The Man Who Can't Be Moved

“God…” Em groans in disdain from our walk in closet. “…this just isn’t right…at all…I’m not sure about this one either…”

“We have to leave in twenty minutes,” I remind her, and then heave a sigh of exasperation as she mutters ‘Keep your fucking pants on’ followed by litany of profanities.

We’ve been going through the same bullshit for the past forty five minutes; she’s tried on three quarters of the dresses in her wardrobe and the majority of them are strewn across our previously neatly made bed, tossed there after she declared they made her newly fat ass and hips look way fatter than she can tolerate. I personally don’t see what she’s complaining about; she’s drop dead fucking sexy and insanely beautiful whether she’s wearing a pair of Winnie the Pooh flannel pyjamas, one of my t-shirts or hoodies, something flimsy and hard on inducing from Victoria’s Secret or nothing at all. Personally, I prefer the latter. And I don’t know how many times I have to tell her that being pregnant and fat are two entirely different things. There’s a human life inside of her…two to be exact…and I’d had a hand in creating them. We’ve somehow managed to achieve the miracle of life twofold and the images that I’ve conjured up of her growing bigger as the pregnancy progresses and knowing and that my babies -God willing- are thriving inside of her is beyond sexy. It’s overwhelming and I remain in constant awe over how well she’s handling the stress and the worry of the unknown.

It doesn’t hurt that I find her the most beautiful woman on the planet. Curves, big boobs, wide hips and all. She definitely makes one hell of a hot baby mama.

“Emma-Leigh…come on…mais qu'est-ce qui vous prend autant de temps?” I turn my eyes to the heavens and silently pray for just another five minutes of patience and tolerance before plopping down onto the end of the bed and shoving my feet into the pair of polished black dress shoes I’d set out earlier. I seriously can’t understand what takes the woman so long to pick something to wear; we’d showered an hour ago and I’ve been shaved and fully dressed for nearly forty five minutes. And she’s still flinging clothes out into the bedroom and mumbling curses and insulting herself. “You’ve got like fifty million fucking dresses in there and you can’t find one to wear? Like what the fuck? Rien ne prend si longtemps. Quel est votre panne ce matin?”

“My malfunction is that nothing looks good on me anymore!” she cries, and an eggplant purple sweater dress comes flying out of the closet and misses the bed by a good two feet and lands directly on top of Cooper as he lies on the carpet and chews on the red and black braided sash from one of the outfits -a black one shouldered crepe dress that had been my personal favourite- that my wife had discarded earlier. “I can’t get my skirts or my dress pants over my tummy, all of my dresses are form fitting and show off my belly…”

“So? Who gives a fuck?” I lean over to tie my shoe laces. “Your belly is there for a reason. I fucking created that bump and if it’s a clear message to all the perverts out there that you belong to me, then I say show it off as much as possible.”

“As if there’s men out there that are attracted to pregnant women,” she laughs. “Just because you get turned on by that shit…”

“I don’t get turned on by pregnant women,” I inform her, and then yank the fabric from Cooper’s mouth and give him a scolding in French. “I get turned on by my pregnant wife. Pourquoi êtes-vous si vache ce matin?”

“Don’t you start with me Maxime,” she warns. “I’ve been up since six in the morning puking my guts out every five minutes. If I want to be a bitch, I’m going to be a bitch.”

“Nothing new there,” I mutter, and then hold my hands up in surrender when she pokes her out of the closet and glares at me. “I love you, baby…” I pucker up and blow her a kiss. “…you drive me fucking looney tunes, but I do love you. But please…s'il vous plaît juste prendre quelque chose à porter. You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.”

“Fine…” she huffs. “I have two more things to try on before I give up completely and force you to go on your own.”

“It’s way too early for this shit,” I declare, and then slip off the bed and begin tidying the room, gathering up various items of clothing and folding them neatly or draping them over the arms of the antique wing backed chair -a wedding present from my grandmother who couldn’t resist the cherry wood or the tacky needlepoint seat cushion and back rest- that sits by the window. “Do you want me to go and make you something to eat?” I inquire. “Something to calm your stomach? Like some dry toast and a cup of that ginger tea Vero gave you? What about yogurt? Isn’t there something about yogurt being soothing?”

