There are moments in life that you dream about—plan for. You imagine every detail in crisp, vivid color and high-definition sound. And when that one perfect moment finally arrives, you pray the reality will come close to the fantasy you’ve built up in your mind.
And then there are those precious few times—when the reality blows your fantasy out of the f**king water.
That’s what this is like for me.
Because that devilishly handsome man, in the perfectly fitted Armani tuxedo, standing at the altar of St. Patrick’s Cathedral—that’s me. Drew Evans.
And Katherine Brooks just stepped into the church. Waiting in the back, a stunning vision in white, ready to take her first step down the aisle.
Most guys don’t dream about their wedding—you don’t need me to tell you that. But this isn’t just any wedding. This is a landmark event. Revolutionary. Because for most of my life, I didn’t entertain the slightest possibility that I’d end up here.
Sand to the beach, books to the library—it wasn’t what I wanted, remember?
But Kate did the impossible. She changed all that—she changed me. I think we can all agree I was pretty frigging awesome before . . . but now I’m even better.
The road to this day wasn’t all rainbows and boners. There were some potholes—mistakes—and misunderstandings worthy of a Greek f**king tragedy. But we made it through those times with our inexhaustible lust, boundless admiration, and everlasting love for one another intact.
That being said, some unexpected developments last weekend could have been a problem. It was . . . kind of . . . my final test.
I know what you’re thinking: What the hell did you do this time?
Relax. Let’s hold off on the judgments—and the calls for my castration—until you hear the whole story. Just remember: even though the noblest intentions can go awry, and they do, this story has a happy ending.
One week earlier
The apartment is silent. Still. The kind of quiet that can only be found in the predawn hours when the sky is dark and gray. The place has changed since you saw it last. Take a look around. Sterilized sippy cups lie in wait on a countertop; a green-cushioned, wooden high chair sits in the corner of the kitchen. Framed photographs clutter the walls and shelves.
Some are of Kate and me, but most of the captured images are of a dark-haired two-year-old, with brown, soulful eyes and a devilish smile.
Cut to the bedroom. Two bodies writhe on the bed, partially covered by rumpled silk sheets; my h*ps rotate in long, slow circles. I think the missionary position has gotten a bad rap. It’s not boring. It allows the guy to take control—set the pace. To reach all those secret spots that make women moan and dig their fingernails into our shoulder blades.
Kind of like Kate is doing right now.
My head dips and I grasp one perky nipple with my lips, suctioning hard and flicking with my tongue. Kate arches her back. Her chin rises and her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Her thighs squeeze harder, her pu**y clenches tighter.
Even with the birth of a child on its résumé, Kate’s cooch is just as snug and feels just as amazing as it did that first time. God bless you, Dr. Kegel.
My h*ps speed up and change their trajectory, thrusting to and fro in hard, quick strokes. When I know she can’t take it anymore, I cover her mouth with mine, muffling her blissful cry. As much as I crave the sound of Kate’s voice, these days it’s all about staying quiet. Covert.
Why? you ask.
Let’s pause here a minute and I’ll explain.
It’s our golden rule. Our first commandment: Don’t wake the f**king baby.
I’ll repeat that in case you missed it:
DON’T WAKE THE FUCKING BABY.
Like . . . ever.
Still don’t get it? Must not have kids then. See, children are beautiful. Precious. Angelic. Particularly when they’re asleep. If they’re disturbed mid-sleep-cycle, however? They’re monsters. Irritable, angry little beasts who bear a striking resemblance to gremlins fed after midnight.
And the cold truth is, even when they’re well rested, babies are pretty frigging selfish. Self-centered and demanding. They don’t care what you were doing before they needed you, or—more important—whom you were trying to do. They only care about themselves. They’re hungry. They’re wet. They want you to pick them up because the view from the crib has gotten old.
For all you happy couples out there awaiting the arrival of your own darling little cockblocker? I’m gonna tell you how it really is—not the utopian bullshit they feed you in those What to Expect books.
Here it goes: In the days after they’re born, when you’re still in the hospital, all infants do is sleep. I think the numbers are like twenty-three out of a twenty-four-hour day. I think they’re slipping something into those bottles in the nursery.
Anyway, after a day or two, if all goes well, the hospital sends you home. And that’s when the baby decides that it’s slept enough. And finds something else to do to pass the time.
Did you know an infant’s cry is twenty decibels higher than a train whistle? I shit you not. Look it up if you don’t believe me.
By day three, I was convinced something was wrong with James. Maybe he had a gastrointestinal disorder. Maybe he was allergic to the wallpaper.
Maybe he just didn’t f**king like us.
Whatever the reason, he was not a happy camper. And he was all too eager to let us know it. In the morning. In the afternoon. And—his favorite—all through the night.