The Surrogate Ch. 12

I was surprised when she shook me awake.

"Come on, Sleepy Butt," she said, giggling, "let's get me knocked up."

I rolled out of bed, went into the bathroom, peed, brushed my teeth, and ran a brush through my hair.

In the bedroom she was waiting, looking like it was date night. Her makeup was right, her hair well-coiffed, and her nails done. She was in a bright blue sundress with matching heels.

"You look GREAT!" I said.

She giggled and said, "You look naked. Come on, Honey, big day."

So, I took her lead. I pulled on fresh boxers and then one of my few pairs of actual slacks, not jeans or cargo pants, my argyle socks, not white gym socks, and button down, Oxford cloth pin striped shirt, not a T-shirt emblazoned with something like "Too Cool." I went back into the bathroom quickly and combed my hair and shaved, something I rarely did these days.

Finally, presentable, I went back into the bedroom and took her hand.

"Come on, Beautiful," I said, "I can't wait."

We walked to the car, hand in hand, like teenagers going on a date. I opened the door for her and held her hand while she got settled in.

On the way to the clinic, I had my "Favorites of the 60s" playlist on Pandora and we sang along with a lot of the songs.

At the clinic, I ran around and opened the door for her, a little courtesy I rarely bothered with but, as she pointed out, this was a "big day."

Inside she greeted the receptionist by name, Irene if you care, and signed in, the whole process taking about 30 seconds.

"Go on back, Room 1," she said, "you know the drill."

Nancy was almost skipping in her excitement.

Room 1 was a very standard examination room. There was a counter along one wall with some cabinets and a sink. A big erector set of a contraption held a big light. Directly centered in the room was a big examination table. It was obviously a high-end version, the leather was soft and supple and, more importantly, well-padded. It looked almost like a single bed except for the chrome rod and stirrup device at the foot end.

"Grab me a gown, Honey," Nancy said, pointing to a little closet at the end of the counter as she kicked off her shoes and started on the buttons of her dress.

In the closet, I found one of those hospital gowns that open in the back in exactly the same print as you would find in every hospital and clinic in the world.

I watched her undress, something I always enjoyed. In this case, it was a brief, straightforward operation. She took off the sundress and folded it carefully, did the double-jointed thing to reach behind and unhook her bra and shrug out of it, and then worked her panties down and stepped out of them. She laid the bra and panties on top of the bright blue dress, turned, and held her arms out.

I slipped the gown over her arms and then turned her so I could do the ties at her neck and waist.

"Christ," I said, turning her and looking her up and down, "you look like a kid on Christmas morning."

She giggled and said, "That is EXACTLY how I feel."

She hopped up onto the examination table leaving me the hard plastic chair.

For the first time since I met her, I felt awkward. I didn't know what to say.

Evidently, she didn't either so we sat in an uncomfortable silence for the first time.

Dr. Jim broke the awkwardness, bursting into the room without knocking, all energy and goodwill.

"And how is my favorite broodmare doing this morning?" he asked by way of greeting.

She giggled and said, "99.4 and ready. Knock me up, Doc."

He laughed and patted her knee.

"Feet in the stirrups," he said, "and let's see how we're doing."

She put her feet in the metal stirrups and he tightened a little belt across them. "We don't want her moving around for this," he said over his shoulder to me by way of explanation.

He adjusted the arms on which the stirrups were mounted until her legs were parted wide, leaving her completely exposed, those beautiful, delicate, pink inner lips hanging free almost to the bottom of her ass.

He turned to me then.

"Well, David," he said, serious now, "Would you like to do the honors?"

"What's that?" I asked.

"I just thought you might like to be the one to do the implantation," he said.

Nancy tilted her head up, awkward in that position, and said, "Yes, David, knock me up."

"What do I do?" I asked.

Dr. Jim pulled a little stool over. It rolled on three legs and was like the mechanic's stool I had for working on cars.

"Sit," he said.

I sat.

"Now," he said, "with most of our surrogates this whole process involves the speculum and lubrication and lots of technique. But Miss Nancy makes it easy."

He patted her lightly on her mons Veneris, that beautiful Mound of Venus that marked the entrance to her core, and said, "Push, Nancy."

