by Aimee Bender
She had won the Li’l Miss Ultrasound contest two years running—the purses her first two brats brought in had done plenty to offset the bother of raising them—and she was determined to make it three.
Then she could retire in triumph.
She had Moe Bannerman, the best ultrasound man money could buy. He gestured to the monitor’s image. “She’s a beaut. Do you have a name yet?”
“Can the chatter, Moe. I’ll worry about that after she wins. Listen, I’m dying for a smoke. Let’s cut to the chase.”
Moe’s face fell.
Big friggin’ deal, she thought. Let him cry to his fat wife, then dry his tears on the megabucks Eudora was paying him.
“Here she is, ready for a night on the town.” He flipped a switch and her kid was swaddled in a svelte evening gown, a black number with matching accessories (gloves and a clutchpurse) floating beside her in the amniotic sac.
Eudora was impressed. “Clear image.”
“Sharpest yet. I pride myself on that. It’s the latest in digital radiography, straight from Switzerland. We use intensity isocontours to—”
“It looks good. That’s what counts. We win this round. Good. Now what about the swimsuit?”
“Ah. A nice touch. Take a look.” Again his hands worked their magic. “See here. A red bikini with white polka dots.”
“The sunglasses look ordinary, Moe. Give her better frames, a little glitz, something that catches the eye.”
“I’ll have some choices for you next time.”
She shot a fingertip at him. “To hell with choices. You get the right ones first time, or I’ll go to someone else.” She’d heard rumor of a new ultrasound man on the horizon, Kip Johnson. He deserved a visit, just to check out the terrain. Handsome fuck, scuttlebutt said.
“Yes, ma’am. But take a look at this. It’ll win us this round too. We show them the bikini, a nice tight fit that accentuates your baby girl’s charms. I’ve even lent a hint of hardness to her nipples, which will most likely net you a contract with one of the baby-formula companies. But watch. We flip a switch and . . .”
Eudora had her eyes on the screen, her nicotine need making more vivid the image she saw. It was as if the kid had been suddenly splashed with a bucket of water. No twitch of course. It was all image. But the swimsuit’s fabric lost its opacity. See-through. Gleams of moisture on her midriff. Her nipple nubs grew even harder, and her pudendal slit was clearly outlined and highlighted. Moe, you’re a genius, she thought.
“Cute,” she said. “What else you got?”
Thus she strung the poor dolt along, though his work delighted her. Dissatisfaction, she found, tended to spur people to their best. It wouldn’t do to have Moe resting on his laurels. People got trounced by surprise that way. Eudora was determined not to be one of them.
When they were done, she left in a hurry, had a quick smoke, and hit the road. The Judge was due for a visit. There were other judges, of course, all of whom she did her best to cultivate. But somehow Benjamin—perversely he preferred the ugly cognomen “Benj”—was The Judge, a man born to the role.
Weaving through traffic, she imagined the slither of his hand across her belly.
Benj walks into the house without knocking.
In the kitchen he finds her dull hubby, feeding last year’s winner (Gully or Tully) from a bottle. The beauty queen from two years prior toddles snot-nosed after him, wailing, no longer the tantalizing piece of tissue she had once been. Her name escapes him.
But names aren’t important. What’s important are in utero images and the feelings they arouse in him.
“Hello, Chet,” says Benj.
Stupid Chet lights up like a bulb about to burn out. “Oh, hi, Benj. Eudora’s in the bedroom. Have at her!”
Benj winks. “I will.”
He winds his way through the house, noting how many knick-knacks prize money and commercial endorsements can buy. Over-the-hill, post-fetal baby drool is all he sees on the tube once the little darlings are born. It never makes him want to buy a thing.
“Why, Benjamin. Hello.” She says it in that fake provocative voice, liking him for his power alone of course. As long as he can feel her belly, he doesn’t care.
“Touch it?” he asks in a boyish voice. “Touch it now?” He thickens below.
“Of course you can,” says Eudora, easing the bedroom door shut and leaning against it, her hands on the knob as if her wrists are tied.