“What I really want is a breakfast burrito from McDonalds,” she gives a long, content sigh. “Two of them actually. And a couple hash browns and a chocolate shake. At least I’ll enjoy it temporarily. I’ll worry about the throwing up later.”

“What you need to do is call the doctor and tell her about being so sick,” I inform her, as I scoop my watch up off the dresser and attach it to my left wrist. “Don’t make me do it, Em. Don’t make me look like the quintessential overprotective husband and daddy to be.”

“It’s too late for that,” she teases. “You’re already a huge worry wart. What would all the guys say about what a huge softie you are? About how you make me breakfast in bed or run out at two in the morning to grab whatever I want to satisfy my cravings? Or how you draw me candlelit bubble baths and cater to my every whim?”

“They already know I’m whipped. I’m the first one to admit that I am. And I don’t do all of those things for you because I’m a softie. I do all of that so I’ll get laid.”

“Sure, Max…sure. We both know that you’ve never had to work that hard to get laid. All you have to do is look at me a certain way and I’m molesting you. So you can convince yourself all you want that you’re not a softie. I promise I’ll protect your secret. And why call the doctor? It’s morning sickness. It comes with the territory.”

“All day sickness in your case,” I correct. “There’s got to be something you can take, right? Some kind of medicine that helps? They’ve got pills and herbal shit for everything these days. You should call her and ask…” my words trail off and an enormous pleased and approving smile stretches across my face as she finally appears in the closet doorway, a scowl on her own face as she self consciously runs her hands over her hips and her stomach.

She looks sensational; her hair pulled up into a loose sweep, a simple pair of platinum and diamond hoop earring gracing her lobes and the circle of diamonds and amethysts that I’d given her as a wedding present -and that matches her engagement ring- adorning her slender neck. Not to mention all her luscious, womanly curves are on display in a gun metal grey satin number with a scooped neckline, capped, black lace trimmed sleeves, small black and silver decorative jewelled buttons down her left side and a hem line that skims the bottom of her knees.

“You hate it…” she accuses, taking my silence for disproval. “…you think it’s hideous.”

“What? Are you serious?” I can’t help but laugh at her childish pout. And the ridiculousness of her words. “I don’t think it’s hideous. I think…”

“It’s the last option,” she frets. “I have nothing else that even looks remotely decent. Everything shows off my ass and my stomach! It’s not like we have the time to go to the mall and find me something else! Why did Peyton have to do this? Tell us at the last minute? If she’d given me a few days notice I could have…”

“Emma-Leigh…” I join her in the doorway to the closet and reach out to cradle her cheeks in my palms. “…it’s fine. It’s not hideous. At all. Il est magnifique. Tu es superbe,” I tilt her face up towards me and press a soft kiss to her lips. “Would I lie to you? Do these eyes lie?”

“No…” she gives a small, almost nervous laugh. “…but you are my husband and most husbands are very prejudiced when it comes to how their wives look. And how do I know you’re not just saying that to be nice? That you’re not just telling me what I want to hear because you don’t want to spend the night on the couch? How do I know that…?”

“Woman…for fuck sakes…I’m saying it because it’s true. Because you look insanely beautiful. What more do you want from me? Je t'aime et que vous regardez beaucoup. Je ne voudrais pas mentir à ce sujet. What are you so worried about? The fact that you’re putting on weight? You’re pregnant…” I remove one of my hands from the side of her face and slipping it between us, place it on her slightly swollen tummy. “…women gain weight when they’re pregnant. Trust me; you look amazing. Although you might look at little too amazing. You’re not supposed to show up the bride on her wedding day.”

“Okay, as much as I appreciate all the brown nosing and it’s definitely helping your chances of having sex on a consistent basis for at least a couple of weeks, now you’re just going overboard. We’re talking about Peyton here. The woman who looks sweatpants and ratty t-shirts look incredible. This is her…” she holds her left hand up over her head. “…and this is me…” she places the right hand at waist level. “…I can’t even come close to her. Face it, you married the frumpy one.”