She grunted softly and her cervix emerged, that very pink dome, shiny with her natural lubricants, looking like a small mouth.

He reached into a little box on the rolling tray and pulled out an oversized syringe with a long flexible plastic tube on the end. At the end of the tube, there was a small rounded knob. The plunger on the syringe was half out, about two inches.

"This goes all the way in," he said, pointing at the round end, being careful to not touch it, "and then just push."

Nancy had relaxed, laying her head back on the little pillow.

I felt nervous for some reason. I mean, it's not like I was looking at something I had never seen before. But there it was.

I was nervous.

"All the way in," Dr. Jim said.

So I did. I touched the rounded end to her cervix and started pushing. There was resistance at first, but once the little knob penetrated the opening the rest slid in easily.

I felt the drama of the moment and held still for a long ten count before I slowly pushed the plunger.

"Hold it there," Dr. Jim said over my shoulder, so I did.

Some time passed, I really don't have a sense of how long although looking back I expect it was no more than 10 minutes.

"Okay," he said, "now pull it out, very slowly."

I did as he instructed. The tube came out, slowly, with just a slight resistance. I could feel as the knob on the end met the muscle of her cervix and had to pull a bit harder. When it was out, there was a single clear drop that accumulated at the bottom of her tiny opening. I wanted to taste it but I didn't.

"Okay," Dr. Jim said, "Up on the table, flat on your back, feet up, for an hour," as he undid the belts holding her feet locked to the stirrups, and patted Nancy on the thigh.

I watched her squirm up onto the table.

"Now give your bride a kiss," Dr. Jim said, "and come with me."

I kissed Nancy, told her she was beautiful, and followed Dr. Jim.

His office was well-appointed. Two walls were lined with bookshelves and to my untrained eye the books and journals looked, well, "medical." The desk was oversized and ornate, with a single folder perfectly centered on the flat surface.

"Have a seat," he said in the way of someone in charge accepting someone into his office.

I sat.

He chuckled.

"Relax, David," he said, "I've been working with Nancy a long time, now, and she knows what to do. Think of this as a, well, as a 'briefing.' There are some things you need to know."

"Okay," I managed, still wondering what the hell was coming.

"Look," he said, "here's the thing. I can't tell you what to expect in detail. It's a cliche, but it's true. Every pregnancy is different. But I can give you the outlines."

"Okay," I managed again.

"Nancy has delivered seven healthy babies," he went on. "So I'm not worried about her health. Hell, horses envy her," he chuckled, "But experienced or not, she's just as subject to hormones as any woman. So you can be certain that you'll find days when she's angry at everything you do, days when she cries at the drop of a hat, days when all she wants to do is fuck, days when she doesn't want anything to do with you."

He stopped and looked at me, gauging my reaction I guess.

"Go on," I said.

"She'll want to eat disgusting things. She'll have gas that will clear not just a room but the whole damn stadium. She'll be bitchy and sweet and weepy and happy," he said, winding down. "But your job is to just agree with her. Remember, David, in the past, she's done this on her own. Having a partner will be as new to her as it is to you, so be patient."

"Okay," I said, thinking there wasn't anything else that needed saying.

He stood and I stood.

"Take this," he said, handing me the folder that sat on his desk, "it's post-implantation instructions. Read it at your leisure, but DO read it. Nancy knows what she needs to do, but, well, the hormones and all. The big thing is absolute bed rest for two days. You KEEP her big ass in bed if you have to tie her to it. I'd tell you to get a bedpan if I thought she'd use it, but that's the ONLY time I want her out of bed for two full days. Got it?"

I smiled and shook his hand.

"Tying her to the bed might be fun," I said.

He chuckled.

"Oh," he added, "and NO vaginal sex for those two days."

I gave him a thumbs up and headed to collect my bride.

Back in the examination room, well, the implantation room I suppose, I helped her to stand and dress. She was moving slowly, not in pain or discomfort, just being careful.

At home, I undressed her and helped her into bed.

"Bed rest for two days," I said.

"I know," she said.

"What can I do for you?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Read me a book," she said.

"You want a talking book?" I asked. I used them a lot through the Libby program. When I walked or worked out I always had headphones on and a book going in my ears.

