Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

Heidi sighs heavily again, but instead of bitching or trying to strong-arm her way through the situation, she simply holds my phone out toward me as she scrolls through her own phone with the other hand. “I can make some calls. But I swear to God, if you or he do anything—”

My voice melts into a smile immediately as I snatch my phone back from her. “We’ll be on our very best behavior,” I say as I cross my heart.

She scowls but gets on the phone with someone, and I turn away immediately, ducking my head down and directing my attention right back to my phone.

Me: I know you’re busy getting stuff done…but how about taking on the role of coach?

Harrison: Coach?

I grin as I type out a response.

Me: Suit up, cowboy. It’s time to Lamaze.

Raquel

Lamaze class is whole lot more erotic than I anticipated…

Harrison’s legs wrap around from behind me, and his chest presses into the heat of my back.

In some other world—the movie world—this would be the start to a really erotic scene with a twelve-inch penis, magic hips, and a wild night in the immaculately clean hot tub of a five-star resort overlooking the ocean in Bora Bora.

But this isn’t show business. This is Beverly Hills Obstetrics’ most private, NDA-requiring Lamaze class, and Harrison sliding in behind me is a precursor to what happens nine months after the hot sex.

The penis, however, I have to admit, isn’t far off. It’s not twelve inches, but good God almighty, what woman really wants to split themselves in half with a baseball bat?

Not me.

I nearly faint at the idea of what I would have done if I’d taken Harrison’s pants down to his ankles on the night of my deflowering and found a bazooka barrel in my face. I mean, from my not-very-much experience, he’s big. Well-endowed, even. But thankfully for my vagina, he doesn’t have a ginormous sausage limb inside his pants that could give the trunks of fifty-year-old oak trees a run for their money.

“You all right?” Harrison whispers into the shell of my ear from behind me.

I jump, but not before a shiver takes over my whole body.

“Yeah,” I croak out as evenly as possible—not like I was picturing his penis and comparing it to the barrel of heavy artillery and breakfast meats and tree trunks.

“What are you giggling about, then?”

Was I giggling?

I do a quick self-assessment, and I’m horrified to find that, yes, I was. And not only that—I still am.

“Oh, uh. Nothing,” I say and swallow the crazy giggles down. “Nothing at all. Just thinking of thoughts and considering them and their meaning and such.”

“Oh-kay.”

Oh my God, I’m an idiot.

My cheeks heat into a deep crimson blush, but thankfully, the instructor takes her place at the front of the room to welcome the class. She’s svelte and blond—not something that’s necessarily a strike against anyone—but with the weight of my stomach making me feel tired even while sitting, I can’t say that I’m immediately in love with her.

“Welcome, everyone! I’m Amy. Congratulations on the news of your impending little ones!” The class claps for themselves, and instantly, I’m a little annoyed with them too.

I get the sentiment, but it’s a practice I’ve never been able to get behind, right along with clapping when a plane lands after an uneventful flight and applauding a movie theater screen as the ending credits roll.

What’s the point?

Though, I shouldn’t be surprised, considering the attendees are a raucous mix of reality TV personalities and winning contestants from any number of the five different singing competitions on television today. There’s no one here I’d consider A-list, but I imagine most of them find the idea of taking a class with other people beneath them.

“As I’m sure you all know, the miracle of birth is called that for a reason.” Amy smiles at the class. “It’s an amazing achievement by the female body and an impressive showing of the pain tolerance we all have built inside.”

Wow. Pain tolerance. That’s reassuring.

Harrison squeezes me with his thighs, surely feeling me tense up in front of him at the reminder that a human is going to rip my vagina apart in a few short months.

Oh joy.

“What that means—and the point of this class—is that you’re going to need some tools to get you through it, to make it the experience you want it to be. I can’t wait to partner with you as you find your own wants and needs and learn how to advocate for them. And truly importantly, how to have your coach advocate for you.”

The “coaches” all chuckle a little as Amy smiles.

“That’s right, folks. You all have important roles here, other than to be around when the baby makes their debut. You’re there to take care of your mom to the best of your ability, and to do it at her discretion. You are to be her voice when she is focusing on other things. You are to be her comfort when she’s struggling to find any. You are the reserve of energy she’s going to tap into when she can’t find any more on her own, and you’re going to need the tools to do the best job you can providing for her. That’s the point of this class. Not, as I’m sure many of you think, to learn how to breathe.”