“What I did was marry the most incredible woman in the entire world. One that I have insanely beautiful and phenomenally sexy. And one that doesn’t have a conquest on each professional sports team in Pittsburgh.”

“That’s harsh!” Em scolds. “I know she’s been with someone on the Steelers and the Pirates and now on the Pens, but she’s still my best friend and she’s crazy in love with Lepretty. I thought you liked Peyton. Why are you hating on her all of a sudden? Because let me warn you now, if I ever had to choose between the two of you…well I don’t think you want to hear who I’d pick.”

“I do like Peyton. I love Peyton. Just not in the way tons of other guys seem to love her. And you know what? You may think she has the prettier packaging, but who managed to land the hotter husband? Who managed to tame Mad Max? Nail down the Superstar?”

“You really are an egoistical shit,” she concludes, and then giggles against my lips when I press a chaste kiss to her mouth. “Sexy as hell, but totally egotistical. Apparently I haven’t tamed you quite enough.”

“It’s going to be a long, trying process. I don’t know if you’re going to be able to hold out that long.”

“How long is that?” she inquires, and smoothes down the shoulders and front of my baby blue dress shirt and then tightens and straightens my silver, black and navy patterned tie. “A few months? Several years? A couple of decades?”

“I was thinking more like an eternity,” I reply, and peck the tip of her nose.

“Sappy bastard,” she grins. “Vous avez l'air très gentil. Incroyablement beau. Et vous sentez bon aussi. You clean up nice, Maxime. I think I’ll keep you.”

“Eternity’s a long ass time,” I tease.

“Yeah…” she agrees and tugs playfully on my tie. “…but I think I’ll manage.”

******

“Do you remember a couple of years ago when I came down to visit Tyler close to Christmas?” Em curiously inquires from the front passenger seat of my BMW -I figured the spring like weather and Tanger’s wedding day warranted bringing my ‘baby’ out of the garage after a long, cruel winter- as she balances an extremely expensive, intricately etched crystal picture frame in her lap and wraps it in gold tissue paper.

“You mean when the Pens had our Christmas party at SportsWorks and you followed me around the whole time like a little lost puppy dog?” I tease, a hand firmly on the steering wheel as I push my glasses up further onto my nose.

“Oh my God that is so far from the truth!” she cries. “I did not follow you around! You were the one that was always around me! Every time I turned around there you were, right beside me! Or you were staring at me like a fucking creeper!”

“I was imaging what you looked like naked,” I admit.

“And you kept finding all these ways to touch me!” she adds. “You would stand right beside me so that your shoulder would brush against me or you’d nudge me with your elbow or you’d pull my ponytail. And you always had to make sure that you sat beside me regardless of who you squished in the process or barked at to ‘shove a cheek’.”

“You’re delusional. You’re making things up. I never…”

“You were so confusing!” she laments. “One minute you were acting like you were all into me and the next you were either totally ignoring me or being mean to me!”

“I was not being mean to you,” I argue. “I was never…”

“You called me a little girl! Your exact words when I asked if you had a girlfriend were ‘quit asking me stupid questions and go and play with your Barbie dolls little girl’.”

“I was a little scared of you, alright? I was a little freaked out that I liked you as much as I did. I mean, you were seventeen. Total jailbait. What did you want me to do? Go to jail for busting a move?”

“You were a total douche noozle,” she declares. “And because of that, I was forced to return to Canada a week later and lose my virginity to a university football player that had a penis the size of a cocktail wiener and more muscles than brains.”

“Okay…hold up for a second…are you telling me that your main reason for visiting your brother was to lose your virginity in Pittsburgh?”

“Um-hm…” she nods in confirmation, and then tucks the picture frame into a shimmering silver gift bag that also holds the ‘Congratulations on Your Wedding’ card and a gift certificate to Williams-Sonoma for the happy couple that we’d picked up just twenty minutes before. “Well I mean it’s not like I had a list of guys that I was willing to cough it up to,” she quickly clarifies. “You were my target the second I got on the plane back in Canada. I figured if the rumours were true about you, you’d give me a first time I’d never forget.”

