Matt’s Baby
Content Warning
abortion, bigotry, blood, body horror, childbirth, divorce, hostage situation, infidelity, misogyny, non-consensual sexual activity, white supremacy
by Toshiya Kamei
“Congratulations!” The doctor leans forward on her swivel chair. Her smile reveals teeth as pearly as her lab coat. The name tag on her ample chest reads Dr. Heather Treviño — with a little squiggly line over the “n” — but I refuse to say her name like the Latinos do.
“Excuse me?” I beam like the great senator that I am. After fifteen years of hobnobbing with filthy-rich donors, I work wonders with my smile.
“You’re pregnant.”
My grin freezes, and I almost fall off the examination table.
“Is this a joke?”
“I’m serious.” A trace of a smile still lingers on her lips.
“But how?” I throw up my hands. “I’m a man. I mean, I’m a person with sperms — like y’all like to say.”
Come to think of it, I did throw up a few days ago when my girlfriend was cowgirling me. To my chagrin, Karen made fun of my “morning sickness.” I yelled when she touched my tender man boobs. I also craved raw meat like the young wife in Rosemary’s Baby.
“Don’t worry, Congressman Matthews.” Dr. Trevino leans closer. Her floral scent tickles my nose. When she touches my trembling hand, I jerk back.
“I’m your senator, not your congress—”
“You won’t be the first, Matt. Cisgender men can become pregnant on rare occasions.”
I don’t listen to the rest. I grab my coat and storm out of the clinic. As the chilly evening air hits my face, I pull out my phone and push speed dial. While waiting for my wife, Meagan, I touch the filigree ball on a silver chain under my shirt. A gift from her for our twentieth anniversary, it resembles the Tannis-root pendant given to Rosemary by her haggish neighbor in Rosemary’s Baby. Fitting, indeed. Politicians and Satan make fantastic bedfellows.
“What is it, honey?” Meagan answers my call.
“They say I’m pregnant!” I yell, my voice echoing across the dark parking garage. “A fifty-year-old man, pregnant!”
“That’s great!” she chirps, no trace of irony in her voice. “The girls will be thrilled—”
“Cut it out!” I shout louder than before.
“The girls miss you,” Meagan says.
That’s a goddamn lie. My daughters hate me. They both follow AOC on Instagram, and my youngest came out as queer last year.
“I’m swamped with work and need to go,” I lie, hanging up before she can say anything else. Fighting the urge to smash my phone against the pavement, I climb into my Range Rover.
If this is a joke, it’s getting out of hand. If I’m pregnant, on the other hand, I need to end it. Alas, abortion has been illegal in Texas for the last several years.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud to have played no small part in overturning Roe v. Wade. I have nothing against abortion, mind you, but a national ban is our boss’s long-term pet project. Besides, catering to our evangelical base doesn’t hurt.
Jammed bumper-to-bumper on the I-35, I order Karen, my AI assistant, to speed-dial her namesake. Karen Montenegro is the State Congresswoman from District 9. Contrary to how mainstream media portrays her, there’s nothing Karen-esque about her.
“I know you’re there!” I yell. “Pick up. It’s an emergency.”
After five rings, however, the call goes straight to voicemail.
“Howdy, I’m Karen,” her prerecorded message plays. “I’ll be your server today. What can I get you to drink?”
Despite myself, her inside joke never fails to arouse me.
She was my server every time I dined at the steakhouse downtown. My dick springs up like Pavlov’s dog as I imagine ripping off her waitress uniform. To think that only a few years ago a rising star of state politics blew me in a toilet stall between her shifts.
For the record, I have a perfect excuse for my infidelity. My wife refuses to put on a strap-on and satisfy my anal needs. Once, Meagan bitch-slapped me when she caught me wearing her wedding dress, threatening to annul our marriage. In contrast, Karen lets me try on all her clothes. I adore her thongs. The only problem is that I keep tearing apart those itsy-bitsy panties.
A pickup truck speeds up to cut me off, and I click my tongue. Great. Now I’m forced to stare at pink bull’s nuts for a while.
Damn it, why is she not answering? Maybe she’s with someone. Funny, she and her hubby of eighteen years are in Splitsville following his arrest for exposing himself to multiple teenagers. Nasty business. She and Andy had been virgins and high school sweethearts, always true to each other. At sixteen, she walked down the aisle with a bun in the oven. “Happily Ever After” is only make-believe. She and I, on the other hand, were never exclusive. Even so, jealousy raises its ugly head.
Karen was my Vivian Ward, or Eliza Doolittle for boomers out there. Under my tutelage, she quickly learned to tone down her trailer-trash demeanor.
