The Between Years

district, before we graduated to the theatre.

    The evening made me feel like we were dating again. We'd had to freeze our entertainment expenses, what with a mortgage to keep pace with and all. Most Friday nights meant movies on the couch or playing cards, and dining out meant the fare at the closest pizza and wings joint. But that night, splurging was okay, and we returned home with hefty smiles.

    When we returned home, Randy kicked the front door shut, scooped me up in his arms, and whisked me off to the bedroom. He negotiated my weight enough to flip the lights on and shut the door then he rested me on the bed. He slithered up my legs, his body enveloping mine, while he kissed me. Sometimes Randy liked to keep his clothes on for the first stages of love-making, to establish a controlled and methodical pace. We undressed each other, an article of clothing at a time. I pulled his sweater over his head, and he unbuttoned my blouse. Then I unbuttoned his dress shirt and he unhooked my bra with a single finger.

    Randy slid my panties off and buried his face between my legs. The stubble above his lip tickled my sex, making my ass jerk and shift. Then his tongue flicked my clitoris and I clasped my breasts, pinched my nipples. His fingers delved into my vagina, inch by inch as I held my breath captive, and squeezed my eyelids shut.

    Randy stood up on his knees, his dick pointing at me, and I peeled his foreskin back and forth, accordion-like. Then he inched between my legs and slipped his organ into my sex. He eased in slowly, as he always did then he worked his way up to a faster but steady tempo. He pinned my legs back, spread himself over my entire body, his chest flat against mine, as he pounded harder, faster. The fight to restrain my grunts, moans and cries of ecstasy was all but lost.

    I held my breath again to complement the mounting pressure in my loins. Each thrust brought more pressure until the dam burst, and I gushed with orgasm, yet Randy continued to scour deep inside of me. I cried out with pleasure, but I could barely hear myself over the sound of skin slapping against skin. When Randy's breathing picked up, and I heard him grunt, I knew he was close to climax. I wrapped my legs around his hips, pulled him in closer. His lungs released with several gasps, and I felt four shots of hot fluid rush inside me.

    Randy eased out of me and then rolled over, flat on his back, panting. Normally, sex didn't tax him so heavily that he couldn't cuddle with me after, or even kiss me, but I rolled my head and watched his bare chest rise and drop, rise and drop. We lay still until I felt myself drift into sleep, so I nudged him to get up. In the shower, Randy passed me the soap while he shampooed his hair and let water spray over his face. I spread lather over my arms, my breasts, and I knew it was the wrong moment to tell him the secret I'd been keeping.

    Couples make decisions together, or that's what I've always told myself. Honesty begets trust, trust begets respect, respect begets true love and so on. But I took one very important issue into my own hands. I'm ashamed that I did, and yet I wouldn't take it back. Before our anniversary night, I stopped taking my birth control pill. I didn't do it specifically to impregnate myself, but because I was tired of feeling bloated and nauseous all the time. As receptive as Randy was about most things, sometimes you have to be a woman to understand my reasoning.

    When Randy shot his seed into me that night, I knew that was all it would take to impregnate me, like it was magic. It was common sense too, considering I knew the ramifications of my actions. A few weeks later, I suffered the morning sickness that typified a looming pregnancy and I phoned the doctor's office. The three days wedged between the call and my appointment left me with an endless amount of time to figure out what I would say to Randy.

    When the tests returned, my heart sank, and I selected a rehearsed speech to deliver to Randy. That night, I saw him in the living room, feet kicked up, reading a John Langan novel, and I bit my lip. I snuggled up beside him, but this time without any chips or dip, just news that would either excite or anger him. I caressed his arm rather than run my finger up and down its length. I said, “I went to the doctor's today.” Then I choked.

    Randy closed his book and turned to me. “Doctor's? Everything okay?”

    I wouldn't commit to an expression. “I'm not sure.