Sure, I’ve danced with the devil in the pale moonlight… and then stared at the ceiling for three and a half minutes while ole Beezlebub jackhammered away, before rolling over and farting himself to sleep.
As far as Tinder dates go, I’ve had worse.
Still, I was relieved when he didn’t call. The only reason I’d swiped right on Satan in the first place was piqued curiosity over his fabled forked tongue, only for him to casually blurt out over dinner that he doesn’t go down. You’ve gotta admit that’s a dick move, even for the Antichrist.
So you can imagine my glee when three weeks later, after several mornings of projectile vomiting green goo, I pissed on a plastic stick and a faint pink line appeared.
I was in my 30s, single, and knocked up by the devil. Even my cats seemed disappointed by my life choices. And if there was ever any doubt about paternity, it was dispelled when ultrasound pictures clearly depicted adorable cloven hooves.
Abortion wasn’t an option. I’m militantly pro-choice, but once I felt the first stirrings of my demon fetus I knew it wasn’t a decision I could live with… mainly because the bastard probably would’ve killed me first. I once grabbed a wire hanger to put away my coat and immediately queefed out a fireball – I think it was a warning shot.
Pregnancy is so precious.
As my unholy baby bump grew we opted to give our relationship a real shot, so I accompanied the devil down to Georgia on a business trip. I quickly decided my diabolical child deserved better than a second-fiddle bully for a father, and I fled home to prepare for life as a single mom to the rightful heir to hell’s throne. (I also stopped for a pedicure—that Southern humidity was nefarious to my swollen tootsies.)
Most new mothers consider their birth stories (and only theirs) as miraculously thrilling tales, but mine was pretty unremarkable. There was the usual chanting in tongues and the air swirled with streams of virgins’ blood, but I was too stoned to pay much attention.
Oh come on, I banged the Prince of Darkness without using protection, you didn’t expect me to hop upon that “natural childbirth” high horse, did you? I took all the drugs, and afterwards asked the nurse for a doggie bag.
Two days later little Lucy and I were sent home with instructions on umbilical cord and severed tail care, and we settled into our new lives pretty well.
But it was hard to make ends meet.
Childcare costs in this country are ridiculous anyway, but with the “possession premium” heaped onto the already overburdened families of demonic tykes I was basically paying to go to work. I swallowed my pride, and texted Satan for help; he responded with a “new phone, who dis” meme, then blocked my number.
So I took his accursed ass to court.
My petition for child support required several supplemental pages, as one could fill a book with just the known aliases of the defendant. I submitted the first shedding of Lucy’s curved horns as proof of paternity, which the judge deemed sufficient before signing the cross and rushing me out of the courtroom.
But I still haven’t seen a dime from the serpentine prick. He’s vanished, and if anyone can go deep underground for a few millennia to let a scandal blow over, it’s Satan.
The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the family court system he didn’t exist.
But don’t worry about me or Lucy, we’ll be fine. Since my court order went public I’ve had offers for book deals and talk show appearances that will bankroll both of our futures. And Lucy, well, if our naptime battles are any indication she’ll be ripe to defeat her father and reign as the Queen of Hell before she’s even through her terrible twos.
And in the end, isn’t that all we want for our children?
Kimmy Dee is the author of the essay collection Pussy Planet and Other Endearing Tales, and she has soiled various dark corners of the internet with her harebrained excuses for short stories. She lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan, with her beloved cats and a family she barely tolerates.