“You were going to just fuck me and leave me? Use me for my body?” I chide.

“Pretty much!” she chirps, and sets the gift bag at her feet. “I wanted someone who knew what they were doing. And considering all the stories I’d heard from Tyler…”

“As flattered as I am about this whole thing, I honestly I would have been the worst first time ever. I don’t do virgins, Em. Literally. I just can’t handle that shit. I can’t handle the whole deflowering process. I’m just not sensitive or gentle enough for all of that. You would have been better off to pick Tanger. He’s got that whole innocent, sweet yet not so virginal little boy vibe about him. He’d be more gentle and attentive. Me…I would have just thrown you down and that would have been that. Or you would have admitted you were a virgin right before we had sex and I would have told you to put your clothes back on and shipped you back to your brother’s.”

“What’s your issue with virgins?”

“I don’t have an issue with them. I just don’t want to have to deal with them. All the blood and the crying afterwards and the whole having to cuddle them and comfort them. That’s just not me. I want women that know what they’re doing.”

“Skanks you mean,” she rolls her eyes. “You’re a skank magnet. If you’re so into women that know what they’re doing, why the hell did you marry me? It’s not like I’m the most knowledgeable girl on the planet. Why’d you…?”

“Come on…there’s a huge difference between the way you are and the way a virgin is. It’s not like you were totally…what’s the word…green… when I got to you. You did have some skills. It wasn’t like working with a blank slate or working with someone that was set in their ways. Means I get to show off my skills, non?” I drop one hand from the wheel and laying it on the back of her neck, gently squeeze and massage the muscle. “Impress you with my knowledge? Turn you into this totally wild and crazy and kinky sex kitten that’s all mine?”

“You have the most messed up ways of rationalizing things,” she declares. “And I don’t know how this turned into a conversation about my virginity. The real point I was trying to make about that Christmas party is that you practically stalked me all night but that night eight months ago in the bar in Scranton you acted like you’d never met me before. What the fuck was up with that?”

“Em, have you looked in the mirror lately? Have you looked at pictures of what you looked like two years ago? When you were seventeen? You don’t even look like the same person. I legit didn’t recognize you. I mean, you know how many women I’ve come across in two years?”

“I shudder at the thought,” she mutters. “And now that we’ve discussed my virginity…how old were you? When you first had sex?”

“I was eighteen,’ I quickly reply.

“What?” she laughs incredulously. “Eighteen? You? Get the fuck out of here.”

“I am dead serious. I was eighteen and she was twenty one. The older sister of one of my friends in high school. He had this huge party at the end of the school year and we all got tanked and she started coming on to me and talking about how she’d had the huge crush on me even since I was in grade nine. Next thing you know…no longer a virgin.”

“And after that your penis was on autopilot and you made it your life mission to satisfy as many ladies as possible,” my wife concludes.

“Exactly. So now that you think about it…I was eighteen and you were seventeen. Now who’s the big slut?”

Scowling, she reaches out to painfully flick my earlobe with the tips of her thumb and forefinger.

“I’m kidding…just kidding…” I chuckle. “…and I wasn’t eighteen. More like fifteen. But it was at a friend’s party and I did get tanked and her older sister who was twenty one did corrupt me.”

“Nasty little hooch…” Em grumbles. “…preying on little boys.”

“But that’s all water under the bridge, right?” I squeeze the nape of her neck. “Tous partie du passé? None of that matters in the grand scheme of things. And besides…think of it this way…you may not have lost your virginity to me, but you ended up marrying me. You’re going to spend forever with me, non? Ask me, that’s solid proof that amazing things come to those who wait.”

“I don’t know if I can live with you and your ego for the rest of my life,” she mutters.

“All that matters is that we’re together now,” I declare. “That we eventually found our way to each other. I can’t think of a better way to spend the rest of my life. Loving you to the day I die seems like a pretty good fate to be dealt. You’ve changed me, Emma-Leigh. You make me want to be a better man.”

A brilliant smile slowly spreads across her face and she leans across the seat to press a soft, affectionate kiss to my cheek.

Life is damn good.