stain.

That's when I knew I had it bad for this woman. Since when did I give a shit about how people dressed? But I hated this guy instantly, and thought he looked like a slob next to his gorgeous wife with her hair and makeup done. She looked like royalty to me. And I was her humble servant, here to deliver her food.

"Deviled egg?" I asked as casually as possible, lifting my tray. She gave me a look and I thought the jig was up. She knew I was staring at her, lusting after her.

"There aren't any left," she pointed out. I looked dumbly at the empty tray.

"Oh," I said. Her face had fallen. I had disappointed her. Idiot!

"That's too bad. I'd love one if you're bringing out more."

"Okay!" I would have brought her anything. My eyes flitted down to her chest again. "Oh, actually, the deviled eggs are the worst appetizer. Just between you and me."

She gave me another strange look. She didn't get where I was going. I slowed down and pushed the thoughts through my stoned brain. "Let me bring you some fried mac and cheese balls, those are awesome. Or some bacon-wrapped dates."

She smiled, and her free hand went to her belly. "That does sound awesome." I could just make out her popped-out bellybutton through her dress.

"You got it," I smiled, and I wished Chris, my boss, was watching. After months on the job, I was suddenly acting like I gave a shit about making guests feel taken care of.

"I need another Bud Light," the husband said, lifting an empty bottle. There was foam in his mustache.

"Oh, the bar's over there," I said, gesturing with my tray towards Marta at her little table. Normally I was jealous of her, for getting to stand in one place through the cocktail hour while I hustled back and forth. But tonight I felt blessed to be carrying the apps. I was speed-walking back to the kitchen before I realized Chris would have wanted me to take the husband's empty. Oh well.

In the kitchen I found only mini-quiches and more of those fucking eggs. "Hey, we got any mac and cheese bites?" I asked Chris.

He shook his head. "Take these."

"Nobody wants them," I said. "Let's bring the good stuff out."

Chris eyed me suspiciously. "If I catch you eating them again, you're done."

It took longer than I wanted to get it negotiated, but soon I left the kitchen with trays of piping-hot mac and cheese bites and bacon-wrapped dates. I staked out my new friend, who was wrapped up in a conversation with Mr. Goatee. I hurried along the edge of the reception hall, not slowing for anyone who wanted an appetizer. I didn't even eat any myself, which was a considerable sacrifice considering how high I was. I was a man on a mission.

As I got close I had another chance to admire the woman's figure. She had her back turned and I checked out her full, round ass. Her curves and dress and pale skin made her look like some sort of fucking Renaissance painting. I realized the hushed conversation with her husband sounded like an argument and I should have just left her alone.

Instead I cleared my throat. "Mac and cheese ball? Bacon-wrapped date?" I sounded like a snooty waiter in a cartoon, offering up delicacies.

"Sure, thank you," she said. She shifted the weight of the baby on her hip; I was impressed she was carrying it and that huge belly. "Can you take her for a second?" For a dumb moment I thought she was talking to me, but of course she was addressing her husband.

"Fine," he grumbled, and I hated him even more. He took the kid like he was doing his wife a huge favor. If she was mine, I would wait on her hand and foot. I'd hand-feed her. I wouldn't let her hold the kid. I was smiling at that little fantasy as my new friend took one of each appetizer, then offered the date to her husband.

"You can take more," I said. Then I hovered over her while she ate, as if I'd prepared the mac and cheese ball myself from scratch. Her expression changed while she chewed, a smile appearing, and I melted inside.

Other guests snuck up behind me and took food from my tray. I wanted to chase them off.

"Mmmmm, that's phenomenal," she said, her mouth still full. She really drew out the phenomenal, and I could tell she meant it.

"I know, right?" I offered her the tray again. I wanted to stand there all night and watch her eat them one by one, and I wanted to wipe the grease and crumbs off her lips, maybe with my tongue. And I wanted her husband to choke to death on his date.

"Thank you," she said, and took two more. One for her, one for hubby. Then she turned back to him, and the moment was over. I forced myself to stop looming over her like an idiot creep, and go pass out the rest of the appetizers.

But every time I had something good on my tray I'd be sure to pass her. She and her husband went to talk to different groups and came back together and she was holding the baby almost the whole time. Once in a while she paused and rubbed her belly or stretched in a way that pushed her stomach out. I fantasized about massaging her aching back, and when I saw other women coo over her belly and rub it I fantasized about doing that too. I was jealous of Ignacio when she asked him where the bathroom was, and I watched with interest as she waddled over there, her wide hips and huge ass swaying beautifully.

Cocktail hour was almost over, so I went back to her with the last tray of mini-quiches. I tried to catch her eye but the baby was crying, red-faced and snotty-nosed but not screaming just yet, and her husband was hissing something at her under his breath. She was bouncing the kid, trying to soothe her, and her tits were bouncing too.

"Not out here," I heard the husband whisper. "Are you crazy?"

The exchange continued while I pretended not to listen. The next part I caught was her telling him "not the goddamn bathroom," sounding pissed. The baby was still crying. I was turning to leave when she called out to me.

