Uterus Didelphys - Pregnancy Horror

by Luke Ramer

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Being born with two vaginas wasn’t always perfect. My childhood was steeped in confusion. But after puberty, I realized the benefits of my condition—the way men swooned over the promise of some sexual oddity. Perhaps I should have been more aware of the dangers as well…

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I met Charles when I was twenty-five. I took boxing classes at the local gym in Coconut Creek, where he came in to train. I watched him slide off his shirt, all tan and muscles and tattoos, with his short, bleached blonde hair and devilishly delicious smile. I fell for him instantly, and after a couple of weeks of dating, Charles claimed vagina number one. Charles was a confident man, a professional mixed martial artist who spent most of his time training or on the road, which left me lonely. So we made an agreement. We would be exclusive with vagina number one, but Charles left me free to use vagina number two however I pleased while he was gone on extended training camps and fights overseas.

I had occasional hookups—late-night bar outings with the girls that led to sweaty sex with unsuspecting strangers. A work trip to Boston, where I got a raise thanks to my horny and curious boss. The chubby but kinda sexy divorced guy who kept buying me Long Island Iced Teas at happy hour, and then bent me over in the backseat of his Escalade in the Chili’s parking lot.

Charles didn’t mind as long as I kept hole number one exclusive. We had a great relationship.

And then the hurricane happened.

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Brian worked for the construction company that I hired to fix my pool and screened enclosure after the hurricane tore through southern Florida. Real sweaty type. Black boots and jeans. He stayed late on the last night of repairs and put the finishing touches on my rebuilt pool. I saw that he was exhausted and sweating, so I offered him a drink. We sat on my back patio as the sun shadowed behind the palm trees, admiring Brian’s work. The pool looked beautiful, and so did Brian’s blue eyes as they dimmed from a long day of hard labor, coupled with a few beers. We ended up nude on the chaise lounge until the morning.

Usually, when men hooked up with me, I was simply a novelty. A story they could tell their friends. But Brian wanted more. He wanted late-night candle-lit dinners, he wanted brunch in quaint restaurants, and he wanted hole number one.

I shuddered to even ask Charles for permission; I knew how attached he was to ole number one.

I broke it to Brian, “No, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

But Brian wouldn’t give up. I even offered him my backside, but he wasn’t interested in hole number three, either.

-

It was the fourth of July. Charles had flown to Australia for a fight and returned home a month later with the Lightweight World Title belt. We were hosting a multi-celebratory pool party at my house. Our friends were chowing down on grilled burgers and drinking Mojitos when I heard the doorbell.

I opened the front door and saw Brian standing in the sun, glistening in the Florida heat. I felt hole number two moisten.

Brian insisted on coming in to confront Charles. I begged him to walk away. Brian was well-built, a tough guy, but Charles was a trained champion fighter. I didn’t want to see a brawl go down at my house between my two boyfriends.

“Who is this, love?” Charles asked as he walked up behind me, sliding his thick, tattooed bicep around my neck. His wide smile glistened as he looked Brian up and down. Brian stared back at him with a confused expression I had never seen in his blue eyes before.

“This…this is, um…” I stammered.

“Brian, nice to meet you,” Brian said and reached out his arm towards Charles. Both men shook for several seconds. A strong handshake.

“Why don’t you join us, my friend?” Charles asked.

Brian stood there for a few moments, his eyes lingering on Charles, then Brian smiled and walked in, and I sighed in relief.

The party continued through the evening. The empty glasses piled up as the sun disappeared behind the palm trees and the drunken moon smiled down on our bodies, lounging by the dark lapping water. All of my guests had shuffled out except Brian and Charles.

I suggested a skinny dip.

Soon the three of us were in the pool, swimming and slipping our bodies between one another. The smell of their sweat and cologne melted into the water, creating an intoxicating, damp aroma, drowning me in a carnivorous frenzy.

I pulled them both close.

Soon they were both pawing at me, and soon they were both inside me. Brian had me from behind, where he had easy access to hole number two. Charles had my front, although he didn’t look me in the eyes the way he usually did when he made love to me.  

Both men finished inside me at the same time. I noticed they made eye contact with each other as they came.

As our bodies separated, I watched their competing gobs stream out of me and disappear into the dark oblivion of the chlorine water.