Stupid Chet thinks Benj and Eudora do the man-woman thing. Chet wants money from the winnings, so he’s okay with it as long as they use rubbers. But they don’t really do the man-woman thing. Nope. They just tell Chet they do. Benj rubs her belly and feels the object of his lust kick and squirm in there, touching herself, no doubt, with those tiny curled hands, thrashing around breathless in the womb, divinely distracted.
Breathless.
Baby’s first breath taints absolutely.
“Touch yourself, Benjamin.”
He does. He wears a rubber, rolled on before he left the car. Later, he’ll give it to Eudora so she can smear it with her scent and drop it in the bathroom wastebasket. Chet’s a rummager, a sniffer. It’s safer to provide him evidence of normalcy.
To Benj, normal folks are abnormal. But it takes all kinds to make a world.
His mouth fills with saliva. Usually, he remembers to swallow. Sometimes, a teensy bit drools out.
The baby kicks. Benj’s heart leaps up like a frisky lamb. Eudora pretends to get off on this, but Benj knows better. He ignores her, focusing on his arousal, and is consumed with bliss.
July 12, 2004
Mummy dearest,
I’m so excited! Kip is too! The contest cometh tomorrow, so you’ll see this letter after you’ve watched me and the munchkin on TV, but what the hey.
I could do without the media hoopla of course, though I suppose it comes with the territory. The contest assigns you these big bruisers, kind of like linebackers. I don’t think you had them in your day. They deflect press hounds for you, so you don’t go all exhausted from the barrage or get put on the spot by some persistent sensationalist out to sell dirt.
Then there are the protesters.
Ugh! I agree with you, mumsy. They’re out of their blessed noggins. Both sorts of protesters. There are the ones who want the contest opened up to second trimester fetuses. The extremists even scream for first trimester. What, I ask you, would be the point of that?
Then there are the ones who want to ban pre-birth beauty contests entirely. Life-haters I call them. Hey, I’m as deep as the next gal. But I was never harmed by having a beauty queen for a mother nor by winning the Baby Miss contest when I was three months old. All that helped me, I’m sure—my self-esteem, my comfort with putting my wares on display, which a gal has just got to do to please her fella. I don’t mind if Kip likes me for all of me, and I sincerely and honestly believe he does. But that includes the packaging. The sashay too, though mine’s got waddle written all over it these days. Hey, I can work off the belly flab as soon as my baby’s born. I know I can. I’ll slim down and tighten up you-know-where even if it’s under the knife with sutures taking up the slack. That’s a woman’s duty, as my momma taught me so well!
My point is that I’m all of me, the brainy stuff and the sexy stuff too. It’s all completely me, it’s my soul, and right proud of it am I. Well, listen to me gas on and on, like a regular old innerlectual. What hath thou raised? Or more properlike, whom?
Wish us luck, mumsikins!
Your loving and devoted daughter,
Wendy
Kip was alone in his office, making final tweaks to his software. Wendy had been by, an hour before, for one last run-through prior to their appearance onstage.
Five more minutes and he would lock up.
His ultrasound workstation, with its twenty-four-inch, ultra-high-resolution, sixteen-million-color monitor, had become standard for MRI and angiography. Moe Bannerman, last year’s winning ultrasound man, had copped the
prize, thanks to this model. But Kip was sure, given the current plateau in technology, that whatever Moe had up his sleeve this year would involve something other than the size and clarity of the image.
Butterflies flitted in Kip’s gut. Somehow, no matter how old you got, exposure to the public limelight jazzed you up.
The outer office door groaned. Maisie coming back for forgotten car keys, thought Kip.
A pregnant woman appeared at the door. Eyes like nail points. Hair as long and shiny as a raven’s wing. Where had he seen her? Ah. Moe’s client, mother of the last two contest winners.
Wendy’s competition.
“Hello there,” she said, her voice as full-bellied as she was. “Have you got a minute?” She waddled in without waiting for an answer. “I’m Eudora Kelly.”
He opened his mouth to introduce himself.
“You’re Kip, if I’m not mistaken. My man will be going up against you tomorrow.”
“True. Look, according to the rules, you and I shouldn’t be talking.”
She approached him. “Rules are made to keep sneaky people in line. We’re both above board. At least, I am.” Her voice was edged with tease, a quality that turned Kip off, despite the woman’s stunning looks. “Besides, even if I were to tell Moe what you and I talked about or what we did—which I won’t—it’s too late for him to counter it onstage, don’t you think?”
