27. The Most Polite Man Whore Ever
twenty-seven
The Most Polite Man Whore Ever
Leah
T wo weeks later…
11 weeks pregnant
“Hey, how was your day?” Dylan asks as I walk through the door and throw my bag on the floor.
I don’t respond with anything other than an obnoxiously loud sigh.
“That bad, huh?” He says.
“Something like that,” I mumble. “I’m going to go change.”
Hopefully, I can change my attitude too.
I’m barely through the door of my bedroom before I’m practically ripping off my jeans. I don’t know if they shrunk in the wash or what, but they’ve been digging into me all day. Once they’re off, I feel like I can finally breathe.
Next comes the bra because along with morning sickness, boob pain has stepped onto the scene.
Pregnancy is fun.
I throw on an oversized t-shirt, but when I try to slide on my cotton shorts, I find that they dig into me almost as much as the jeans did.
How the hell am I gaining weight when I’m still throwing up practically everything I eat?
Frustrated, I yell for Dylan to get his attention.
I hear him hurrying down the hall. Peeking his head in, he says, “Leah, are you okay?”
“Would you be offended if I started walking around here with no pants?” I huff.
When he looks confused, I add, “My pants are getting too tight, and they dig into my stomach. I spent all day caged in my tight jeans, and now, my shorts are revolting against me too. I’m striking against pants in general…if that’s okay with you.”
Without much consideration, he answers, “It’s fine by me.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Leah, one, you’re carrying my baby. I’m not about to complain about what you wear. And two, you’re not going to make me uncomfortable. I’ve seen you naked, remember?”
“Yeah, but it’s been a while.”
“Leah, honey, I remember what it looks like. You’re not easily forgettable.” With a wink, he walks out of the room.
I should’ve known he wouldn’t care. The man goes out of his way to make sure I’m happy and taken care of. He’s made it so that I consider this my home. I actually enjoy all my time with him, which is a bit of a new concept for me. Even when I’ve lived with other men or been serious—or my version of serious—with them, I’ve always treasured my alone time. I thrive on it. Too much time with someone makes me feel suffocated.
But it’s different with Dylan. Although I love my job, every day, I look forward to when I get to leave it and come home to him.
What the hell is happening to me? It can’t just be the baby hormones, right? Maybe that’s part of it, but I think the bigger part has to do with how great Dylan is. I still can’t believe that I hit the metaphorical lottery when it comes to who my baby’s father is. He’s been the silver lining through all of this.
I throw my hair up in a ponytail and walk out to the living room. Dylan has an assortment of snacks and appetizers laid out on the coffee table.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“Figured we could just snack tonight. Maybe stay up late since we’re both off tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say while sitting down on the couch. “This looks amazing.”
I grab a mini quesadilla and take a bite as Dylan asks, “So, what happened today?”
“Nothing in particular. I’m just having a moment.”
“About your jeans feeling a little tight?”
“That’s part of it. It’s just everything. I don’t feel like myself anymore.”
He picks up a few chips and takes a bite of one. “What do you mean? ”
“I mean I’m apparently putting on weight even though I’m still throwing up all the time. My boobs hurt constantly. I’m exhausted. I just don’t feel like me.”
I leave out the part about how I have zero sex drive and even less confidence. I’ve never been under the delusion that I was the prettiest girl in town. That wasn’t me. But I’d still walk into that room like I fucking owned it.
What I lacked in traditional beauty, I made up for in a high sex drive and dirty mouth. These two things ensured that I had no trouble finding a man to have some fun with. I still have a dirty mouth but no desire to use it. Right now, the thought of sex repulses me.
Dylan says, “Well, for what it’s worth, the parenting books all say things get a little more back to normal after the first trimester. Then, things get weird again during the third. Maybe the second won’t be too bad.”
I smile. “You should really be a motivational speaker.”
“Sorry. I’m just trying to say that I know it sucks right now, but it’ll get better. And if it doesn’t, then, you can take it out on me.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
“Please do.”
I pick at my fingernails and stare into my lap. Dylan notices and asks, “Is there something else going on?”