-

A few weeks passed, and I sat on a crinkly white sheet in an office that smelled like wintergreen when Dr. Coleman with the green eyes told me I was “Pregnant, well, double-pregnant.” I asked if it was even possible to carry both babies to term. Dr. Coleman smacked his gum and said that it was possible but could potentially kill me; he added, “But, ya know what? Sometimes miracles happen.” He smiled, instructed me on where to pay on my way out of the office, spat his gum into the trash can, and left the room.

I wanted to believe in miracles.  

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Both men wanted me to keep their baby. I couldn’t really blame either of them, since the whole pool-threesome thing had been my idea. I considered keeping only one of their babies, since delivering a single baby would be a much safer option. But I couldn’t decide whose baby to keep. Charles was the love of my life, a protector, and he had generational wealth. But he was on the road so often. Brian was fresh and exciting and always around, but I feared my attraction to him hadn’t yet stood the test of time.

I couldn’t decide what to do, and as the months dragged on, I started to bloat from both uteruses. My hips CRACKED when I walked, so the doctor put me on bed rest. Luckily, I had two able-bodied men to take care of me. Both men came by my house regularly. Charles took a break from fighting, even vacating his title belt. He cooked me soup and massaged my back with essential oils. Brian ran errands for anything I wanted, usually the microwave Chinese food from AllMart. Brian even knitted me a special blanket, a skill I didn’t know he possessed. Brian said he was “Trying new things.” It surprised me how well we were all getting along.

My miracle began coming to fruition.

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During the second trimester, Charles and Brian still came by my house every day. They still cooked for me, kept me comfortable, and even helped me in the bathroom, which left me mortified on multiple occasions. But when I asked Charles for a massage, he leaned back in his chair and said, “Not right now, love.”

When I asked Brian to go get me the frozen Chinese food from AllMart, he would say, “In a few”—he needed to finish the game of Poker with Charles. They sat across the dining room table from each other, the two dads, sipping wine and smoking cigars and laughing.

One night, both men decided to leave, to go home and get some sleep. I found this odd since usually one of them stayed with me overnight.

As I heard them shut the front door of my house, I struggled myself up out of my bed and waddled across the carpet to the second-floor window. I pulled back the curtain and the dust danced in the moonlight, streaking through the dirty glass. I watched both men get into Brian’s Dodge Ram and leave together.

My belief in miracles began to wane.

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As I entered the third trimester, both men began talking more in private, giggling like children in the other room as I struggled to hear their conversations. I noticed their hands resting on each other’s knees as they sipped champagne on the couch, looking at the baby clothing they had picked out together—planning the joint baby shower.

I remembered the doctor saying there was a high risk of my own death if I delivered both babies.

--

The last straw came on a warm Friday night. I was on the living room couch watching reruns of 90s sitcoms, eating the most delicious cinnamon buns with salt and vinegar potato chips and peanut butter, when I heard something creaking, repeatedly, in the bedroom upstairs. I could barely stand, but I hobbled across the room to the stairs. I knelt and crawled up the staircase, turned right, and crawled down the carpet of the hallway, rug-burning my knees. I got to the bedroom door and pulled myself up by the cheap golden knob, which twisted, releasing the door with a CLICK—

I collapsed forward, squishing my belly. I felt one of the babies KICK—

I looked up to see Brian bending Charles over the bed, both naked and sweating in the blueberry moonlight pouring through the window.

The thing that irked me the most wasn’t their relationship, but the fact that they didn’t even have the decency to stop. Brian just kept pumping and Charles moaned and locked his deep brown eyes with mine while taking Brian’s orgasm. They collapsed onto the bed—both of their sweaty chests heaving, staring at the ceiling.

Furious, I crawled off down the hall, my bloody, rug-burned knees leaving a crimson trail on the carpet behind me. I crawled into the bathroom, reached up, and locked the door. I felt another KICK, harder this time.

I heard both men calling my name.

I managed to get to my feet and opened the wicker closet. Inside were a series of towels draped from metal hangers. I slid one of the robes off and took the hanger. I spread out on the cold linoleum as Brian and Charles began banging on the door. I slid my sweatpants and panties off and tossed them aside. I spread my legs and reached around the double bulge in my belly.

The boys began banging harder on the door. “What are you doing in there, love?” Charles asked.

“Don’t call me love, you asshole!” I screamed.

I got up in hole number one with the hanger, but I had no idea what I was doing. The baby in uterus number one KICKED just as Charles KARATE-KICKED the bathroom door off the hinges.

Like father, like son.

