Furs, Bladder Kicks, and F-Bombs
"If you tell me to 'serve face' one more time, I’m going to vomit on this seamless blue paper."
Leo adjusted the heavy, suffocating folds of the oversized red faux-fur coat, glaring daggers at the photographer. He was hot, he was swollen, and he was frankly over the aesthetic.
Sure, three months ago, when they planned this "rock-and-roll paternity" shoot, it seemed like a brilliant idea. Iconic, even. The bright red buzz cut, the nose ring, the silver chain—a stark, edgy contrast to the miracle of life.
Now, at eight and a half months pregnant, Leo just felt like a glamorous blimp.
"Just a few more, Leo! You look amazing. Very Madonna-whore, but make it fashion," the photographer chirped, clicking away.
Leo let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-growl. He looked down at his massive, basketball-sized stomach. It shifted ominously. "Stop it," he hissed at his own abdomen, earning a sharp, stinging kick right under his ribs in response.
"Motherf*cker," Leo gasped, abandoning all pretense of a serene, high-fashion gaze. He grabbed the fur coat tighter, not to be stylish, but because it was the only thing keeping him from strangling someone.
"Okay, take five!" the photographer finally called out, seeing the vein throbbing in Leo’s forehead.
Leo exhaled, a long, dramatic stream of air that ruffled his red bangs. He waddled over to a folding chair, collapsing into it with all the grace of a collapsing building. He undid the top button of his pants (which hadn't actually buttoned in weeks) under the camouflage of the coat.
His best friend and baby daddy, Sam, appeared instantly with a sparkling water and a look of pity that Leo immediately wanted to slap off his face.
"Rough set, babe?" Sam asked, handing him the water.
Leo took a long, aggressive sip. "I hate it here, Sam. I look like a stop sign that ate another stop sign. Why is my back on fire? And this fur coat? It’s like wearing a sauna made of muppets. I’m sweating in places I didn’t know had pores."
He looked at the floor, miserable. "I just want a goddamn Italian sub with extra hots and to not feel like a science experiment."
Sam chuckled, rubbing Leo’s shoulder. "You look incredible. Besides, the kid’s obviously got good taste. Look at that dramatic entrance."
Leo felt another ripple, a slow, rolling wave inside him. He groaned. "It's not making an entrance, it's doing gymnastics on my bladder. If this kid comes out and isn't immediately scouted by a modeling agency after all this, I’m going to be so pissed."
He glared at the camera equipment across the room.
"Alright," Leo muttered, hauling himself out of the chair and adjusting the giant red coat back onto his shoulders. "Let's get this over with so I can go home and cry while eating pickles. But if one more person asks me if I'm having twins, I’m going to fucking scream."
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