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Dump the big bang, bring on the blue ox
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"Huh?!" I blush. "What do you mean?"

Rachel is my quirky, curly haired lesbian friend. My wife Carol and I are feeding rock cod and tofu to her and her gal-pal Monica tonight.

"I felt so studly, so powerful," she explains. "Sticking the syringe in Monica. I loved squirting your semen in her and knocking her up. Dang! I want to do it again!"

"It's a potent pleasure," I agree. "But doesn't Monica get to be 'phallic' next? We want YOU pregnant, too, Rachel."

Part 1 Confessions of a lesbian sperm donor

Our tête-à-tête is interrupted by our corpulent partners, who enter the dining room, waddling arm-in-arm. My wife is a tall, blue-eyed WASP, while Rachel is diminutive, raven-haired and Jewish. Tonight they look identical because their T-shirts are both cinched up, exposing big bulbous watermelon-bellies.

"I'm fatter than you," remarks Carol. "But your boobs look bigger."

"What did the doctor say your due-date was?" inquires Monica. "Mine is January 1st -- a millennium boy-baby."

"December 25th," replies Carol. "Our daughter is the antichrist."

Rachel and I escort our partners toward their chairs. We shove their portly frames toward their plates; we ladle them enormous quantities of third-trimester protein.

"Yummy!" burps my wife.

"Oink! Oink!" agrees Monica.

Sheepishly, I stare at the two happy fertility goddesses who are sprouting with my seed -- my wife, inseminated by traditional calisthenics, and Monica, enlarged by semen that I wanked into a mayonnaise jar.

I feel like David Koresh.

"A toast!" crows Rachel. "To the tool who made this all possible!"

Carol and Monica hoist their teacups of neonatal brew. Materna tablets are poised on their lips, for swallowing.

"To our dear donor -- 'Uncle Wiggly'!" guffaws Monica.

"Polliwog Papa!" snickers Carol."

"How did you do it?" Rachel wonders. "What super-sperm food were you eating in March?"

"Cheetos?" I laugh. "Actually, I think we were all more fertile that month because we were filled with hatred, stress and despair."

Carol and Monica were fighting viciously seven months ago -- they were angry because their ovulation cycles were parallel for the very first time. When the procreation plan started, their cycles were two weeks apart; but a fertility drug ingested by Monica threw her off, directly into Carol's path.

A bitter struggle for sperm rights erupted on the phone; a screaming, hissing cat fight for dominion of my dollops. Eventually, Carol slammed down the receiver and whirled on me. "I get you first, every day this entire week!" she snarled triumphantly. "You're my husband -- she only gets what's left over."

Stupidly, I disagreed.

"Monica's older," I argued. "You're young, and she's 40 -- her eggs are getting astoundingly more brittle, every day. Besides, I promised my sperm to her before you were even interested in having a baby -- therefore, she gets first dibs."

"You're insane!" snarled my headstrong spouse. "Your gunk IS MARRIED TO ME!"

"It's my body!" I hissed. "I own my fluids!"

Doors slammed; saucers and forks were tossed; sobs ensued.

"OK, OK, OK," I conceded, forlornly. "It doesn't matter anyway."

After 15 months of failing to inseminate either of them separately, my meager reservoir was suddenly supposed to simultaneously satisfy both thirsty uteri.

"I'm 46 years old," I whined. "Double duty for five days? It's impossible. My tank will run dry."

Never, ever in my rather degrading life had I ever felt like such a loser. For 15 months I had tossed my offerings into Monica's jars and Carol's loins without even a sprout to boast about. I ate icky health food, I slept immense hours, I exercised strenuously -- but all the glue I grunted out desultorily refused to bond with their eggs.

My spunk IS alive -- a sperm analysis verified this -- but an emasculating curse had rendered my intimate maleness absolutely deficient. Perhaps my sperm was retarded -- wandering lost in fallopian labyrinths. Perhaps their whipping tails were too puny to paddle up the pubic path. Perhaps their heads weren't pointy enough to pummel past the crust of the ovum.

To emotionally survive my special burden in March, I began furtively drinking beer with my "jogging" partner, Paul. I raced out my front door in warm-up sweats, to delude my wife. Three blocks away, at the Treat Street Pub, I guzzled ale with my chum, who also was in a procreating dilemma. Together we commiserated about the anguish of being sub-male. After an hour of jolly whining, we sprinkled water on our faces to impersonate sweat and strode home to our respective lairs, to drunkenly perform our testicular duties.

"That was a great one!" I lied to my wife, as I dramatically faked a gigantic, multi-spurting orgasm.

"Really?" she marveled. "There's a lot ... coming out?"

"Pints!" I assured her. "Great gobs."

"Uh ... what about Monica?" She asked. "Is there much for her, too?"

"Nope!" I chuckled. "She only gets a teensy-weensy speck."

"Oh honey," cooed Carol. "I love you!"

Next page | I don't have to ejaculate again for the rest of my life!