Both men rushed into the bathroom. Their eyes widened in horror as they looked at me, lying half-naked on the floor with the bent hanger…and the blood. Charles dove at me and in a split second he had me restrained in one of his grappling holds that made him a World Champion father.

“Relax, love,” Charles kept whispering in my ear. I had watched enough of Charles’ fights to know what he was doing, how he had me positioned, restrained. I had also watched enough of his fights to know how to pretend to submit, pretend to go limp, and as Charles relaxed his grip on me, I squirmed with all my energy and escaped his clutches.

As I scrambled to my feet, I slipped on the blood-soaked linoleum and went into free fall—my skull slapped down against the porcelain sink with a—

CRACK—

My water broke as I went into the dark oblivion and my belief in miracles collapsed.

-

Swirling lights and sirens mix with the dark oblivion of something beyond nothingness.

Tiny beings inside me stir…restless…desperate…trying to escape before the darkness engulfs them, too.

I’m loaded into an ambulance as I hear an older man begging me to hold on, telling me I’m going to make it. He has an awkward smile and a mustache that is somehow reassuring. He holds my hand. It feels nice to be cared for again.

The dark oblivion returns and all I smell is disease and death and I hear doctors and nurses and the incessant electronic beeping.

I hear someone gasp and say, “Good God…”, and I feel my pelvis—

CRACK—

I hear the blood splashing against the cold hospital floor.

The dark oblivion is fleeting moments of respite.

My waist is destroyed. I can’t imagine walking again. My vaginas scream in pain. They scream in unison. They scream in regret.

My vaginas scream in anger.

I feel each cervix CRUNCH as the babies emerge.

I hear someone declare, “It’s a miracle.”

The babies cry in happiness; they have escaped the dark oblivion. But not me; I linger in the dark for what feels like an eternity…

I wish I had never returned to the light.

-

The wedding is on a sunny Saturday afternoon, beautiful weather as the clouds celebrate across the sky. The flowers are blue and white, lining the walkway up to the chapel door. I swallow a handful of Percocet and wheel myself up the ramp and into the church and roll to a small handicap section with a terrible view of the proceedings. Stained-glass Jesus leers down on me from the window as the organ music plays. The organist is quite talented. The dark, beautiful music is perfect for the occasion.

My fingers grip the arms of my wheelchair as Charles and Brian walk down the aisle, and the organ music is full of love.

The ceremony is perfect.

Charles and Brian both hold their respective babies as they walk down the aisle, then hold them up to the crowd—like trophies. They set the babies in a white bassinet next to the altar. The priest makes a few well-timed jokes that crack up the crowd. As the two grooms kiss to officially tie the knot, cheers erupt inside the chapel, and the epic organ hits a fever pitch.

What a beautiful ceremony. What a beautiful day. What a beautiful family.

What a miracle.

I pull the .357 pistol out of my purse and struggle to stand. I lean against the feet of stained-glass Jesus.

I aim at Charles and Brian, and although my knees are wobbly, the shooting lessons I’ve been taking keep my hands steady. I take a deep breath, slowly exhale, and ease my finger against the trigger.

CRACK—

The first shot is low and removes the back of the head of some grey-haired lady in the front row. The organ music stops. I stumble forward, lean on a pew, and steady my aim.

CRACK—

The next shot hits Brian in his shoulder and he crashes to one knee. It's chaos now.

CRACK—

The next shot hits the wall behind Charles.

CRACK—

The knockout shot hits Charles in the forehead and drops him harder than any punch or kick ever has in his fighting career.

Everyone flees the church in a panic except for a few huddling masses, cowering under the pews.

I stumble to the altar. Brian is crumpled in a ball, bleeding heavily from his shoulder wound, looking at me with horror but no speech. Charles no longer has his green eyes—or his forehead. My knees buckle, but I hold myself up on the bassinet. I reach inside and pick up my babies, hold them close. They cry because they are hungry. I slide my breasts out and let them feed from my flesh.

What a beautiful family.

I hear the sirens approach. I know they will take me away to the psych ward, to trial, to years of bullshit and a lifetime behind bars. But I have a better idea.

My babies finish feeding. I kiss them and gently set them in their bassinet. The door to the chapel lurches open with an echo that mixes with the quiet whimpers from behind the pews. My hips CRACK, and I fall to the floor, leaning back against the altar.

I’m not sure how many bullets I have left.

The police flood the church as I raise my .357. CRACK—CRACK—CLICK.

And their gunfire engulfs me as I leave my two miracles behind.

Artwork by FluufyGuy