Jobs

Act 2 – The Baker

Last I checked I was as virgin as the vials of olive oil and sacks of white flour I use for baking. It used to hurt when I drive my manicured fingernail inside my cúnt to find my clít. But now, after boinking with a stranger, even the tip of the rolling pin pushed inside my v****a no longer hurts that much. So yeah, Papa don’t preach. I have made up my mind. I’m keeping my fúcking baby.

~ Baby Meicker

“They should call him Huge Jackman. Not Hugh Jackman,” I giggle while slipping a puffy kernel of corn inside my mouth. I squeeze the bucket between my thighs and lift my can of soda, “Is it true that Aussies have bigger dícks than Americans?” I ask Laura, a close friend of mine. She is a Defense Attorney who earns a very high pay grade and has a lot of time in her hands.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs not looking at me, “I only ever had Adam. I can’t make a comparison,” Liar! I thought. “Besides, I have a set of vibrators at home. Each a different size and color. I can always pull the biggest one and think about Huge Jackman before going to bed,” she smirks, running her fingers through her coif of carroty hair which, even in the dim lighting of the cinema, still looks magnificent, “I always wonder why I talk more when I’m with you. You’re like a siphon for conversation Ms. Meicker,” she regards me with an amused expression.

“That’s because I’m not your husband. He’s as boring as f**k,” I roll my eyes. I know Adam. We meet often when he takes Laura to cocktail parties. And as a friend, I accompany her, all the while listening to her as she complains about the cocktails being served and how better off she will be if she was actually having an actual ‘c**k’ inside of her instead of giving her husband tail. All the lights go off and we wear our 3D glasses, “The movie’s starting. Ssshh,” I whisper.

I start thinking about Hugh Jackman’s wife after the movie. She is one lucky b***h. Mr. Huge Jackman has an impressive bulge that no camera trick can hide. f**k those chick flicks. Sometimes the real eye candy you can find in movies like The Wolverine, “Percy Jackson tomorrow?” Laura asks me, looping her arm around my elbow as we exit the cinema, “That Logan Lerman kid gets me off just by looking at him,” she simpers like a giddy little teenage fangirl.

Laura is a different woman outside the presence of her husband. She feels like she needs to put up a wall and be insipid whenever she’s with Adam. Clearly she doesn’t love him as much as he loves her. We talk about her options including divorce. But she keeps saying that she’s keeping him for insurance and will try her best to tolerate his pinky-sized c**k inside her cúnt instead of shouldering all their expenses. She earns a lot and saves a lot of money. I think her system of juicing her husband dry while doing men on the side works for her. She is a cunning and smart woman.

“I love Logan Lerman,” I blush despite myself, genuinely excited for tomorrow.

“Aw, you’re the best, Ms. Baby Meicker,” she pulls me into a hug, swaying our bodies side to side. She pulls away but keeps me at arm’s length, “Same time tomorrow?” she confirms our date. I smile outside but I’m grr-ing inside. I hate it when she calls me Baby Meicker. It sounds so crude.

“Won’t miss it for the world,” I flash a megawatt smile, thinking what it will feel like to have Logan Lerman’s díck inside me. f**k his girlfriend. That lucky b***h.

Baby Meicker. I don’t know why my parents chose the name Baby to go with Meicker, when clearly I’m a virgin at twenty-four and nowhere near making babies. Unlike Laura who, at thirty-seven, has managed to pop three buns out of her elastic oven. I wish I can be like her. Just as cunning. Just as beautiful. And just … I don’t know. I just wanna be more like her. She seems like she knows what she wants in life and just simply goes for it.

I have the nastiest thoughts about men but never really had any actual physical contact with any. My v****a’s a lost cause. I don’t even know where my fúcking G-spot is. Some say it’s the lining upwards the clít. Others say it’s the flap along the sides. A few contests that it depends on the guy and whether or not he knows what he’s doing with his p***s. Ugh. I just wanna get laid.

Naked and awkward, I stand in front of the mirror. This is how I do my makeup. I do it naked. It makes me feel like Aphrodite for some reason. Or Venus. Whichever is prettier. I lash a line of mascara –yes, just one– going up the sides of my eyes to give my doe eyes that cat-eye squint.

