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This important and thought-provoking book provides a meticulously documented history of the metaphor of male pregnancy in Athens during the classical period. With its detailed of the genealogy and evolution of the pregnant male metaphor, this book fills an important gap in the study of intellectual history. As such, it makes a valuable contribution to scholarly discussions of gender and reproduction by introducing less frequently discussed texts into the conversation and carefully situating various appearances of this metaphor in their appropriate intellectual and rhetorical contexts. To date, scholarship on the notion of birthing as a male, rather than female, activity has tended to focus on how such concepts participate in broader cultural discourses about gender and authority in ancient society.

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She loved sex.

“i could spend the rest of my life obsessing over all of the things my body cannot do, or i could get excited about the thing that it can do that their body can't, which is to create life.”

There was an ad that made him sit up and take notice. But that would mean going outside again. Then there was three. Even with people like Harold. He would hunch over the porcelain god and dry heave for a good five minutes. And even Harold believed that having a baby as a man — story to give birth to something out of the tiny hole at the tip of his penis — was kind of unbelievable. The landlord would take it on him. He was watching one of those TV talk shows where women talk about their feelings and celebrity gossip — there was nothing else on virtually in the early weekday afternoons — when the commercials came on.

The male obvious was that he was getting a bit of a belly. He was sick at himself for having unprotected sex in the first place. The reason? He had pregnant but himself, and the tiny thing growing within him. This always relaxed him.

He could feel it, deep inside. He would have to go out and find a metal coat hanger, not the cheap, kiddie plastic ones. They told him to watch his weight, because he was diabetic. He derived much more pleasure from masturbating.

It was happening. It started with a series of words written across the screen: Scared? Trying to see him on the inside, a place where Harold felt nothing but a strange jumble of things. Then a woman came on and explained that you could call this toll free and talk to a counselor about your various options, your feelings, whatever you like.

Harold tiptoed onto the digital scale in his high-rise apartment bedroom, silently and secretly hop i ng the s would be down some from yesterday. The pounds were starting to pile up. Actually, almost immediately, he was pretty sure that he would need it.

Something kicking him from deep inside. And when Harold told her of his current trouble, that he believed he was pregnant, she had simply stopped talking to him. Now, Claudia was gone. He wanted, right then and there, to get a knife and take it and go to her place and stab her into a million little tiny pieces. Harold wiped away his eyes, and undid his jeans and began fondling himself.

Harold thought option two was the most likely thing to happen. She wanted Harold to get closer to her, so he agreed. Tears of hate. Not a woman of the type that he knew. He knew generally that women who were pregnant got sick in the morning. He figured that pregnancy was something that women should only have to endure. Not that Claudia would have had anything to worry about. He was sad, angry, perplexed. Not since Claudia had taken those on him, too.

Then the tears came. Kicking him every now and then. There was revulsion as well. He never came during real sex, though he only came sometimes by himself. It was typical of her. He wondered if he would carry this monstrosity to term, or whether he should abort it. Nothing came out. But Claudia was different. So that was one.

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Could such a thing happen in the first trimester? Not anymore. There was a tiny thing growing inside of him. The digital readout spat out otherwise: he was up about half a pound. And then what would he be able to do? The courage to keep going for another six months, the courage to give birth. They were always probing, prying.

Hatred for Claudia, for putting him into this mess in the first place. in. Not right now. Harold reached for his journal and frantically scribbled the down, in case he might need it.

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He gave out a moan. Something to turn his mind away from the scrambled nature of his thoughts. Think you might be pregnant? Harold got one of those s when he was watching TV from his bed. Too much knowledge could burn you, he surmised. Something to keep his mind off things. Still, it was something.

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At the first of trouble, she would always leave. He had to tear those apart with his hands whenever he felt the compulsion to order one for delivery.

Every day Harold woke up and would have the overwhelming urge to throw up in the toilet. However, there was an alternative to his pregnancy predicament, he supposed. Harold began to wonder if he would have the courage. Swimming in his fat. He knew this. Harold had even been tested. At night, when he lay on his side and tried desperately to go to sleep, he was sure he could feel something.

He was sure one of two things could happen. To go to a clinic, however, would mean explaining his predicament. As a man, he felt so out of it for the most part, aside from little bits and pieces of stuff that he knew from Sex Ed male way back when. It was for a service called Birthline. However, it was the same as story. And all of the s were pregnant. And growing, growing. It seemed so impossible. Tears of confusion.

People liked things explained to them with some semblance of rational thought. Harold buried his head in his hands and started to low. Claudia had been on the pill, and it was her idea. She almost acted like a man. He could feel something moving deep in his belly. He should have known better. Unsure of what to do?

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It's been thirteen years since Thomas Beatie sat down for his first TV interview and told Oprah — and the world — how he could possibly be pregnant, as a man.

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