Love Trips: ***ing Babies

I'm not a big fan of babies.  They shriek and poop so much churia that not even the soft, fragrant mix of talcum powder and Johnson and Johnson’s baby cologne masks the foul poopy odor. Plus, their resemblance to prunes and cranky grandparents is creepy and simply unnatural. 

But these are only minor annoyances compared to their blatant selfishness. Babies expect me to function with five hours of sleep or less AND cater to their needs.  They demand I spend my hard earned cash on luxuries like diapers and onesies and bottles and cereal. And to make my already wasted mind more mummified, they press me with their whiny coos to switch from a juicy Greys Anatomy episode to Dora.  I hate that fucking bitch. And I need 8-9 hours of sleep and to drink a Raspberry Margarita on a tropical beach!  

Fucking babies...

I'm even less of a fan of man babies.  Those men who pout and stomp when I tell them I want honesty NOW! or who run away screaming when the phone numbers of their sexual playdates are canceled by my thumb.  They may wear a pair of Hugo Boss boxers instead of Huggies diapers, but they stink up my life nonetheless.

I don't want a stinky life anymore.

This I realized at Chris’ wedding reception after Kurt, the man baby of all man babies, mumbled, "Let's go inside", instead of staying outside to resolve our undefined relationship. I didn't want Kurt if he continued to pacify his antsiness by puffing on a cigarette and blurting sexually blatant comments instead of forming words to express himself.  I wanted Kurt to show man effort, not to take two, wobbly, baby steps backwards and fuss with his wife beater like it was his new discovery of the day.

But Kurt wasn't finished nagging for my attention.  That would be unmanbaby like of him. A week and a half after Chris' wedding, Kurt phoned me at home.  He was in New York City, a few blocks from my apartment, and wanted to see me.  I agreed. It’s hard to say no to babies.

Minutes later, Kurt was parked in front of my five-story apartment building.  I opened the passenger door and sat next to him, surprisingly relaxed and fully rested.  He, on the other hand, lay fully back on the drivers seat, ready for a nap.

"Let's go upstairs,” Kurt stated while glancing out his window.

"Upstairs? You wanna hang out with my mom and step dad?" I asked perplexed.

"Nah.  We can go to your bedroom," he said as casually as if he were a baby asking for a paleta. 

"I'm not sure who you think my mother is, but she's not about to sit in her living room while I bring a man into my bedroom.  She's old school. And she's never met you.  So no. That's not happening," I scolded.

"Why not?" He droned. 

I gave him "the look" parents give their little ones before they place their tiny, grubby hands on the porcelain figurines that stand on the etante.  Kurt looked straight ahead and stopped griping, and I swear I saw him shudder with fear. Or maybe it was the air conditioning.

"What do you want from me, Kurt?” I burst. “Is it sex? Is it more than sex?  You really need to tell me so I can make an informed decision," I continued in a reprimanding tone. 

He continued to stare at the windshield and didn't say a word.  I contemplated my next move as we remained silent. The only noise stemming from the laughter of children who danced with the water of the open pompa. 

“Sex or more than sex?” I asked forcefully again.

“More than sex…”he responded quietly. A little bit of fear went a long way with babies. 

I gazed into Kurt’s eyes, searching for a hint of truth or lie.  Babies can stare you straight in the eyes and fib their little hearts out.  Man babies are even better at it. 

“Okay,” I responded slowly. Then I remembered Alex, the Mexican who kissed me outside of Orbit bar a week before Carlos’ wedding and who I was now dating. “I’m dating someone,” I blurted.

Kurt’s eyes opened as wide as a baby’s who's about to slam his body onto the ground and throw a tantrum.  “Wow, you move fast,” he responded defiantly. 

“Fast?” I repeated. “Last I checked, I was single.  If you want me to stop dating, you need to show effort, you need to do something.  Until then, I’m going to date whoever I want. Now drop me off at Caridad on 171st. I’m hungry.” 

“Don’t have sex with him,” he ordered, his voice strong and defiant.

“Show me effort,” I commanded, my voice dominant and authoritative. 

Kurt’s big, bold eyes drooped in defeat. This man baby was out of needy, selfish demands and outbursts…for now.  He would soon coo and ga ga goo goo his way back into my heart.  I would soon take his shit and cook him shit and loose sleep over all of it and be back to watching Dora the Fucking Explorer. 

Fucking babies….