My hair is thick and lustrous thanks to its golden shiny consistency, making my green eyes pop over the blush of pinkish luminescent skin. I like to believe that I’m ‘conventionally’ pretty. I have this youthful body, perky breasts, a tight stomach –save for a few squeezes of fat– with a cute belly button, a clipped bush –which I trim even if no man has ever gone there before– and standard-sized feet which makes it easy for me to shop for Louboutins and find sizes that fit.

But the right kind of fit is still missing … down there. This I realize as I lift a finger into my v****a to where my clít is hiding. It’s like a turtle’s head, shying away from me. My nail scrapes the sheer sensitive skin and I wince. Damn it. I can’t even pleasure myself. I don’t know where it feels good. I need somebody else’s hand inside me to help me experiment.

I remember Laura buying me a vibrator. But the thought of pushing a vibrating plastic with a swollen nub inside me scares me shítless. What if I bleed to death? Oh God. This is what happens when you’re a preacher’s daughter and too afraid to touch yourself for fear of getting pitchforked by Satan. I have no damn practice. All I ever have experience with is kissing and fondling with boys who visit my father in lieu of confessing their sins. Come the time that a hand is to hike up my skirt and into my panties, I push their lecherous hands away. I don’t know if my fear has a phobia attached to it. If there is, I think I have it. In abundance.

I exhale a long heavy sigh through my nostrils as I pull a maxi dress down my body. I pick my harlot lippy from the vanity then turn to my reflection in the mirror. One swift lather across my lips and I’m ready. Not too much lip color, but not too muted either. Just the right kind of nude.

I walk down the steps to greet my stubby cat Lord Chubbington. He is white but with black spots. You will think he’s a Dalmatian what with all the pustules of black. But he isn’t. If he was, I will gladly throw him to Cruella de Vil so she can put his fur to good use. Because the money I spend in buying Whiskas for Lord Chubbington, I can use to actually afford myself a manho.

He is rolling over the welcome mat which is oddly placed at the last step of the stairway. I then realize that I have no p***s in my v****a because the welcome mat isn’t outside to welcome anybody. And having a chubby little cat is like repellant, shooing men instead of inviting their juju to come in. I lift my grumpy old cat and cradle his stoutness against my chest, walking to step outside and around the corner to go on with my day.

I let go of him and he bounces off the pavement. I turn on my flats and, with hands on hips and an indignant pout, gaze at my bakeshop waiting to be opened. I pull the keys from inside the pocket of my maxi dress to fish open the locks. Now. Why is my cake shop several steps outside my house? Well. I believe in having a life separate from my job. I don’t like putting the two together. It gives me stress. And I want to feel like one of those corporate and business types. Just like Laura, who gets to leave her front porch and travel to her jobs just like any normal woman. So yeah, I have my quirks. Just leave me alone.

When I transferred here at Boston from Alabama, I really thought that I was going to find myself a partner. That same thought ripened in the last two years and I still didn’t have a man. As good as I was with baking, I am bad with being social. Laura is the only real friend I have. All my customers I treat like acquaintances. This is what happens when you grow sheltered and kept from the ‘real’ world. You become a fúcking recluse.

Meickers. The name of my bakeshop. Baby. Meicker of delicious treats. The cheesy tagline below the marquee. The nifty little bells clang as I push open the door. I take my apron from the coat rack and tie it around my waist. Time to bake.

An hour into sliding trays inside the ovens and I’m already feeling more of myself. The smell of buttered croissants, cream-filled cannolis, and starchy bagles waft from the industrial ovens which run on firewood. Yes. I’m old fashioned. I already told you my upbringing. Go figure.

I squeeze the cream cheese from the base to meet the mouth of the creamer. I call it ‘creamer’ because as good as I am in baking, I still don’t know what to call this thing that holds the cream filling. Ping goes the timer on the counter, telling me that another batch of cannolis are ready. About damn time too because customers are filing in. I wonder if Jesus would put up his own cake shop had he charged a dollar to everyone who took his bread. Blasphemous I know. But these thoughts cross your mind sometimes. And when you’re daughter to a preacher man, and have been educated not to act on worldly impulses, your faith starts to crumble. If some higher power is really watching over me and wants me happy, then why am I still a fúcking virgin?