I take exit 233, flipping the bird to some redneck who swerves into my lane without warning. After a few blocks, my building comes into view.
I leave the scorching parking garage and run up to my AC-chilled office. I briefly consider calling a local escort, but I opt to sniff alone. Gen-Zers are too greedy for my taste. If I let them, they’ll finish my coke in no time.
I grab a straw and kneel before the glass coffee table. As I snort one line, Rosemary’s Baby comes on TV.
“Wanna line?” I ask my reflection.
“Don’t mind if I do,” I say as I take second snort.
In a dreamlike sequence, the young bride fantasizes about being raped by Satan while her husband and her neighbors watch in the buff. That’s my wet dream right there.
My phone beeps with an incoming call. It’s Karen.
“What’s up, Matt?” She draws out her vowels as if she’s waking up from a nap. I hear her shifting in bed, accompanied by a man’s low groan in the background. Something about that makes me horny.
“Pass me the number of your doctor.”
“Which one?”
The gal is a sweetheart. Her heartless opponent alleged that her Cuban-born granddaddy was involved in the JFK assassination, but not even Sherlock could find any evidence to link him to the murder.
“Your abortionist.”
“Wait. I’m not wearing my glasses.”
“What do you need them for?” I scoff.
My dear Karen excels at playing pretend.
Despite her career change, she still wears a uniform: she puts on glasses to make it seem like she can read and carries a loaded Glock to her office in the Capitol. She charms her way past security guards every day.
When she agreed to wear a strap-on, one thing led to another, and I knocked Karen up a couple of times. It wasn’t entirely my fault. She’d led me to believe she was on the pill.
A while ago, our local Lisa Ling-look-alike named Cecilia Kurosawa sniffed around, bothering Karen’s neighbors. Bless her heart, Cecilia thought Karen’s youngest bore an uncanny resemblance to me. A receipt from Planned Parenthood would’ve proved my innocence—although that would’ve exposed my hypocrisy. So, Cecilia had to go. Despite my role in her untimely demise, I teared up when I read about her “suicide” on my newsfeed.
“Is your wife pregnant again?”
“Hell no!”
“Oh, gosh. Don’t tell me it’s one of your girls.”
“Cut out the nonsense,” I bark. “Just give me the number.”
She does. I hang up, call the number Karen gave me, and make an appointment for the next morning. I snort a few more lines before collapsing on the couch.
• • •
At dawn, I head toward to Galveston, barely beating the morning traffic. I take the HOV lane; I’m with a child, after all. I go ninety on State Highway 71, but even if I get caught, Lt. Col. Brown, chief of Highway Patrol, will cut me some slack. We’re good buddies. In a couple of hours, I reach my destination.
With the damp, salty wind in my face, I step onto a motor boat operated by a hooded man who refuses to talk. We soon reach a luxury yacht that doubles as an offshore floating clinic. The Gulf of America, its God-given name echoing through the waters, became a beacon of a different kind after abortion was criminalized nationally. Clinics of this kind popped up all along the Texas coast, yet firmly planted on international waters. Medical providers, sailing beyond the reach of U.S. restrictions, found a way to continue their services in this maritime haven. Thank God for the modern-day Margaret Sangers’ courage, ingenuity, and dedication. Without them, I’d have to go to Juárez for a back-alley abortion like a young mother in a Lucia Berlin story.
The clinic reeks of antiseptic and sterile linen. I sit alone in the waiting room adjacent to an abandoned playroom with children’s toys scattered on the floor. Thank goodness, I’m an Ivy-League educated man and not one of those working poor with no way to pay for childcare.
I spot a Latina cover girl smiling at me from the magazine rack. It’s People en Español, one of the last print editions before it went digital a few years ago. I grab the magazine and flip through the tattered pages.
“Matthew Matthews,” a male voice says in a sing-song tone. The door swings open and a copper-skinned young man sweeps in. I stand as he nods at me. He wears baby-blue nurse’s garb.
“I’m Cassio,” he says as he leads me to an exam room. He smiles behind his mask, and I fight the urge to rip it off his face.
He closes the flimsy curtain in front of an exam table and hands me a hospital gown.
I change in front of Cassio; I want him to see me naked. I keep my pendant on for good luck.
To my surprise, my man boobs are larger than before. My bloated stomach hides my flaccid penis. I climb onto the table, not minding if something extra is exposed.
I lie still, shutting my mind off to everything, while he pokes and prods me with his gloved hands, presumably to make sure I’m pregnant.
“Give me a pill and be done with it,” I say, irritated.