"Excuse me? Sir?"

I had to smile. Nobody had ever called me sir before.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Is there a private space I could go to feed my baby?"

It took me a second to figure out what she was asking, and when my dimbulb brain figured it out I looked right at her tits.

"Oh! Yeah, lemme think... there's a storage room over by the kitchen. I can show you." Marta showed me that room at a wedding back at the start of summer, and we made out in there a couple times before she decided she was actually into Chris.

"Thank you," she said. I had my eyes on the ceiling, trying to avoid staring at her boobs again. The husband took the last two mini-quiches. I led the way, taking her away from him.

I kept my pace slow, because she was having trouble walking. She took her steps carefully, resting her weight all on one foot and then on the other, the way you do when you're on ice. It was somehow sad and cute and sexy all at the same time. The baby squirmed in her arms, her cries getting louder.

"You want me to take her?" I asked, then immediately regretted it. I had never held a baby before, and this one was writhing around like a crocodile. Plus, I was still pretty high.

"I got it, but thank you," she said. I noticed she was also carrying a pretty huge purse, or maybe a diaper bag.

"She's really cute," I told her, weaving through the crowd. "How old is she?" I didn't give a shit about babies, but it seemed like the nice thing to say.

"Seventeen months."

"Wow," I said, not interested in doing the math. We passed the kitchen and Chris tried to stop me.

"Dev, we gotta set up for dinner!"

"I'll be right back. Is it cool if this lady uses the storage room?" Chris just gave me a pissed-off shrug, and I kept moving. I wanted to ask the woman's name, but it seemed weird. I had no idea if I was being weird or not. We turned the corner and found the door.

It was more like a big closet inside, mostly full of extra folding chairs and linens. I pulled a chair off the rack, making a lot of noise as I set it up.

"Uh, you can sit here," I told the woman. "There's no lock on the door but nobody's gonna come back here."

"Thank you," she said, giving me that million-dollar smile. Like I said, I've loved pregnant women for a long time, but I didn't get the "glowing" thing until I saw her. When she smiled I just felt warmth and goodness coming off her. I smiled back like a dumbass, while I'm sure she was dying for me to go.

"You need anything else?" I asked, looking around, wishing I had more to offer her than an uncomfortable metal chair.

"No, that's fine," she said, wrestling the baby. I turned and left, closing the door carefully behind me. I stood outside for a second, imagining her pulling out her tits. It was happening, just a few feet away. In my horny daydream, the baby was nowhere to be seen, and she was offering her boobs to me instead. I imagined what they looked like, swollen and full, dripping milk. I'd always wanted to taste a woman's milk. I realized I was hard.

I tried to snap out of it. This lady just wanted my help. She wanted to feed her kid. And I was standing outside her door with a boner, what a fucking creep. Once the tent in my pants was gone I went to find Chris.

I was able to clear my head a bit as we got dinner ready. My high was wearing off, and I was away from the crowd, away from her. From the kitchen we heard the guests moving to the dining room. Marta and Brandon were on drinks duty, filling up champagne flutes for the toasts. Once we had the entrees ready to go-- the same three lame options we served at every wedding-- there was a lull. Traditionally, time for smoke break number two. Ignacio would be waiting.

I went to the dining room instead, getting there in the middle of a stilted toast by probably the bride's sister. The bride herself was pretty, but to me she couldn't hold a candle to the pregnant stranger. I scanned the room, looking for my new friend, and couldn't find her. No husband or baby either. Shit, I thought, spotting two empty seats at table nine. They had left.

I really needed my pre-dinner pick-me-up now. I was lost in my own little world as I shuffled to the exit, so when the door banged open it scared the shit out of me, and it wasn't Ignacio: it was you-know-who. Waddling as fast as she could, her eye makeup messy, a seriously pissed look on her face. I turned and watched her move like a wrecking ball toward the bathroom, her butt jiggling with each angry step, and called out, "hey, you okay?"

If she heard me, she ignored me, disappearing into the ladies' room. No husband came after her, and she didn't have the kid. I was at least smart enough to realize that if I followed her in to ask what was wrong, she'd call the police. So I went out into the sticky summer air.

Ignacio was leaning against the wall, smirking, joint in his mouth. He passed it to me. "What the fuck was that?" I asked, gesturing to the door.

He laughed. "That pregnant chick picked a huge fight with her husband, right over there," he said, pointing into the parking lot, where an SUV was pulling out.

"About what?" I asked.

"I dunno, but it was funny. That bitch can fucking yell. Called him a selfish piece of shit, useless, asshole. Baby was crying the whole time too. He left her here, what a fuckin' mess."

I forced a laugh, holding smoke in. But I felt bad for her.

"That's the trashiest shit since we saw those cousins get caught making out," Ignacio said, and I laughed at that for real. We'd seen some shit that summer. While we smoked and reminisced, I imagined myself as a knight in shining armor. What if I could console her, hold her in my arms, make her feel good? I wished I was just a guest at the wedding, then I could talk to her like a real person.