A voice from the crypt pulls me from my reverie, “Hello dearie. I like to place an order for a cake to be delivered this coming Saturday. It’s for my daughter-in-law. She’s visiting from New York,” she has a thick Southern accent, “And I like you to design this cake for me to give to her,” she unfolds a piece of paper, which is taking her a millennia to unfurl given her very fragile state. I open the paper and turn it around, trying to figure what the f**k I am looking at, “It’s a p***s my dear. Here, let me help you,” she turns it sideways and voila, a p***s. She wants me to bake her a cake shaped like a goddamned p***s. With hair. Pubic hair.

“Can you do it?” she asks me, and I think back to the TLC show I watch on cable. Cake Boss was it? Whatever that show is where they make outrageous designs for their cakes to satisfy the whimsy of their clients. I look to her and, judging by the lift of her eyebrow, she is not someone to mess around with, “I’m serious, hun. Make me a goddamned penis.”

“Do you have a grudge against your daughter-in-law!?” I ask, my brows meshing with my hairline, completely jostled by this old woman’s exceptional bravery to walk up to me and ask if I can make her a goddamned p***s cake. With hair. Fúcking pubic hair.

“Don’t get cute with me,” she rakes the words from her throat. Seriously, she sounds like an old hag, reminds me of the wicked witch that gave Snow White her poisonous red apple, “My son is marrying a porn star. It’s a tribute. Can you do it or not?” Patient she is not.

“Let’s see here,” I put the paper over the counter, pondering with three fingers covering my mouth, “There is no problem recreating the shape. What my concern is the pubic hair…” I lose myself in my own thoughts, trying to think of a way to make pubes edible, “Oh! I got it,” I smack my fist into my open hand, “I’ll make your son a Bacon Maple Cake. I’ll shred beef into threads to make the pubic hair,” I know this trick where you shred meat into filaments then light-bake them on a buttered tray for a few seconds to create what looks like hair.

“Good enough for me. Here’s the address,” Again with the micro-movements as she sluggishly pulls another folded piece of paper from inside the pocket of her Sunday dress. Heck, it isn’t even Sunday. Plus the Sunday hat. Jesus Christ, are you giving me a sign that I should become a nun and remain celibate for the rest of my life?

“Thank you,” I yank the paper from her old spindly fingers and motion for her to continue with whatever other treats she can delight herself from my selections, “I made red velvet macaroons this morning, plus some chocolate mint with coconut,” I say in a sing-song voice as she lifts a tray from the service area and a tong to peruse.

Right. A Bacon Maple p***s Cake for Saturday. Today is Friday. Just peachy. Just peachy keen.

Big house. Big t**s. Big pool party. It’s like walking into Hugh Hefner’s house as a Playboy bunny, “Um, excuse me,” I tap one of the bitches, “I’m delivering for a Martha Keigel. Is she here?” I ask the skanky women and I get blank stares and eye rolls in return.

Fúcking bitches.

“Oh hey sweetie,” Oh thank God. I’ve never been happier to hear an old matronly voice. I turn to the hag on my side, “I’m so glad you made it,” she smiles, and if it isn’t for her penchant wearing clothes straight out of the Victorian Era, I will gladly dub her as my own mama, “Come with me. I want you to meet my son.” Oh boy.

Tall, blond, and handsome, with sultry blue eyes and lips that are red with blood, his beard giving him a scruffy look that makes him more of a man than a guy, “You must be the baker,” he extends his hand, I shake it, the contact sending a strange kind of current down my belly, making my muscles down south clench hard and tighten.

“I see that you have a talent with sculpting p*****s,” he muses with a quirked smile, his thumb massaging against my palm as if getting a feel of things. I swallow hard and pull my hand away.

“This is a very nice place,” I turn my gaze around, trying to fight the weight in my eyes that are calling for me to look down at his crotch. So distracting because this is a pool party, and he is clad looking like a surfer dude with board shorts.

The old hag Martha Keigel runs off with the cake, smiling my way to give me a look of what? Gratitude? Adoration? I can’t place the emotion.

“I can show you around,” he whispers, too close for my liking. My breasts suddenly feel heavy.

“Its fine,” I wrap my arms around my chest, understanding that my n*****s are having an adverse reaction to his closeness, “I should go anyway.”

It’s like breathing through a pillow. Everything feels damp and heavy. And so are my steps as I turn on the soles of my feet to walk away. Three steps in and he counters my movement with an open hand, “I think you should stay and enjoy the party,” his voice encouraging and with no malice. But his eyes … those blue eyes … they tell me otherwise, “You’re supposed to help me, right?” he asks me. I c**k my head to the side in confusion, “My mother told me she hired a hooker to help,” Help with what? We are in what looks like a hooker joint. Can’t he just grab one of these bitches?

