Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Erik Grieve's Easter Sunday Request
I admired Erik in the shower that Easter Sunday morning. Salt and pepper hair. Deep brown eyes. Broad masculine shoulders covered by smooth olive skin.
Steam had filled the bathroom, like the fog that frequently hovered over the Golden Gate Bridge.
I could only see parts of his body through the hazy, glass shower doors. He sat against the corner of the tub, as he always did, carefully scraping the skin off of his well-manicured feet.
I pulled out an assortment of maternity clothes from the closet and set them on the bathroom counter. Knowing we’d be taking tons of family photos during Tatiana’s first real Easter egg hunt, I wanted to look better than I felt at seven months pregnant.
“Ugh!” I groaned.
Erik turned off the shower, dried himself, and then wrapped a plush white towel around his waist. “Need some help with that?”
“These damn jeans!” I wiped the perspiration from my forehead. “Yeah, you can help. Help me not be such a house every time you knock me up.”
He put some gel in his hair. “Oh, honey, you know I think you look beautiful.”
I struggled to squeeze into a pair of dark-blue jeans. “How is it that you get better looking with age and I get big and all tired-looking?”
“At least we got to sleep in this morning. How nice is it having your mom here to wake up with Tatiana?”
“I can’t remember the last time I actually had a minute to get dressed and put on some make-up, but, ugh, nothing fits!” I peeled the jeans off my swollen legs and threw them across the room. “Nothing!”
Erik wrapped his arms around me, and I felt his hands slide down the back of my black, thong panties.
“Honey, what are you doing?” I giggled.
He whispered in my ear. “We don’t have to worry about Tati right now, and it is Easter, and I was thinking . . . don’t you think I deserve an Easter blow-job?”
“Are you crazy?” I pushed him away, laughing, and pointed at my enormous belly.
“Do I look like I want to give you an Easter blow-job?”
“Well, uh, no, not really, but it seemed worth a try.”
Grabbing a white t-shirt, I covered my engorged breasts. “I have absolutely no energy. You know that.”
“Alright, well, then how about no blow-job and we just make love?”
I looked at his face and felt deep affection for him. Then I felt deep pity. Some women get especially horny during pregnancy, but I was not one of them.
“Fine. Let’s have sex.” I grinned. “But I don’t want to have to do anything. I can hardly bend over.”
Erik stepped closer, knelt down, and began kissing my popped-out belly button. “You just let me worship the baby-making goddess.”
"If you say so."
He slid my panties to the side.
Erik and I started making love—me with my widened hips and over-lubricated femininity.
We were slow. Intentional. Comfortable with our awkward movements.
We manuvered down to the beige carpeted floor.
“Oh, that’s squishing the baby.”
“Let’s turn over.”
We laughed at ourselves.
“Yeah, right, like that will work.”
“Maybe on my side?”
“Not sure this is going to happen.”
Being on my back too long decreased the flow of oxygen to the baby. Being on top made us worry about poking her in the head.
And so, after a while, we gave up, knowing Erik could find no friction on his sexual quest. There were no orgasms, but we were both completely satisfied. Both amused by the situation.
We laughed at our valiant effort and then kissed for the longest time.
Erik stared at me and, even though it was difficult to let him see all of me, I looked back into his eyes.
“Do you think about how lucky we are?” I said.
“Yeah, I think about it at least five times a day.”
Erik Grieve was only 29, but he knew how to live. He knew, firsthand, the fragility of life. He knew our kind of love and happiness was not to be taken for granted.