In my fantasy, I find her sitting outside the dining room, no longer feeling up to having any fun. I sit with her and do what her husband won't do: listen. Before she knows it, she's pouring her heart out to me. Telling me about what a mess her marriage is, how jealous she is of her friend who's getting married to a great guy. She tells me her husband's a jerk, he doesn't help with their daughter at all, he drinks too much, and the worst part... he doesn't touch her anymore. He calls her fat and disgusting, he only likes skinny little bimbos and won't even look at her while she's pregnant. I tell her he's an idiot. I tell her she looks like a goddess and any man would be lucky to be with her. Her tears dry up. She asks if I want to get out of here. I bring her back to my place, and my roommates aren't there. I help her out of her uncomfortable dress, and I caress her beautiful body, and when she bends over the bed her belly and tits hang under her and I get behind her and--

Chris was calling for us. We were supposed to serve dinner five minutes ago. I snapped out of it and followed Ignacio inside.

She was at her table. I got Marta to trade with me so I could take tables one through ten; she was suspicious so I told her someone in my section had said something racist to me. Marta warned me there was a no-show, but I grabbed the extra plate anyway. I brought the entrees over, matching them to the color-coded place cards. Todd Mitchell, whose chair was empty, ordered the prime rib. Emily Mitchell, with the green dress and the big belly, had the chicken.

"Thank you," she said, barely looking at me. "But my husband had to leave early."

"No problem, you can have both," I told her. "Eating for two, right?" Dumb fucking thing to say. But she-- Emily, her name was Emily-- came back to life a little bit. She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

"Thank you," she said. "You're a sweetheart."

My fucking heart. Mia Dolan, the first girl I'd kissed in eighth grade, had told me my mustache was cute, which was why I was still rocking it even though it never really grew in right. I didn't get any compliments from the girl I lost my virginity to, probably for a reason, but Whitney Kim was the first girl I ever made cum, and she'd breathlessly told me I was "fucking amazing" with my tongue. I filed away Emily Mitchell's words with the nicest compliments I'd ever gotten.

I was more attentive with my tables than usual that night, especially table nine, circling and filling water glasses and keeping an eye on Emily. As dinner continued she came out of her funk and talked to the other guests and ate most of both entrees and let the bride rub her belly for good luck. I didn't overhear her talking about the scene in the parking lot, but at some points she was whispering to the woman next to her.

I tried to be professional. Once or twice while refilling her water I took the chance to look down her dress, admiring that unbelievable cleavage and trying to tell if her tits looked any smaller than at the start of the night, before she fed her baby. If anything, they looked bigger.

I cleared plates. When the bride and groom mashed cake into each other's faces, I thought I saw a sad look on Emily's face. Was she thinking about how terrible her husband was? Was she wondering where it all went wrong? I was a stupid kid then, who knew nothing about adult relationships, but of course I thought I was an expert.

When we brought the cake out I set aside an extra-large piece for Emily. And of course, I brought out Todd's slice to set beside hers. As I set the plates down Emily was adjusting her bra strap, and my lizard brain took over. She caught me looking right into her cleavage, wondering what size she was, my brain fried by jiggling flesh.

"Oh, uh," I started. I wanted to apologize, but that would be acknowledging what I did, and would that make it weirder? I didn't trust myself to talk without making it worse so I shot her a weird smile and kept serving cake. The woman next to Emily whispered something in her ear and Emily laughed, looking right at me for just a second. Her face was red, and mine went red too.

I made myself scarce until it was time to clear the tables. She ate both pieces of cake. I avoided looking at her, but I could feel her eyes on me. Was she going to complain to Chris? Should I apologize? I didn't know what to do so I kept my mouth shut.

I figured that was it. My job for the rest of the evening was cleaning up and waiting for the guests to leave. I'd had my fun. I'd gotten a good look at that cleavage and my imagination could fill in the rest when I got home. I would imagine Emily Mitchell asking for my help taking off that dress, and how those big milky tits would bounce when I fucked her... I'd jerk off and next weekend there would be three more weddings and life would go on.

But what about that red-faced look right at me? What about her calling me a sweetheart? Was she just being nice, or was there something more? She had seen me staring, that was obvious. And she hadn't slapped me or complained to Chris. Probably I was just horny and high and dumb, but a part of me knew this wasn't over.

The music started, and so did our long cleanup process. Every time I went back to the dining room I saw that Emily was still at her table, not dancing. Sometimes she was alone, sometimes with a couple friends. I tried to read her emotions. Was she too sad to dance alone, or did her back just hurt?

The music, as always, sucked. I couldn't even tell the DJs apart anymore; all of them played the same shit. Wedding cliches like "Shout" and "Isn't She Lovely" with stale pop songs thrown in for fun. But I couldn't even be that annoyed tonight, hearing all the groaners for the thousandth time that summer. When that stupid fucking "You're Beautiful" song that was so popular that year came on, I really wanted to go up to Emily and ask her to slow dance. I got hard again imagining the warmth of her body in my arms, my hands touching the bare skin of her shoulders, her solid belly pressing up against me, her tits swaying gently, her head resting on my chest...