"No, Baby," she said, "I want you to read me a book."

"Oh," I said, "Whatcha got in mind?"

She thought for a minute, frowning, and then smiled.

"Read me one of those silly Space Operas you're always reading," she said.

I chuckled, got my Kindle out, and started scrolling through my bookshelf. I loaded Stealing Ares, a true "space opera" by a woman named Kim Conrey, and started reading to her.

The reek of stale beer drifted down to the basement from the tavern above as Harlow Hanson sought her contact in the dim light of a single bare bulb.

"Mike?" she called into the darkness. (I did the word "Mike" in what I hoped was a passably female voice.)

"Mike's late," a male voice spoke from the shadows (that phrase spoken in a deep voice with, I hoped, a hint of a New York accent). "Can I help you?"

"That's nice," she said.

So I read to her, trying for voices to match the characters. I wasn't hurrying, trying for a natural cadence like the best of the readers in the audiobooks could pull off. Guys like Richard Ferrone when they read the Lucas Davenport books.

I took a break to hold her hand while she went to the bathroom and a second one to make her a thick ham and Swiss on rye and deliver it, along with a large unsweet iced tea, to bed where I enjoyed feeding her.

"You know," she said around a mouthful of ham and cheese, "I'm starting to wonder how I did this without you."

"You'll never have to again," I said, kissing her and offering another bite from the sandwich.

When the sandwich was finished I took it into the kitchen, did the dishes quickly, and went back and read to her some more.

I heard her soft snores and realized she had drifted off so I went, being very quiet, downstairs, retrieved my little Google Chromebook, and then headed back up.

I sat by her bed, working on my current paper, a long, amazingly boring tome about price elasticity of demand, and if you know what that is then you probably understand why I was fascinated with it, and if you don't, well, consider yourself one of the lucky ones.

She woke at about 7:00 and I walked her into the bathroom again and then fed her a little over half of the Magnificent Supreme pizza we had delivered.

I took my time, feeding her, one bite at a time, wiping her lips after each one, and telling her she was beautiful over and over.

I finished the book late that night and she was still awake so I raised a finger and said, "I know what you need."

I went downstairs and found my well-worn copy of J.R.R. Tolkien's War of the Ring trilogy including the silly introduction, The Hobbit.

"In a hole, in the ground, lived a Hobbit," I started and she smiled.

"Oh, God," she said softly, "Frito and Dildo and Arrowroot of Arrowshirt."

"Huh?" I said.

"Oh, Honey," she said through her laughter, "back when dinosaurs ruled the earth, you know, before the comet hit, and I read the trilogy the first time, it was like everybody was reading it. Along about the time I read it the fourth or fifth time, and yes, I love the damn thing, somebody, maybe the Harvard Lampoon crew, did, well, an alternate book. It was titled, if my aged and failing memory serves, Bored of the Rings. The characters were Dildo and Frito," she paused and thought. "There was Legolamb and Bromosel," another pause.

"Oh, yeah," she said, giggling, "and that creature always pursuing them became Goddam."

We laughed together.

"Read to me," she said, finally, laying back.

And so I started again.

"In a hole, in the ground..." was all it took.

She slept for a while and then woke, rolling off of the bed before she was fully awake.

"Gotta get to the bathroom," she said, already moving.

I followed, holding her arm, and then held her hair as she threw up violently. I was worried, the way she was retching, that she might pop the, well, the what? The baby? The zygote? The blastocyst? I decided, as these weird thoughts were running through my head, that I would do some serious studying. I needed to understand this stuff.

When the pizza was finished she laid back, relaxed, and belched. Not a little ladylike burp either. This was a long sonorous belch that would have been at home in any fraternity house in the world.

We got the giggles then, laughing together.

When we settled down, she turned suddenly serious.

"I love you, David," she said, "make love to me."

"No," I said, and kissed her.

"No?!" she replied.

"Two days bedrest," I said, kissing her, "and no vaginal sex."

"Honey, I won't break," she said.

"I know," I said, kissing her again, "because you're going to lay there, quietly, while I feed and bathe and hold you."

"Honey, I won't break," she said again.

I laughed.

