T A B L E++T A L K

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"What about me?" bellowed my wife. "You'd rather get her pregnant, is that it?"

For five years, Carol and I have been discussing parenthood -- discussing, but procrastinating. Carol's excuse is her skyrocketing career; my reasons involve sloth, fear and an immaturity that is apparently chronic, since I am 45 years old.

"If Monica has your kid, I get one too," she continued.

"OK," I mumbled, "but I thought you wanted to adopt?"

"No! I'd worry that you'd love Monica's child more than ours if you were only related to hers."

"Golly, I wouldn't do that. Carol, if you're gonna freak out about this, maybe I shouldn't. I just thought, hey, this is the politically correct, gay-friendly thing to do, right?"

I had her there and I knew it. Carol is an ex-LIC (Lesbian In College) herself, with three Sapphic trysts under her belt: a poli-sci professor, a linguistics classmate and a drummer. She's still dyke-identified, embarrassed about her hetero marriage. Ideologically, she has to do anything to assist her lesbian friends, including loaning out her husband's gonads.

Her face was rippling with confusion.

"Will they sue us for child support?" she asked.

"No way. We'll sign preconception papers in front of a lawyer. They want me to send birthday cards, that's all. Visitation rights will be completely controlled by them."

"I don't know. I'm worried."

"Carol, it has to be OK with you. Otherwise it's off."

She paced the room like a lawyer, looking for loopholes.

Monica telephoned early that night. "Rachel's ecstatic," she chirped. "Green light on this end. How's Carol?"

"Weird," I whispered. "Uptight."

"Oh dear." Monica paused. "Let me talk to her."

"Uh, why? I mean of course, sure."

Reluctantly, I handed the receiver to Carol. I walked down the hall but crept back, stealthily. I crouched in the next room, eavesdropping, of course. I had to. It's been a long time since two women fought over me -- maybe another lifetime.

Their conversation was absolutely appalling, worse than anything I imagined. Instead of a cat fight, they spent the next two hours chatting amiably, laughing uproariously on numerous occasions. No evil brawls, no sobs or tears -- they were snickering! I was crushed. My wife was lesbian bonding with the rival womb. I hated them both!

With extended coos and giggles, Carol finally said goodbye.

"What was that about?" I snarled, emerging from the shadows.

"Oh," she answered, laconically, "they want us to come over for dinner on Thursday."

"Why were you laughing? What's so funny?"

"Nothing," she said. "Seriously."

The meal was organic pasta and vegetables, and more wine than I should have drunk. I thought everybody would be tense but me, but the inverse was actually true.

The first hour was conversational "foreplay": chit-chat minutia about miscellaneous female things. I could have been a place mat. I had nothing to say. This didn't bother me, though -- I reassured myself that the two hopeful receptacles of my miracle goo were just softening up Carol so they could get what they needed.

Finally, Rachel sighed and announced, "Well, Carol, this is great fun, but I suppose it's time for us to discuss the possibility of using your husband for our babies. Monica and I are deeply appreciative of your generosity in even considering this. We want to listen now to all your hesitations regarding this situation and we, of course, have our own concerns."

Beaming with self-possession, Carol dived skillfully into the ensuing three hours of convoluted "processing." Once again, I was completely lost. The myriad questions and analyses and sharing of feelings was an alien tongue to me. Sure, I occasionally leaped in with a filthy joke; they acknowledged this with patient smiles before returning to the mysterious depths of their trialogue.

Three hours of processing! Laborious questions like: "Carol, how would you feel about Hank's feelings if he wanted to spend time with our child, against our wishes?" Followed by the reverse: "Carol, how would you feel about Hank's feelings if he didn't want to spend time with our child, when we wanted him to?"

There were, I believe, only three questions directed at me. Even then, my answers were immediately deemed invalid if Carol refused to back them up. For example:

Monica: "Hank, how would you feel if your sperm was unable to get one of us pregnant after repeated attempts for, say, six cycles of ovulation?"

Hank: "That won't happen. Hey, two women had to get abortions after one night with me. I'm potent for sure, ha ha!"

Carol: "Truth is, Hank is very sensitive about all of his sexual inadequacies, although, of course, he lives in denial of this. Furthermore, despite his boasts about past exploits, I can testify that he produces very small volumes of the needed ingredient. He will be depressed about failure to attain conception immediately, but I will keep his spirits up with B vitamins and I'll make sure he doesn't quit this job, like he's quit so many others."

After three hours of interrogation, it became clear that I had failed but Carol had succeeded, and that was all that mattered.

Monica and Rachel were rapturous with delight; they hugged my wife and told her they "really wanted her to be part of the event."

"Of course," she replied. "As you wish."

"What's going on?" I asked, for the hundredth time.

"She's going to assist you," replied Monica. "Together the two of you will ... extract the sperm."

"I can do it myself," I growled. "God, it's easier that way."

There was an awkward pause. Finally Rachel spoke up. "Please, Hank, try to understand. Monica and I are not comfortable with this if Carol isn't an essential contributor. We insist."

"OK, OK," I muttered.

"I'm Auntie Handjob," joked Carol.

Monica and Rachel howled with laughter. Nothing, it seemed to them, could be more hysterical than acts of hetero sex.

"What's my name?" I asked petulantly. "I want a nickname too."

"Hmmm," thought Monica, "how about Uncle Seed?"

"But it's not funny enough," I whined, "and besides, I'm the daddy, not an uncle."

"Oh no," grumbled Monica. "Carol, what do you think?"

"Well," she replied, "I think 'Uncle Seed' is just perfect."

"Great," crowed Rachel. "I'm glad that's settled."

The rest of the evening was occupied with logistics -- Rachel and Monica would pay for my physical exam, my blood test, my sperm analysis and the lawyer's fees to draw up the contract between us. They promised there would also be more discussions to air out any new feelings any of us might have.

Looking back on the proceedings, I have to admit that I had hoped for a bit of phallic worship. Instead, it felt more like two farmers were borrowing a shovel from Carol. But I realize that every question, every precaution, every decision that Monica and Rachel made was well-considered and justified. Our arrangement may seem eccentric to some, but to us it makes perfect sense: We're helping two women who want to be parents.

By late December, the four of us, as a team, are going to be doing some serious baby-making. Happy Hanuka, Rachel and Monica! I hope my polliwogs swim straight and true!
SALON | Dec. 15, 1997

Hank Pellissier, aka Hank Hyena, is a San Francisco performance artist.