No. In fact nothing is sacred.

Now that I've reached the ain't no hiding the bump stage of pregnancy I've become acquainted with a whole new species of creepy freakshow; the pregnant lady fetishists. I suppose I knew they existed, but to be honest I'd never really given thought to how many of them there may be, are. As my friend Maud pointed out (while we were cracking jokes about onlooker reactions to her surgery bandage) one isn't usually too aware of a subculture until circumstances force your awareness, or unwilling participation.

Most of the men who've approached me aren't fetishists, truthfully. Just your average woman-harassing schmo who want to let you know your 'condition' is not a preclusion for them in the least. Quoting the jubilant come-on of one gap-toothed city employee, "Pregnant, on your period, I don't care! I'll do ya! Pussy's pussy!" I had hoped to get a few month's respite from the pussy's pussy brand of invitation, out of respect or something, a little quid pro quo for the aching, swollen ankles and constant heartburn and acne and varicose veins. But, um, no.

The ones who are into the belly specifically behave differently. They're subtle. Or they try to be I should say. They gather you in. Some stalk, mirror your every move; on the sidewalk, the subway platform, the grocery, with all the stealthy surveillance technique of Inspector Clouseau, until you either confront them or ditch them. One man was bold enough to take the seat right next to me in an otherwise empty Starbucks (as loathe as I am to say, they're a pregnant woman's best friend in NYC...they all have unlocked, no purchase necessary bathrooms) and devised ways to 'accidently' brush my stomach a few times before I lost it and left.

The guy who approached me on the bus last week was my first speaker. Old man, say 80. Dead ringer for Miracle Max from Princess Bride, but with the voice of Snagglepuss. He leaned over, "So! When are you due, hmmm?" His too-eager smile gave me a strong hinky feeling, but it was hard to tell. It's the exact same expression of a lonely widow desperate for conversation. I chose to answer him in case of the latter, despite the Snaggle treatment, but in a tone that would discourage more talk.
"Mid October." I said politely, but without making eye contact.
"So thats how far along?" He said, again a bit too interested, all the while staring a hole into my stomach.
"6 months."
"Six months. Oh, six months..." he repeated and begun--I kid you not--reaching for my belly and smacking his lips. "So...you'd prefer that I touch it?" he said, still reaching. Before his hands landed I shoved the two grocery bags I was carrying in between us.
"NO! I would not!" I tried to meet his eyes so he could see I was SERIOUS, but he was fixated on the smacking and the belly.
"Yes, I think you would prefer I touch it..." his hand fondled the plastic bags in front of me. I pushed it away.
"No. I would PREFER you did NOT."
"OH, Oh." He seemed to snap out of whatever spell he'd been under. He looked sorry actually, once again a confused lonely old man. I got up to exit the bus. He gave it one last shot. "Are you sure you would not prefer..."
"Quite." I answered.