“Ms. Kelly, maybe you’d better—”
She touched his arm, her eyes intent on the contours of his shirtsleeve. “I’ll tell you what surprises he’s planning to pull tomorrow. How would that be?”
“No, I don’t want to know that.” He did, of course, but such knowledge was off limits. She knew that as well as he.
“They say you’ve got new technologies you’re drawing on. A background in the movies. Maybe next year, you and I could pair up.”
Kip reviewed his helpers, looking for a blabbermouth.
No one came to mind.
“In fact,” she sidled closer, her taut belly pressing against his side, “maybe right now we could pair up.” Her hand touched his chest and drifted lower.
“All right, that’s enough. There’s the door. Use it.” His firmness surprised him. It was rare to encounter audacity, rarer still therefore to predict how one would respond to it. He took her shoulders and turned her about, giving her a light shove.
She wheeled on him. “You think you’re God, you spin some dials and flick a few switches. Well, me and Moe’re gonna wipe the floor with your ass tomorrow. Count on it!”
Then she was gone.
The back of Kip’s neck was hot and tense. “Jesus,” he said, half expecting her to charge in for another try.
Giving the workstation a pat, he prepared to leave, making sure that the locks were in place, the alarms set.
“Fool jackass,” Eudora said. “The man must be sexed the wrong way around.”
“Some people,” observed The Judge, his eyes on her beach ball belly, “have a warped sense of right and wrong. They take that Sunday school stuff for gospel, as I once did long ago.”
“Not me, Benjamin. I knew it for the crock it was the moment it burbled out of old Mrs. Pilsner’s twisted little mouth. Ummm, that feels divine.” It didn’t, but what the hell.
Benjamin would be pivotal tomorrow. No sense letting the truth spoil her chances.
The Judge’s moist hand moved upon her, shaky with what was happening elsewhere. Soon he would yank out his tool, a condom the color of rancid custard rolled over it like a liverwurst sheath. “Yeah, I wised up when I saw how the wicked prospered,” he said. “How do you do it, Eudora? This is the third sexy babe in a row. Your yummy little siren is calling to me.”
“She wants it, Benjamin,” said Eudora.
Perv city, she thought. It would be a relief to jettison this creep as soon as the crown was hers. Three wins. She would retire in glory and wealth. At the first sign he wanted to visit, she would drop him cold. No bridges left to burn after her triumph. Let the poor bastard drool on someone else’s belly.
Benjamin groped about between the parted teeth of his zipper. Eudora said, “That Kip person’s going to spring something.”
“Who’s he?” asked The Judge, pulling out his plum.
“You know. The ultrasound guy that Wendy bubblehead is using. Scuttlebutt says he’s doing something fancy.”
“Ungh,” said Benjamin.
Eudora pictured Kip’s office receptionist, her hand shaking as she took Eudora’s money. She was disgustingly vague and unhelpful, Maisie of the frazzled hair and the troubled conscience. All she gave off were echoes of unease: he has this machine, I don’t know what it does, but it’s good because he says it is and because they both look so sure of themselves after her visits. Worthless!
“My baby girl’s getting off, hon.”
“Me too,” he gasped.
“You’re a sweet man,” she said. “Show us your stuff. Give it to us, Benjamin, right where we live. That’s it. That’s my sweet Benjamin Bunny.”
Benj really gets into it. Eudora’s bellyskin is so smooth and tight, and as hot as a brick oven. He smells baby oil in his memory.
Eudora has no cause for worry, he thinks. Moe Bannerman’s a stellar technician. What Moe’s able to do to tease naked babes into vivid life onscreen is nothing short of miraculous.
Benj conjures up the looker inside Eudora’s womb by recalling what hangs on his bedroom wall, those stunning images from Life last year—better than the real thing though a boner’s a boner no matter how you slice it.
He dips into Tupperwared coconut oil, smearing it slick and liberal upon her belly, as he does upon his condomed boytoy. Oil plays havoc with latex, he knows, but Benj isn’t about to get near impregnation or STDs.
