The trip to the museum had been tiring. Thankfully, right after lunch, we took Gus back to his mothers.

When we got home, I fell back on the sofa—my new favorite place.

“Could you check if I got any e-mail from the gallery downtown? I need to piss like you wouldn’t believe it.”

I laughed at Justin as he rushed to the bathroom. “I think I know,” I called after him. I tugged his laptop closer from the coffee table, booting it up, and setting it on my stomach.

There was no e-mail from any gallery, but I saw the name Keith Rogers. Shit. I’d forgotten about contacting him. No thanks to being ambushed with an overactive four year old.

When I heard Justin coming out of the bathroom, I told him to bring over my own laptop. It was time to talk to Keith—from pregnant guy to ex-pregnant guy.

From: Brian Kinney
To: Keith Rogers
Date: June 18, 2005 15:03
Subject: Help me, buddy

Hello, Keith

It’s great to hear back from you.

I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t even know you, but you’re the only one who understands me.

Tell me something. Did people (who didn’t know about your condition) talk behind your back? Did you feel like gauging their eyes out? Is it the hormones?

Of course, it is. I’m so fucking all over the place!

I don’t know if Justin told you, but I’m close to my third trim deadline.

I feel like a baby whale and I KEEP eating. I guess there was a reason why I always worked out and kept a healthy lifestyle, before this madness began.

I have a tendency to gain weight. A lot.

Tell me this isn’t just me. I’m not going crazy, am I? Obsessing over the silliest stuff?

Can these conversations stay between us? I’m not ready for Justin to know what a whiny bitch I’ve become.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Brian

I hovered for a second over the Send button, then clicked it.

When I looked around for Justin, I found him by the window, biting his thumb.

“What’s wrong, Sunshine?”

“No one’s written back. Besides one gallery who said I haven’t finished college and I wasn’t consistent in my pattern of painting. After every gap in my creativity, my pictures get angrier. I wonder why.”

“Fuck them.”

He gaped at me. “’scuse me? What happened to becoming a successful fag? We’re going to be parents!”

“We have money, Justin. Look. Come, sit with me. I have something to talk to you.”

He eyed me worried, snuggling into my side. “Is everything okay? Munchkin?”

I only shook my head to answer his silly questions. “I want you to go back to school. Listen to me before you start yelling,” I added quickly, when he opened his mouth to retort. “It’s important to have a good education and a degree, especially in your area.”

“School isn’t my priority. You and Munchkin are my priority.”

“Sunshine, money will still come from both Kinnetik and Babylon, even though I won’t be there for a few months.”

“I don’t want to be your fucking housewife!”

“You won’t be. You’ll work too, but after you finish school.”

“Brian, I really don’t want to fight with you!” Justin groaned loudly, sliding to the end of the couch, folding his arms across his chest.

“Then fucking listen to me. Do you still want to be a graphic artist? Or have you changed your mind and you’re trying for a painting career? I’ll support you no matter what.”

“I like both. But being a painter will mean finding an agent and maybe being gone for days when I have shows.”

“If it’s your dream—do it,” I whispered, stroking the side of my stomach. I’d been doing that a lot lately when I got agitated, and it calmed me. It was odd and fucking with my mind.

“Fuck, Brian. Don’t do this.”

“It’s your life, Justin. Don’t fuck with it. You have one more year of school. I’ll hire you at Kinnetik in my Art Department to intern.”

He took my face in both his hands, tears swimming in his eyes. “I love you.”

“Me too,” I whispered against his lips. “Now, you mentioned something about a heating pad. My back is killing me.”

“Tell me what happened at the diner. When you came out of the bathroom, you looked ready to kill someone.”

“You saw that, huh?”

“Brian,” he said in a warning tone.

Right. No more stalling.

“These fuckwits were saying stuff…about me.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“About how…you’d soon dump my fat ass. Isn’t it enough I have to deal daily with looking like I’d swallowed a watermelon? Do they have to rub it into my face? You know what they called me? Pariah of Liberty Avenue! Me!”

As if my whining wasn’t bad enough, I had to burst in tears too.

Justin hugged me tightly, kissing the side of my head. “Aw, Honey. Shhh. Don’t cry.” He stroked a hand through my hair. “Come now. I’ll heat you that pad for your back, then we can have dinner while watching your favorite western movie.”

“Don’t talk to me about food!” I wailed into his neck, like a fucking sissy boy. “What’s for dinner?”

Justin chuckled, kissing my cheek soundly, wiping my tears. “Pasta with pesto sauce. We need something light.”

I sniffed, pressing my face tighter against his shoulder. “Do we have pickles?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Give me the jar while you work on dinner.”

“Don’t you want to eat them with dinner?”

“No. Munchkin wants pickles. NOW!”

Justin stroked my stomach, smiling blindingly. “What Munchkin wants, Munchkin gets.” Then he went to retrieve me the demanded food.

With the heating pad on my back and the jar of pickles between my legs, I looked over Keith and Leo’s blog while Justin cooked.

He kept distracting me with humming along the songs on the radio. He’d selected an oldies channel.

The anchor introduced a Lynn Anderson song from ’71, and Justin snorted.

“These are really old songs.”

I glared at him over the back of the sofa. “Ex-fucking-cuse me! I happen to be born in ’71!”

“Oh, crap. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, right. Just like with your Dirty Dancing comment,” I mumbled, settling better on the sofa, biting on a pickle.