My mouth falls slightly open, “I don’t follow,” I exhale, trying to politely laugh at whatever twisted narrative his mother had in store for us.

“Oh, she didn’t tell you. You see,” he pulls my hand to walk me into a private corner beside the lavatory, “I’m getting hitched. But I don’t like the woman I’m marrying. My mom doesn’t like her either. Can you just play along?” he pleads.

I lightly shake my head, “I don’t…” But despite my hesitation to play along, something hard and unexplored clenches tight below my abdomen, “I’m not a home wrecker. Sorry,” My own words becoming harder for me to believe as I catch a whiff of his perfume made more masculine and potent by his sweat.

“I need a good excuse to break up with her,” he whispers below my ear. I bristle with a shiver, feeling my whole body weakening at the feel of those words, “She’s a closeted gold digger. And I’m a gold mine. She needs to catch me fúcking somebody else.”

“Why not just hire a real hooker?” I snap at him, “I’m not fit to play the role. Why do you have to go through all this trouble throwing her a party when you can just tell her it’s a no? Don’t you have balls?” I accuse, irritated. But the desire to play hookup getting more and more enticing as I’m overpowered by his intoxicating scent, “Just … just tell her.”

“I need something more concrete than that. I need to hurt her somewhat so she’ll leave me be.”

“She has you wrapped around her finger,” I put on my detective mask, “Why is that?” I query.

“She…” he sucks air through his teeth, “She filmed me having s*x with a nun. Don’t you even know who I am?” he asks in mock amusement, as if telling me that I should know who he was.

“I don’t get out much,” I lower my voice, “Just who exactly am I talking to?” I question, with brows creased together to show that I didn’t know him for shít.

“I’m running to replace my father as mayor of this city,” Oh my. But won’t hooking up with me make matters much worse?

“You’re not thinking this through,” I say with a pained expression, “How will hooking up with me,” I emphasize on the ‘me’ part, “Get back at her?” Without realizing it my hand is spread over his chest, trying to push him away. I gasp as I realize this and is about to duck away from him when he landed a hard one on me. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus! I’m kissing a guy. A man!

“Oh God,” I gasp out of breath, “What are you doing?” I wrap a hand around my mouth. I lower my gaze to his lips, feeling several shades mortified. “Will you at least tell me what your plan is?” I can’t walk away can I?

“I have thought this through. She’s a dumb blonde. She forgot to make copies of the s*x tape she’s holding against me. I just need you to…” he whispers, pulling my hand to feel his bulge, “…get caught having s*x with me … so I can get back at her.”

“You always get what you want?” I ask, breathless, my head spinning, my mouth dry and wet at the same time, “S-sure.”

“That’s my girl. Come.”

He leads me up the sweeping staircase to where the music from all the speakers are dying down, giving way to a different kind of vibe that’s making my stomach flip in all possible directions, doing somersaults like freaking Cirque du Soleil, “Wait up. Wait,” I pull back my arm, “I’m…”

“We don’t have time for that,” he grabs my arm, “We’ll be quick. My mom is gonna make her check for me upstairs in fifteen minutes. I need her to see me inside you fúcking your brains out,” Oh gosh. The virgin inside me is yelling No! But the slutty part of me is already spread-eagled saying Yes, Yes, Yes!

“Fine, fine. Just be gentle.”

There are many rooms upstairs. And right now I don’t know what to make of this situation. Everything is happening way too fast. I was just kneading dough this morning, trying to complete an order for a children’s party. Now I’m in another party, and instead of tending to children, I am now to attend to a man who wants to ‘f**k my brains out’, “Get inside, quickly, before others might see.” God! What am I?? A fúcking teenager in a Katy Perry video!? Well…yeah. I guess I am.

Oh my. The room is big with high ceilings. It’s as Victorian as Martha’s dress, “What are you waiting for? Undress yourself,” Again with the attitude. Are all men like this? Overbearing?

