I hold his shoulders, hug him tight. Kiss his long, soft hair and his big, sturdy ass pulverizes my balls.
Two years old and already so strong. I shift, relieve the pain. He looks up at me, grinning two teeth. It’s our rocking chair time before bed, my favorite part of the day. “Book?” he says and he reaches for one, parking thirty-five pounds back on my nuts.
I moan and hold him still, open the cover. I do my funny voice and he laughs, pure lustrous joy. This is what life is all –. His bouncing body jackhammers my testicles into my legs and I forget who I am.
The walls warp, blobs hover. He turns the page. Sweat on my forehead, I might puke.
“Brothers” he says, pointing to the two boys on the page then standing up in my lap, his potent hooves tap dancing my cherries.
“Do you…” I wheeze, “want a brother?”
He stands still and laughs. “No-o,” he sings, shaking his head.
I try to turn the page but he jumps, curls up all mighty and dense, and lands his cannonball right on target. My grapes squash and pop. A muffled gunshot only I can hear. Red wine fills my sack.
“No brother. Just daddy.”
He’s a strong and smart boy, and he knows what he’s doing.