“You still remember that?”

“I’m not that old, Sunshine!”

“These songs are old, but beautiful….like you.”

“Not helping,” I muttered.

“My mom used to sing Rose Garden when we cooked together when I was little,” he said, trying to mollify me.

I pretended to still be upset.

Justin dropped what he was doing and came over, draping his arms around my shoulders from behind, pressing his lips to my ear. “I beg your pardon I never promised you a rose garden, Along with the sunshine there's gotta be a little rain sometime.”

I twisted my neck to kiss him. “I can promise you rose garden…at home.”

“Really?” He kissed me deeply. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Speaking of. We still need to name it.”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking of…Wuthering Heights.”

“What about it? Want to watch the movie?” I was confused with the change of subject.

“No! The house’s name.”

“And I’ll be your Heathcliff and you’ll be my Cathy.”

He huffed, resting his chin on my shoulder, his hands going lower until they rested on my belly. “Britin,” he whispered.

I frowned, catching his eye. He smiled brightly.

“Oh.” Brian…Justin…Britin. “That’s smart.”

“It’s genius.” He kissed my cheek soundly, before sashaying his ass back to the kitchen, humming along with another song.

I turned my attention back to my laptop and noticed a reply from Keith.

From: Keith Rogers
To: Brian Kinney
Date: June 18, 2005 16:15
Subject: you’re not crazy =)

Hi, Brian!

I can’t tell you how surprised I was when your boyfriend contacted me.

I knew I wasn’t the only one to go through that, but I’d never talked to anyone in a similar position. It helped me, putting everything down on the blog and in my personal diary.

I advise you to do the same. Write down your feelings. Don’t keep them bottled up, you’ll explode. And sadly, your boyfriend will be at the end of your wrath. Been there, done that. It’s not worth it.

You can write it like a letter to someone, or simply as your thoughts on the day that has passed.

Ah, that dreading moment between second and third trim. Don’t remind me. One second I was crying about a smudge on the window, the next I was smacking Leo for cleaning it, and then I was jumping his bones.

Just hang in there. It’s going to be okay.

You can also call me when you need to talk to someone.

I’d like to give you more advice, but it’s someone’s dinner time.

By the way, how are your tits?

Keith

“My tits?” I squeaked, cupping my hands over my pecs.

A shiver ran down my spine when I felt my man tits bigger. No fucking way.

“Justin! Paper bag! Panic attack!” I cried out, lying on the sofa, nearly spilling the pickles all over.

“Christ, Brian. What were you reading?” He chided me, putting a bag over my mouth.

“Tits,” I said into the bag. “Fucking tits! Kill me. Now. Or I’ll kill you for doing this to me. TITS!” I sobbed, breathing harshly into the brown paper bag.

“Why in the world are you looking at tits? And how is it my fault?”

I grabbed his hand and put it over my right tit.

He stared at me blankly for a full minute, then his fingers flexed. He snatched his hand back as if burnt. “Oh. Oh, shit!” Justin stole my paper bag, lying on the carpet, keeping his eyes shut. He’d gone pale.

“Sunshine, I should be the one freaking out. Heck, I am. Why are you? You don’t have these….THINGS!” I pointed to my tits.

I lifted my shirt to get a better look, but then I simply took it off. The more I stared at my pecs, the more I wanted to cry ugly tears.

“Milk,” Justin gasped out.

“You want some milk?”

“No. Milk.” He pointed to me. “For the baby. Of course.”

“Fuck me.” I put an arm over my eyes. “Why didn’t Dr. Hump say anything about this creepy stuff?”

“How did you discover this, anyway? Were you feeling yourself up?” He teased, sitting up and crawling to the edge of the couch.

“I talked to Keith. He asked how my tits are.”

His eyes widened. “The website!” He slapped his forehead. “Of course.” He caught my eyes. “Of course, Brian. It said something about the tits getting fuller and even lactating during the pregnancy. I just didn’t know it was applicable for you too.”

“Lactating,” I said faintly, reaching for the bag. “Give that back. I’m going to hyperventilate. Ow.” I grabbed my side.

Munchkin didn’t agree with my panic attack, but it was all his fault these things were happening. I was growing ways to feed him.

I felt like throwing up suddenly.

“Relax. You panic, Munchkin panics. Let’s work on your breathing—in, out, in, out. Inhale, exhale.”

“Justin, you’re not helping. All I can think of is tits and lactating. If you need me, I’ll be in bed…hoping this is a nightmare and when I wake up, I’ll be back to my former glorious self—thin, toned, and with pecs, not tits!”

I shuffled to the bed, falling face first on it. After stuffing a pillow under my stomach and one between my legs, I rolled on my side, squeezing my eyes shut.

I hadn’t thought of how we’d feed Munchkin, but never…not even in my wildest nightmares would I grow fucking tits!

Maybe the guys in the diner’s bathroom were right.

I couldn’t find one part of me now that resembled the former me. At all.

“Are you crying?” Justin called seemingly disinterested from the kitchen after some time.

I sniffed into the pillow. “It’s my allergies,” I lied.

“You don’t have allergies!”

“I do! To blond twinks who get me pregnant!”

“Don’t be a drama queen. Dinner’s ready.”

When I didn’t move, I got a kick in my kidney from Munchkin. “Ow, you little traitor.”