I do an awkward shuffle with my maxi dress, feeling all snug all of a sudden. It’s like my boobs just got bigger what with all the nerves I am feeling, “What’s your name again?” I ask, trying to win a battle to wriggle out of my dress, all the while sensations are building to wrap my body from the folds of my clít all the way up my brain, “Help me. Please.” I surrender with my arms up. He lifts the hem away from my face and I see his eyes making a sharp beeline down the busty partition of my cleavage, “Last time I checked my face is up here buddy,” I pull his chin up so our eyes can somehow level. Though we can’t really meet eye to eye because my eyes are to his shoulders, “If a stranger will be fúcking me, I might as well have his name,” And even as I say those words with confidence, I can’t deny the obvious shudder that is coursing through my body. My heart is palpitating. I am no longer running on blood or caffeine. This is adrenaline.

“Troy,” he swallows, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing as he drinks in my semi-nudity, “Troy Baker,” I can’t help myself as I start dreaming of replacing my last name with Baker, just to get rid of my stupid maiden name. Baby Baker. Shít. We haven’t even had s*x, yet I’m already thinking of marriage. I’m really bad at this stuff. I’m not sexy. I can’t even find my own clít.

“Troy Baker,” I murmur, thinking if I can have this man’s babies. Okay, role-playing. Role-play. I’m a Pastry Chef, so let’s go with that image, “How do you like your cannolis in the morning?” I ask, draping my arms around his neck. This is so cool. It’s like I’m recreating one of those old movies I saw on television, doing my best to get into character and at the same time trying to work with whatever little charm I have. But then he starts laughing, “What’s wrong now?”

“Heh,” he snorts, “Talk about getting into character. I wasn’t planning on fúcking you really. I just need to get on top of you and act like I’m doing it,” His hands on my shoulders sag as my frame wilts in disappointment, “But…” he hesitates and I look up, “If you need a good bang, I can give you that too,” he smiles boyishly, my mouth goes dry.

I pull him by the hem of his board shorts and push him to bed to straddle him, “Shít just got real, boy!” I slap him across the mouth and he snaps his face back to me with a confused expression.

“What the f**k,” he runs the back of his hand down his cheek, and then his initial anger melts as I start giggling. The laughter between us starts to dim however as his big hands start their treacherous climb up the sides of my hips, “You are so unexpected,” he murmurs as his thumbs skitter to touch the satin lining of the bra beneath my breasts.

Oh shít. This is really happening. Should I tell him that I never had anything up my fanny before? What if that turns him off? I’m so dizzy. What have I gotten myself into? There is no time to think however as Troy’s expert hands unhook the clasp of the bra between my breasts. Instantly I feel the pull of weight as my jugs fall in his hands.

“Are these real?” he squeezes them, inspecting the size of my melons, rubbing his index to elongate the sleeping buds. He tweaks my n*****s between his fingertips, like a carpenter would to a bolt of screw, the action sending tremors and unbearable pain to shoot through my body. I feel a dull kind of ache everywhere whenever he frisks the aching buds, playing them like he would his Xbox nubs.

Oh God it feels so good. I feel this striking jolt of electricity each time he runs the pad of his fingertip over my swelling n*****s. Oh God. The most touching I ever had was with clothes on. Jesus Christ. This is going to my record books. To my eulogy.

“Shít. I’m sorry. What’s your name?” he grunts while pulling himself up the bed, taking me with him. He takes a pillow and jams it behind his back. I am about to answer the question but his mouth is already sucking one of my breasts, giving it so much attention like my n****e is gonna melt like ice cream if he didn’t hurry. Oh Lord, I can’t tell which breast he is sucking because my eyes decided to close shut as his tongue pulls a n****e inside his mouth to give it a good suck.

In my desperate need to feel much more, I move to lean forward and rest my swollen breasts on his face, his hot breath caressing the lining of my cleavage, making me ache … ache … ache in places down below as I keep on grinding against the hump of his erection. Oh God. I think I can feel my clít now. It’s there. Oh shít it’s there! It’s there somewhere. Oh no. I lost it. I just need to keep rubbing. Don’t stop. Don’t stop rubbing! Oh God! More!

I am rubbing hard against him to acquire more friction, his bulge frisking the lining of my sheer underwear which is now damp and in need of a good dryer, “Troy…” I moan his name and what it does is make him suck my n****e even harder, sending powerful spasms that awaken every damn nerve in my body. It’s electric everywhere. Over and over I feel the tickle as he rolls my swollen bud between the bite of his teeth. He bucks his hips, and I can hear the shuffling of fabric as the garter of his briefs slip down his thighs. What was once a prominent bulge now stands erect beneath my dampness, “Oh God,” I look down, shaking like a leaf at the sight a big head connecting to a long and fat horse c**k. Screw Huge Jackman. Americans are just as big! Oh God. If only Laura can see me now. She’ll be so damn proud of me. Oh shít. I forgot about Logan Lerman!

