You can do this yourself

I got home, kicked the door shut behind me, and stood in the middle of my flat like I didn’t know what to do with myself.

The call with Sue was still ringing in my ears.

“I’m not saying no.”

“I can hear it in your voice. You want another pregnant one.”

“Call me tomorrow.”

And underneath all of it, Lisa’s voice from that morning:

“In a few months… when I’m ready for another one.”

I couldn’t wait a few months.

I dropped onto the couch, pulled out my phone, and started downloading every dating app I could think of.

Tinder. Bumble. Hinge. Feeld. Even a couple of the more niche ones that let you put specific kinks in your bio. I made new profiles on all of them. Same pictures, same basic info, but the prompts changed.

One of them I was blunt with:

“Recently discovered I have a thing for pregnant women. The bigger the belly, the better. If you’re carrying and want to feel wanted again, I’m here.”

I stared at it for a long time before hitting save. It felt insane. It felt necessary.

I spent the next hour swiping. Most profiles were normal women. A few had “mom-to-be” or “28 weeks” or “bump pic” in their photos or bios. I swiped right on every single one. Sent a couple of messages that were probably too forward.

“Hey. You look incredible. How far along are you?”

Some unmatched immediately. A couple replied with variations of “creep” or “not interested.” One woman actually answered and we had a short, awkward chat before she ghosted.

By late afternoon I was restless. Wired. I needed to do something.

So I went to the grocery store.

It was a mistake.

I saw her in the produce section first — early thirties, dark hair, very pregnant. Maybe seven or eight months. She was wearing a loose white top that still couldn’t hide how big her belly was, and a pair of leggings that hugged her thick thighs. One hand rested on the underside of her bump while she picked out avocados.

I hovered near the apples for five minutes trying to work up the nerve.

When I finally walked past her I managed a weak, “Hey… you look like you’re carrying that really well.”

She gave me a polite, slightly confused smile. “Thanks?”

I tried again near the dairy aisle with another woman — this one even further along, belly so round it looked like she could go any day. She was laughing on the phone with someone, rubbing her belly absently while she grabbed milk.

I said something about how beautiful pregnant women looked. She gave me the same polite-but-distant smile and moved on.

By the time I got to the checkout I felt like an idiot.

I didn’t know how to do this.

With Lisa it had been easy because she was ****. Her husband had made her feel unwanted. She’d needed someone to look at her like she was still sexy, still fuckable, still a woman and not just a walking incubator. The taboo, the risk, the emotional hunger — that was what had made it work.

These women at the grocery store didn’t look hungry.

They looked satisfied.

Content. Glowing. Probably going home to partners who rubbed their feet and talked to their bellies and still fucked them even when they were this big. They didn’t need some random guy in the cereal aisle telling them they looked hot.

I paid for my sad basket of groceries I didn’t even want and walked out into the afternoon sun feeling like a pervert who didn’t know how to be a pervert properly.

Back at my flat I dropped the bags on the counter and just stood there.

My phone buzzed.

A notification from one of the apps.

A match.

A woman. 31. 34 weeks. Profile picture showed her in a tight black dress, one hand on her huge belly, smiling at the camera. Bio said: “Third trimester and feeling very single lately. Looking for someone who can handle a lot of belly.”

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I opened the chat.

My thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

I had no idea what to say that wouldn’t sound like I was repeating the same awkward grocery store lines in text form.

Because the truth was hitting me harder now that I was home:

I was hooked.

Completely.

On the curve of a pregnant belly. On the way it moved. On the idea of a woman carrying someone else’s baby while letting me inside her. On the mix of maternal and sexual. On the taboo of it.

And I had no fucking clue how to actually pursue it outside of the very specific situation I’d fallen into with Lisa.

I sat down on the couch, opened the chat with the 34-week match, and typed the only honest thing I could think of.

Me: Hey. I saw your profile and… I’m not going to lie, I’m still figuring this out. But I saw you and couldn’t look away. If you’re actually looking for someone who’s into the belly and everything that comes with it, I’d really like to talk.

I hit send before I could overthink it.

Then I leaned back, stared at the ceiling, and waited.

My phone buzzed again ten minutes later.

Not the app.

Sue.

Sue: You still alive after last night? Or did you spend all day jerking off to pregnant women?

I looked at the message for a long second.

Then I started typing.