I was staring into space and jumped when Ren clipped, “Oh, holy shit, that’s just wrong,” and grabbed himself between the legs.
“Penis babies?” His smug nod was enough, so I held my hand up and went to get out of my chair. “Thanks for everything. I feel less freaked about it now—” apart from cock births “—and I’ll think about the—” definitely not the hyena pseudo-penis babies “—birth experience.”
Standing up, Ren pulled me in for a quick hug and thumped me on the back. “Good luck, man. You’ve got this.” Then, he whispered, “Don’t look it up on the web. Trust me, you don’t want to do that.”
To say that I left the garage feeling relaxed, excited, and more determined than I went in was an understatement. But on the other hand, I felt like I needed to go and buy a metal guard to lock around my crotch.
All the worries I’d been stressing over were organized, and I had answers to it that settled my mind, but I was also going to be mentally picturing a baby coming out of my dick the next time I went to the bathroom.
Maybe if I held off going for as long as possible and looked the other way when I did, it would all be okay.
No, I had plans for the future that I was going to focus on.
I was going to be a daddy—to a baby that wasn’t coming out of a teeny tiny hole in my body.
And hopefully a husband.
Three weeks later…
I felt like shit. I was soaked in sweat and ached all over with pain like I’d never felt before in my life.
“What about if we take the sticky pads off?” Grandpa asked, poking at one of the pads with his finger.
“I’m fairly certain,” I panted, “that it’ll rip my asshole out of my bellybutton.” Then, rolling onto my side as the next wave hit, I wailed, “Leave me to die.”
“Boy, what in sweet baby cheebus’s name did you think you were doing?”
“I wanted to show Bexley I cared by going through— Aw, shit, here comes another one,” I broke off, holding my stomach and curling into a ball. When it just made it worse, I tried straightening one leg and holding onto my ass. “Ask Bex to hurry up in the bathroom.”
“Damn fool kid,” Gramps mumbled as he walked away.
Yes, I’d bought the kit that made the modern man understand what his woman went through to give birth to his kids—at least, that’s what it said on the box. It also had a man with the pads on his stomach, smiling and looking happy about the experience.
Not that I’d believe that, but when I saw the dude’s muscles tensing on the video in the ad, all he’d done was frown and then hold a thumb up. What setting did he use?
I’d been doing it for almost two hours now, and up until ten minutes ago, I thought I was doing great. That’s when it’d gone up to the third level, and I’d had to hold my ass to stop my guts coming out of it.
Seeing my reaction, Bexley had run to the bathroom to throw up, and that’s where I was at now—still holding my ass.
Picking up the monitor, I looked at the screen and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the number four.
“How’s it going? She’ll just be a couple more minutes,” Gramps said as he came back in.
“It’s on the fourth level, I think that’s the max, so it should be over soon,” I replied, rolling onto my back and thinking really it wasn’t so bad.
I was wrong. Worse than that, I was so far from right that wrong wasn’t even the word to use for it.
“Four? Cheeseless crust, boy, there’s thirteen settings on it. You’ve got another nine to go.”
“What?” I whimpered, lifting my head up.
“Says right here that the fourth setting is what the woman feels when labor is just starting to establish a regular rhythm. The contractions are far apart, and it’s just a warning to let her know the baby’s coming and to prepare. Wait until the real shit hits you, you’re gonna pass out.”
“Why are you here?” I croaked, raising my head back up to glare at him. I was never, ever taking advice from a Townsend again.
“Because you called me crying. I came over to help you, and now I’m just going to watch you poop your pants.”
Just then, the next contraction hit, and in the process of rolling into a ball, I forgot to hold my ass, meaning that a loud fart burst out of me, which got a responding howl from Doyle.
Gramps’ deep chuckles grew louder until it was bursting out of him. “Holy hell, you’re the dog whisperer.”
Apparently, that’s what Doyle reacted to—my pain farts. With each contraction, another one came out of me until all you could hear was the damn dog howling away and Gramps bellowing out his laughter in time with it all.
“You sure you don’t want to remove those? You’re only on the sixth level.”
Looking pitifully over at Bex, who was looking pale as she sat on the other sofa watching me, I shook my head. “No, I want to go through this for you. Hyenas have babies out of their clitoris, I can do this.”
I should have quit when I started sounding like Cole, but I didn’t. I got all the way to the established labor, my contractions two and a half minutes apart when I realized that it wasn’t a fart that was about to happen.
There was no way in hell I was shitting in front of anyone, so I got up and ran as fast as I could with the contraction still tearing my guts out of my ass hole to the bathroom, only just making it in time.
That might have been one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, but pooping