“Up,” he says.

“W-wwhat?”

“Lift your áss.”

“Oh. Got it.”

I raise my rump in the air as he positions his tool, “Down,” I swallow him a fraction at a time, feeling something I have never felt before as my muscles part to make space for something so indescribable that the only way to actually feel it is to get lost in the moment and just … f**k!

“Oh God,” I keep repeating the Lord’s name in different variations as I feel the sharp stab of pain and the rolling of skins inside me as I lower myself to suction Troy’s impressive manhood. I don’t know if his is really that big, but I remember seeing horse cócks back in our ranch at Alabama. And they look just as big as Troy’s, only whiter and more … hospitable? I don’t know. Don’t ask me. I don’t know anymore! This is just too much~! Oh God he took another n****e in his mouth. Jesus.

“f**k. Why are you…” he grunts, a pleasured kind of difficulty straining his voice, “…you, tight. Why? Don’t tell me,” he pulls his face up, eyes wide, a thought clicking in his head, “You’re a virgin.”

I nod. I don’t care. I don’t care if I am. Why should he care? I’m twenty-fúcking-four! I need this. I need this now! “What if I am? Shut up,” I gasp, eyes rolling shut as my body moves on its own accord. I find my hips moving in a forward sweeping motion. My cúnt lips clamping and squeezing for my v****a to revive that familiar delicious clench I started feeling when his wood slipped inside me.

I lean forward and look down to see him looking back at me with glassy eyes, his lips puckered to a small O, guttural moans mingling with the breaths that fan the few strands of hair down my neck that haven’t clung against the sweat of my collarbone. I take in his expression of pleasured pain. Reveling in the glory of having my cúnt devirginized at last. And so I thrust … I thrust hard … with a force to help my hips acquire traction and speed as I ride him like a bucking bronco!

His eyes roll into the back of his head, lids fluttering close like he is having a seizure as his grip tightens around my hips, nails digging into the skin of my pelvis. Oh Jesus Christ! Something warm hits me inside, strong and thick. It’s like squeezing a bottle of cream cheese which I am very familiar with. Only this time I’m the cannoli. I’m the pastry as he fills me up completely, leaving no space uncoated, “Jesus. No. No. f**k. Shít!” His eyes widen and for a moment I am lost as I feel myself build around the area that is hugging his díck. A very sharp tickle pulls tight from within my core before it expands into a feeling I cannot describe. And before I know it I’m already climaxing all over him, my body melting with every bone as I cry my first orgasm at twenty-fúcking-four!

“What’s the meaning of this!” registers a piercing bellow. I didn’t even hear the door open. I hear marching towards the bed and the next thing I feel are hands pulling my hair, yanking me away from being impaled from the first piece of hard díck I ever had in my life! No one is going to fúcking pull me away from this! And so I fight back, slapping her silly, with Troy’s díck serving as my anchor, “You b***h!” she squeals as I scratch her face with my nails. And then, like an apparition, enters Martha, wielding her cane. She hits her like a piñata, battering her down the floor like she was an animal. Oh my God. Where did the old hag get her strength? Then I feel a faint kind of vibration. I see Troy vibrating with an embarrassed laugh, trying to stifle his laughter as his mother canes bloody the poor slut.

“Carry on,” Martha says, “Party’s over. I’m throwing this b***h out,” she points to the gold-digging w***e on the floor. She closes the door behind her but I can still hear the yelps of agony as the sound of her cane bites against the poor wench’s skin.

I breathe a sigh of relief, “Is my acting good?” I ask, brushing a lock of just-fúcked hair behind my ear, “I did good … right?” I repeat, soliciting approval.

“You could have told me you were a virgin,” he smiles.

I bite my lip as I move my hips in tired circles, “Do you know how long it takes to finish a batch of cream-filled cannolis?”

“Nooo…” he drags the syllable. He grabs my hips to stop them from moving and clears his throat, “How long does it take to make cannolis?”

“Nine minutes,” I rub my tummy, “But there’s a different kind of cannoli inside my oven now. And it will cook in nine months,” I pull a mischievous smile, understanding that I did my name justice for the first time in my life. Baby Meicker.