“Unfortunately, abortion pills don’t work on male patients.”
“Why not?” I glare at him. “Never mind. Surgery, then.”
“We’re still required to explain the risks—”
“Stop.” I raise my hand. “There’s no way I’m having this baby.”
“I understand, sir.” The nurse averts his eyes. “Matt. May I call you Matt?”
“No, you may not.”
“Most patients choose local anesthesia,” he says.
“Whatever you do, Cassio,” I say, wagging my finger, “you make sure it won’t hurt. Put me to sleep before you do anything to me.”
Cassio nods and hands me a document. I sign it after giving it a cursory glance and hand it back.
The anesthesiologist comes in and passes me a hissing mask connected to plastic tubing. The world goes dark as the anesthesia kicks in.
• • •
I wake with a searing pain rippling through my stomach. The stale air smothers all color and sound. Harsh fluorescent lights overhead assault my eyes. I lie on a gurney. My hands and feet are bound to the railings with plastic straps.
Cassio walks in.
“How are you doing?”
What did you do to me? I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I want something to drink. My throat hurts.
“I didn’t know you’d be such a screamer, Matt,” Cassio purrs. “Don’t worry, honey. We gave you some medicine, so you can’t scream anymore.”
I must be dreaming. How can I wake from this nightmare?
“You’re wide awake, honey.”
Cassio places his hand on my stomach.
I scowl as something kicks me from the inside.
“Yours is such a kicker,” he says with a smile. “We have accelerated the baby’s development. You won’t have to carry it for nine months anymore. This one will pop out sometime next week.”
Impossible.
“Oh, it’s quite possible,” a familiar female voice says. It’s Karen. Her scent wafts up to me, and I inhale the floral undertone.
“How are you, darling?”
When she touches my stomach, I flinch.
What are you doing here?
“I’m checking in on your baby.” Karen wears a pink pantsuit and a yellow scarf around her neck. My old gal has outdone her idol, Kari Lake. She must have spent extra time on her makeup, looking sensual as ever with smoky eyeshadow and thick eyeliner.
What do you want?
“Next time, you’ll be impregnated with twins,” Karen says. “How does that sound?”
Let me out of here! My scream echoes inside me.
I sit up with force. My right wrist snaps free, and I reach toward Karen. I yell, but nothing comes out. Cassio injects something in my IV line. When I try to grab him, Karen shoves me down. Drowsiness overtakes me. I lose consciousness.
• • •
The following morning, I wake to a woman holding a phallic microphone. She’s here to “catch the last gurgles and the red swallowed tongues,” to quote my dear Norma from Sunset Boulevard. She’s followed by a young man carrying a handheld camera. The woman is Cecilia Kurosawa.
“Surprise!” she chirps. “You didn’t expect to see me again, did you?” She turns and signals for her cameraman to start filming.
I try to scream, but it’s still in vain. I want to spit at the cameraman, but my mouth is dry. All I can do is grimace. Tears roll down the sides of my face and fill my ears.
“Let’s set up a stationary camera right here,” she says. “We don’t want to miss the big moment.”
Over the next few days, I drift between delirium and dreamland.
Senator Matthews Is Pregnant. In my nightmares, salacious headlines splash across all forms of media. Late-night talk show hosts relish making me the butt of jokes. Mocking me over my virility or lack thereof becomes America’s new national pastime.
Every time I close my eyes, a pristine beach stretches before me. Cancun. I sip my margarita while ogling half-naked bodies from my lounge chair. I’ll go back there as soon as I get out of here. Cancun is a fantastic place to plot a comeback. I may be a Norma Desmond, but I aspire to be a Gloria Swanson.
I slowly come to my senses, and I find myself strapped on a metal bed. My private parts are exposed to chilly air. Familiar voices chuckle, penetrating my delirium.
“I’ll divorce him when this is over,” Meagan says. “The girls want to stay with me. He can keep his Range Rover.”
A sharp pain pierces my abdomen, and I almost pass out.
The creature inside me rips open my stomach and sticks out its head. I scream again in silence. The chuckles around my bedside turn to cheers.
It’s as large as a six-month-old. All right, Ms. Kurosawa, I’m ready for my close-up. It growls and bares its canines, flashing me a blood-stained smile as I tremble. The creature crawls forward, looking for breast milk.
About the author and the piece
Toshiya Kamei (she/they) is a queer Asian writer who takes inspiration from fairy tales, folklore, and mythology. This story was rejected 35 times before making its way to us.
©2025 by Toshiya Kamei. All rights reserved. May not be used for A.I. training.