I think for a moment, pondering exactly how I want to answer.
“Okay, at the risk of sounding completely off my rocker, I just want to say that the baby makes me insane.”
“Alright…” he waits for me to go on.
“Do you still find me attractive? ”
Good lord, I sound ridiculous.
He puts down his bottle of water that he just picked up. “Are you serious?”
“Uhm…yes? Well, I was. Now, I’m not so sure.”
He grabs my hands. “Listen up, buttercup. You are gorgeous.”
“Dylan…”
He holds up his hand to stop me. “No. Better yet, you’re fucking stunning.”
“Even though I’m getting a little thicker?”
He cocks one eyebrow. “Are you kidding? You know what? Stand up.”
He pulls me to my feet. “Okay, now, I want you to understand just how sexy you are.” Electricity shoots through me as his hand grazes my hip. That’s the only tingle that’s ventured anywhere near my nethers since the baby took up residency in my uterus.
Sex still sounds repulsive, but it’s nice to know my vagina is showing signs of life.
“These hips and thighs of yours are enough to bring a man to his knees. When I first saw you, I knew how sexy you were. Why do you think I worked so hard to get you to hang out with me…twice?”
“Because you were desperate?” I joke. Clearly, it’s a lie. Just look at the man.
“No, it’s because I was dying to get you underneath me.”
There goes the tingle again.
He continues. “Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you’re any less attractive. I think you’re beautiful .
Usually, I’d think he was just blowing smoke up my ass, but right now, I’m choosing to believe him…because it helps me feel better. Right now, it’s the only thing making me feel better.
“Thank you,” I tell him, grateful that he’s so wonderful.
As we take a seat on the couch, I go on to say, “Dylan, I need to ask you something else?”
“Go for it.”
“Why are you still single? I mean, honestly. You’re most women’s dream.”
He gets comfortable next to me and is quiet so long I wonder if he didn’t hear me.
Finally, he lets out a sigh before finally speaking. “Honestly?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Because I’ve been enjoying being a man whore.”
“Huh?” His answer catches me off guard.
“Look, I’ve always treated women right—or at least I have tried to. But I’ve never gotten serious with any of them. Until recently, I wasn’t ready to settle down. I just liked having fun, and the women I dated tended to have the same outlook. I never cheated or anything like that, and I’ve never just ghosted.”
“So, you’re the most polite man whore ever?” I ask with a laugh.
His lips curl into a half-smile. “Something like that. I was always honest about my intentions—even if they weren’t the best. Sometimes, my intentions were simply to sleep with a woman and call it a day. I liked being a serial dater.”
“So, what changed?” I ask, eating another mini quesadilla even though I know I’ll regret it soon enough .
He shrugs. “Because as much fun as the fucking part was, the going home alone after was getting old. I was just ready for more.”
“Is that what you wanted when we first met? More?”
“When you and I first met, I knew I wanted to get to know you better—in whatever form that came in.”
“What was it about me that drew you in? No offense, but I don’t seem like your normal type.”
He asks, “What do you think my normal type is?’
“I don’t know. Probably preppy, leggy, and maybe perky. I figured you would go for someone who has all her shit together. You know, the exact opposite of me.”
“I told you before that I don’t have a type, but I’d say it speaks volumes that I couldn’t get you off my mind.” He leans closer to speak in a low voice. “For Christ’s sake, Leah. I came to you to get a tattoo.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“While we’re on the subject, what’s your type?”
“Hmm.” I tap my finger on my chin. “Assholes.”
“Ouch. Really?”
“Oh, yeah. It was a revolving door of losers. But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my love life. It reads like a season of Sex and the City.”
“Lucky for you, I’m a total Samantha. Let me hear it.”
I go to open my mouth, but he stops me. “Wait!”
“What?”
“A story like this needs ice cream.”
As he jumps off the couch and runs to the kitchen, two thoughts run through my mind .
One, he is wonderful.
Two, how the hell does he eat so much junk and stay looking like a Greek God?
Proof that God is indeed a man.