Shit Cassandra Saw: Stories

by Gwen E. Kirby

My husband and I should be making a baby but instead we argue about whether to go out for Mexican or order pizza, each taking our standard positions: he likes the neighborhood Mexican place, damning it as good enough, and me, I know the Mexican place is fine but good enough is not enough when we could get mediocre pizza at home and, while we’re waiting, oh, that’s right, I’m ovulating, let’s go; I take off my bra to show I mean business but he puts on a shoe because lately my husband needs to be in the mood, he needs to feel like sex is about love and us and not just about knocking me up—to which I say, what, is meaningless sex not hot anymore?, and I know knocking women up is a fetish, I’ve been on Reddit, so imagine me swelling and ripening and bursting with seed like a rotten melon thrown across a field by a trebuchet, spilling its guts across the grass, or whatever, I’m not here to tell anyone how to get their dick hard, but I do know I’m losing wood while my husband sits on the couch, one shoe off, one shoe on, saying that we should get out more, to which I say the Mexican restaurant down the street doesn’t count as “getting out more” and you know what, you know what, you only want to go out because you don’t want to fuck me and he says that isn’t true but also do I have to put it like that?