Benj bets Moe Bannerman will carry his experiments in vividness forward in the coming years. Headphones will caress Benj’s head as he judges, the soft gurgle of fetal float-and-twist tantalizing his ears, vague murmurs coaxed by a digital audio sampler into a whispered fuck-me or oh-yeah-baby.
Or perhaps virtual reality will come of age. He’ll put on goggles and gloves, or an over-the-head mask that gooses his senses into believing he’s tasting her, the salty tang of preemie quim upon his tongue, the touch of his fingertips all over her white-corn-kernel body.
Benj shuts his eyes.
Eudora starts to speak but Benj says, “Hush,” and she does. This time the rhythms are elusive but there, within reach if his mind twists the right way. The beauty queen to be is touching him, indeed she is, those strong little fingers wrapped about his pinkie. Her eyelids are closed, the all-knowing face of the not-yet-born, lighting upon uncorrupted thoughts, unaware of and unbothered by the sensual filtering imposed by society on the living.
Her touch is as light as a hush of croissant crust. This, he thinks, is love: the wing-brush of a butterfly upon an eyelash; a sound so faint it throws hearing into doubt; a vision so fleetingly imprinted on the retina, it might be the stray flash of a neuron.
With such slight movements, love coaxes him along the path, capturing, keeping, and cultivating—like a seasoned temptress—the focus of his fascination, so that the path swiftly devolves into a grade, hurrying him downhill and abruptly thrusting him into a chute of pleasure. He whips and rumbles joyously along its oily sides once more, once more, ONCE MORE!
July 13, 2004
Mummy mine,
I’m writing from the convention center, just having come offstage from Round One, where our little dolly garnered her first first! I had a hunch I’d want to disgorge all these glorious pent-up emotions into my momma’s ear. So I brought along my lilac stationery and that purple pen with the ice-blue feather you love so much. Here I sit in the dressing room with the nine other contestants who survived Round One. Ooh, the daggers that are zipping across the room from Eudora Kelly, whose kids won the last two years. Methinks she suspects we’ve got her skunked!
Baby’s jazzed, doing more than her usual poking and pr
odding. Kip just gave me a peck (would it had been a bushel!!!) and left to check out his equipment for Round Two. If I were a teensy bit naughtier, I’d mention how much fun it is to check out Kip’s equipment, ha ha ha. But you raised a daughter with that rarest of qualities, modesty. Besides which, it would be unseemly to get too much into that, Willie being so recently deceased and all. But life goes on. Oh boy howdy, does it ever!
I passed through those idiotic protesters with a minimum of upset, thanks to my linebacker types. Joe, he’s the beefiest, flirts outrageously, but both of us know it’s all in fun. Still, he’s a sweetie and you should see the scowl that drops down over his face whenever some “news twerp” (that’s what Joe calls them) sticks his neck out where it don’t belong, begging Joe to lop it off.
There were twenty of us to start with. ’Taint so crowded here no more! The audience sounds like an ocean, and the orchestra—you heard me, strings and all, scads of them, like Mantovani—set all things bobbing on a sea of joy. Kip gave me a big kiss right here where I sit—no, you slyboots, on my lips!!! Before I knew it, I was standing onstage amidst twenty bobbing bellies, all of us watching our handsome aged wreck of a TV host, that Guy Givens you like so much, his bowtie jiggling up and down as he spoke, and his hand mike held just so. The judges were in view, including the drooly one—you know, the one whose hanky is always all soppy by the end.
First off, oh joy, we got to step up and do those cutesy interviews. Who the heck can remember what I gassed on about? I guess they build suspense at least in the hall. At home, all I remember is that you and me and Dad used that dumb chit-chat as an excuse to grab a sandwich or a soda.
Then Round One was upon us, and we were number 16, not a great number but not all that bad neither. I lifted my dress for Kip—not the first time I’ve done that, I assure you!!!—to bare my belly and of course to show off my dazzling red-sequined panties. For good luck, I sewed, among the new sequins, an even dozen from my Baby Miss swimsuit. The crowd loved my dumpling’s first outfit, a ball gown that might have waltzed in from the court of Queen Victoria. It reminded me of a wedding cake, what with all the flounces and frills and those little silver sugar bee-bees you and I love so much. Baby showed it off beautifully, don’t you think?
