He wanted to be the kind of dad a boy needed. He wanted his son to know he could count on him. He wanted his boy to be able to look up to him, and he wanted to be the kind of man who deserved it.
He wanted to do it better. He wanted to do it right.
Jennifer’s hand was shaking. He held it tighter, and then realized that it wasn’t hers. It was his. He asked, “Is he … all right? Is that how he’s … supposed to look? His nose and everything? His hands? His eyes look … odd.” His voice wasn’t steady, either. He didn’t care.
The doctor said, “That’s a twenty-week fetus. He looks just fine to me. His eyes are finishing up their development now, and he won’t open them for another six to eight weeks. I’m going to take some measurements here, and some images. I’ll give you a thumb drive to take home, and you can look all you want.”
Harlan barely heard her. He was still staring at the screen. At toes and fingers. Arms and legs. Tiny feet. A penis. A person.
“He’s about seven inches long now,” Jennifer told him, and Harlan spread out his hand, the one that wasn’t holding hers, to imagine it. His hand was nine and a half inches long. Big. The better to grip a football with, he’d always thought. The baby was so much smaller than that, still. And so skinny.
He said, “I need to study menus more. Maybe get a cookbook.”
Jennifer groaned. “More kale?”
He had to smile. “Yep. Hey, you liked that crispy kind I did. Tell me what you want, though, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“You have minicamp next week,” she said.
He leaned over and kissed her. He didn’t care that the doctor was still doing her thing. He needed to say this. “I can have minicamp,” he promised, “and still take care of you. And that’s what I’m going to do.”
56
Further Questions
It had all been so emotional. Harlan’s hand had shaken, too. He’d been as nervous as she had, she’d swear it, and as affected by that picture on the screen. And then, when she was sitting up on the table again, he started asking completely different questions.
First, he told the doctor about her piercing. She wanted to hiss at him, “I was going to lead up to that!”
No leading up. He went straight there.
The doctor wasn’t fazed, at least. Judging by the leather pants, she might have some piercings herself. She said, “You’ll want to remove that for delivery, Jennifer, or if it gives you any discomfort. Otherwise, it’s fine.”
Jennifer had just breathed a sigh of relief at that being over when Harlan said, “Her orgasms with that thing are intense. I mean, really intense. And she has a lot of them in a row. Also, we sometimes do it more than once a day. Is that a problem? Could it start labor, or anything?”
Jennifer thought, Kill me now. Just kill me now. She couldn’t stand to look at the doctor, so she glared at Harlan instead.
The doctor said, “The intensity can be partially because of increased blood flow and engorgement during pregnancy. Are you experiencing those, Jennifer?” Which meant she had to look at her.
She said, “Yes.” She tried to think of something else to say, but she couldn’t manage it.
“Are you having any bleeding? Spotting?” the doctor asked.
“No.” Would this stop?
“Then I’d say she’s fine,” the doctor said. “Sex during pregnancy is excellent for bonding, since men can feel a little bit left out of the process, and it’s not bad for relaxing mom, either. She may not want it as much in the third trimester, so enjoy it while you’re both feeling it. And, no, multiple orgasms aren’t a problem. In fact, I’d say they’re a perk, wouldn’t you?”
“So what do we watch out for?” Harlan asked. “What’s off-limits?”
“Sex flat on her back during the third trimester,” the doctor said. “And thrusting too forcefully, if you bruise the vagina or cervix, especially with a well-endowed partner. If there’s any pain or spotting, you’ll know for sure you’ve gone too far, but much better not to let it get to that point.”
“Whoops,” Harlan said. “OK. Making a note here.”
Finally. Still embarrassing, but at least they were almost done.
Which was when he asked, “How about anal sex?”
What? She was staring at him, and he shrugged and said, “Hey. Beats me calling up the office and asking, right?”
“Do you want to have anal sex?” the doctor asked her. Yes, she did.
“Uh …” Jennifer was sure she was bright red. She no longer had blood flow to her genital area, because all the blood in her body was in her face. “I, uh …”
“Because one thing isn’t all right during pregnancy,” the doctor said. “And that’s doing anything you’re not comfortable with. Including having sex at all, if you’d rather not. If you’d like to discuss that with me privately, I’m happy to do it.”
“Uh, no,” Jennifer said. “No, thank you.”
“We’re not doing anything she’s not comfortable with,” Harlan said. “I’m just checking.”
Checking. Right.
“Right, then,” the doctor said. “The usual rules apply. Wear a condom. Use extra lube. Wash before you go between orifices. You really don’t want a vaginal infection at this time. And above all—be gentle. This isn’t the time to push her limits, whatever your normal play style is.”
The doctor could tell. She could tell. “Kinky” was apparently branded on Jennifer’s forehead. It was definitely branded on Harlan’s, and he didn’t even care. Of course, he was a football player. Kinky was probably a requirement.
Oh, no. Was she going to have to talk about that with Dyma, too? Everything in her quailed at the thought. The eye-rolling. The sighing.
The titanic levels of embarrassment.
“Also,” the doctor had to go on, “hemorrhoids are common in pregnancy. Constipation, too. And those would rule out anal sex. Are you suffering from either of those?” she asked Jennifer.
By the time they left the office, Jennifer had pretty much melted into a puddle of mortification. She hissed at Harlan, the second they were outside, “I am not telling you whether I have hemorrhoids. No. No. No. I’m not supposed to do anything I’m not comfortable with? I’m not comfortable with that.”
He was laughing, pulling her close, giving her a kiss. “OK,” he promised. “All you have to say is ‘no.’ No explanation necessary.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why me? Why now? This is what they make the internet for! To look up embarrassing questions!”
“Dr. Mansfield went to medical school at Harvard,” he said, sounding annoyingly reasonable. “Number two medical school in the U.S. for obstetrics. She did her residency at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, which is number one. She has admitting privileges at the best hospitals. That’s why I picked her. Who wrote that article on the internet? Probably not somebody from Harvard. If you’ve got the best, you ask the best. Plus, you’re high risk. Is the internet going to know that answer?”