By Jillian Pretzel

It’s a warm afternoon and I’m feeling hot. So hot, in fact, that I know I had to have it right then: frozen yogurt.
I need to have that plain tart flavor in my mouth, those curves of smooth goodness, covered with ripe blueberries and smothered in seductive chocolate brownie bits.

So, I roll out of bed and put on my sexiest pregnancy pants, the ones that are normal jeans from the waist down but spandex up top. They’re my pre-pregnancy size, so shoving my legs into those jeans is like stuffing a hotdog through a lifesaver. Mmm… it’s so tight.

I saunter on down the hall of my Brooklyn apartment and twiddle my fingers at the doorman as I walk out. I know he wants me… to tell him when I’m due. He’s got that fiery, passionate look in his eye that says he’s scared of getting too close to me, afraid my water will break all over his shoes. He knows it would be so wet everywhere.

But shhhh, I’m not going to tell him, because even though I look like I’m ready to give birth to a reality show-worthy litter of quints or sextuplets, I’ve actually got another month of growth before I have my singular baby elephant. But I’ll just have to keep him guessing.

Walking down the street, all the guys like to watch my booty shimmy from side to side as I compensate for my luxuriously heavy front half. As an added bonus, my admirers can check out my legs, which are swollen like two French fries that got spongy in a cup of water.

Even the construction workers stop their hammering so they can say dirty things like, “Should you be walking around like that, Ma’am?” Or just simply, “Careful!” They obviously want me.

Determined to get my fill of fro-yo, I continue to an intersection, waiting for the green walking sign to light up before I slink across the intersection. I give the people waiting in their cars a sexy show by picking my wedgie, holding one arm out for balance as I use the other to give the seat of my pants a firm yank.

When I finally get to the local yogurt shop, I’m welcomed inside with a familiar nod from the cashier. The whole staff knows me—and not because I’ve come here three or four days a week for the better part of a year. Most of them, I imagine, remember me from my intoxicating scent.

That’s right, I’ve been told that I smell of potent, hormonal sweat after just getting up to go to the bathroom. I can only imagine the pheromones protruding from under my shirtsleeves after walking three blocks.

The guy at the counter looks me up and down, lingering on my newly giant boobs, which now hang low with extra weight. He admires my upper arms, which are now flabby from months of not wanting to do push-ups. And I know he sees my big bump, which smooshes, oh so seductively, against the sneeze guard.

“Shouldn’t you be, like, at a hospital?” he says.

I laugh a short, airy laugh, since it’s hard to breath deeply with all my heartburn. Clearly, I make him nervous.

While I think I’m in the mood for a size small yogurt, I realize I can’t settle for anything less than at least a medium. “Don’t listen to what they say,” I whisper to the boy behind the counter. “Size does matter.”

I tell him to load up that yogurt swirl with so much granola he can’t even handle it. Then I tell him to put those strawberries and blueberries in their place… right next to the granola. Then to top it off, sprinkles. That’s right, he heard me. Sprinkles all over the place. Sprinkles on the yogurt, sprinkles on the counter, so many sprinkles, some of them even end up on the floor. I don’t mind letting things get a little dirty.

Feeling deliciously satisfied, I eat my yogurt as I wobble all the way home. When I finally walk into my building, the doorman’s shift has changed, which means someone else gets to feast on my lumbering beauty as I make my way across the lobby, farting audibly along the way.

“Sorry,” I say, in my raspy, seductive tone, “I can’t help it.” He’s stunned.

When I get in the apartment, my husband is already home from work, looking hot with a bag of Chipotle and a big smile. I sit down in front of my burrito, a huge burrito, practically throbbing with extra rice and, what’s that… Sofritas? Just how I like it.

But before I have a chance to eat, I lean over onto my husband’s shoulder and start to doze off on the couch. I’m not surprised, though; these days, this sexy pregnant lady is always DTFA—down to fall asleep.

*****

About the Author

Jillian Pretzel received her MFA in Creative Writing and MA in English at Chapman University. She lives in New York City with her husband.