"I sure hope not because in exactly," and I looked at my watch, "thirty-four hours I intend to see if it is actually possible to fuck someone blind."

She laughed at that.

"Okay, Baby," she said, "walk me into the bathroom then, wipe me when I'm done since you're being so damned attentive, and then sleep with me."

And that is how the day of her implantation ended.

The second day of her bedrest, the first full day, was much the same.

I woke earlier than her and watched her sleep for a while before opening the Chromebook and returning to the world of marginal propensities and elasticities. I was deep into starting the Summary and Conclusions section of the paper when she startled me, saying, "Up and at 'em, Attentive Husband. I need to pee and I think I may be starving to death."

I laughed, closed the little computer with an audible slap, stood, and grabbed a big pinch of her belly roll.

"I think your reserves will get you through until breakfast," I said, chuckling.

And I got my first taste of what life with a pregnant woman would be like.

"Did you just call me fat," she snapped and I could see in her eyes that she wasn't joking.

"Nancy, no, I," but she talked over me.

"You knew what I was, you knew what you were getting into," she said, her voice rising in volume and pitch with each word, "but if you don't want an old fat broad, well there's the door."

I wrapped her in my arms, kind of a boxer's clinch actually, I wasn't sure she wouldn't hit me, and started saying, "You're beautiful, I love you," over and over. I did that, just repeating the words, holding her, my hands firm on her back until I felt her relax and heard a soft giggle.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," I said, "For what?" I added.

"For putting up with me," she said.

"I'm sorry, Baby," she went on, "I have about a quart of drugs and hormones in my system right now. I'll be better in a few days when things level out."

I smiled, kissed her, and said, "Fortunately, I do like a fat girl," and grabbed that big roll of her postpartum belly.

Her eyes flashed and I thought maybe I had pushed too hard but then she smiled and giggled and wrapped her arms around me, pulling me down for a kiss.

"Thank you, Baby," she said and did that thing, lifting her legs straight up and then rocking forward to roll up and sit on the edge of the bed in one smooth motion.

I held her for a moment but she pulled away.

"Let me go or get a mop," she said.

I laughed, walked her into the bathroom, and held her hand while she sat on the toilet.

I started the water in the tub, warm but not too hot, I had read the instructions Dr. Jim gave me, and added bubble bath.

Then it was back to the toilet where she sat, and the smell told me she had to do more than pee.

I kissed her and wiped her carefully, making her giggle as I took care of such a private business, then helped her to stand and walked her to the tub.

When she was settled, up to her nose in the bubble bath as the Blake Shelton says, I kissed her again, and said, "Soak. I'll get you for breakfast."

I whipped up one of those breakfasts she likes. The omelet was big and fluffy, the toast was golden brown, heavily buttered, and smeared with Strawberry jelly, the bacon was done but not crisp, and the orange juice was out of the freezer I'm afraid, fresh was out of season.

I put everything in the oven to stay warm and went up to help Nancy out of the tub. I dried her and then it was back to bed. I brought breakfast up on the tray she had when we got married, and laid it across her thighs where she was propped on three pillows.

When I fed her she giggled after the bite of bacon she finished and said, "Well, if you won't give me sex, this is a pretty good substitute."

And it was, in a way. Feeding her was a very sensual experience and it was clear she felt it too. I know all of the symbolism, a forkful of food a penetration of her body, and that pretty much describes breakfast.

Following breakfast I pulled two of the pillows out, allowing her to lay back, and started reading to her again.

When she drifted off I went back to work on the paper.

When she woke I walked her into the bathroom again.

Lunch was Subway sandwiches, the "BMT" for her with extra olives, and the "Meatball Sub" for me.

She lifted her arm and sniffed her armpit.

"Can I shower?" she asked.

I grinned.

"Nope," I said and made a production of looking at my watch, well, my Fitbit, "not for another seventeen hours and twenty-six minutes."

I leaned over the bed, caught her hand, and lifted her arm straight up over her head.

I bent, sniffed, catching just a hint of unwashed body, not enough to be called body odor, and made her squeal and shriek, "PERVERT," when I licked.

"You're fine," I said.

She slept, I worked, she woke, I read to her.

It wasn't a terribly exciting day, the second day of my wife's pregnancy.