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My seeds are sprouting in two wombs | page 1, 2
"Where is it?" she asked, polite but ruffled. "Can't you see it? Right there." I aimed my trembling finger at some
shivering dampness in the corner. "I'll get it!" grunted Rachel, her syringe poised aggressively. "Don't
worry; it only takes one tadpole!" Adroitly, she snagged the minuscule smudge as I hurried, crimson-faced,
out of their home. When my five days of stud service finally ended, I collapsed into an evil,
despairing funk. "This will never happen," I decided. "It's a fiasco, a joke. I'll never
get Carol pregnant, or Monica, or Rachel" (who wants my semen when
Monica's offspring is 6 months old; that way, their kids can be
half-siblings). My fantastic queer-friendly family plan seemed only a chimera; an
illusionary dream impossible for a middle-aged man like me. Part 1
Confessions of a lesbian sperm donor
"Hank, my period's late," Carol told me three weeks later. "Don't tease me!" I implored her. "Really, my ego can't take it." Three days later, she came home with a pregnancy kit that she had purchased from a local Thrifty Drug store. "I'm not splitting the cost of that," I grumbled. "What a waste of money." Carefully, she urinated on the stick. "If the lines appear with the same thickness," she said. "Yeah, yeah, yeah." Two minutes later, I heard her call out my name in a tremulous tone that I'd never heard before. I ran to the bathroom. I stared at the technological appliance that promised a miracle. We screamed. "AH GAH AH HA HA HA! WE DID IT! OOOWEE! YABBA-DABBA-DOO!" After shedding plenty of impending parent tears together, I remembered my other responsibility. "This means," I blubbered obtusely, "that I can concentrate on Monica now, without interference." "You're so rude," hissed my wife. Sprinting to the phone, I dialed the gal pals. "Guess what?" I gushed. "Carol's pregnant." A pause. "You're serious?" said Monica. "SO ARE WE!!!" shrieked Rachel, in the background. "WE'RE GONNA HAVE A BABY!" "Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!" I laughed. "Hooray for all of us!" yelled Carol, grabbing the phone away from me for some serious girl talk. "I'm finished!" I exulted. "No more sex chores! I don't have to ejaculate again for the rest of my life!" I felt sorry for Monica when she got morning sickness, because of course I'm responsible. I felt annoyed when I found out that she was still drinking coffee -- what's she trying to do, abort my son? I felt frustrated when she said she was "still in denial" -- what's wrong? Is she embarrassed about the product of our chromosomal union? Tonight, with the rock cod and tofu, is the first time that Carol and I have socially mingled with Rachel and Monica since the pregnancies ensued. Why? Well, one reason is because I'm afraid of appearing too interested. Or not interested enough. I'm confused, really, about how I feel. I'm glad, of course, that they're getting what they want. And, usually, I'm just focused on the daughter that Carol is carrying. But when Monica's boy emerges, I'm worried. I know I'm going to bust loose with some wacky emotions. He's a boy?! Like me?! Will he look like me? Will he act like me? Will I love him? A son? Son? Is he really my son? Monica and Rachel are embroiled now in a complex legal procedure that will allow Rachel to sign the birth document as the boy's "father." They need my signed consent for this, and they'll get it. I'm honest, and I've promised -- no interference. The child is theirs. I won't have any parental rights whatsoever. But still. "Wouldn't it be fun?" proposes my excellent wife, who always vocalizes the secrets hidden inside everyone's minds. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if our children played together all the time, and got to know each other well? They're related, after all; they'll be half-brother and half-sister." Rachel glows with happiness -- a broad grin splits her round face. Monica's eyes soften; she's touched by Carol's profusion of friendship. "Yes," Rachel says. "Yes." "We can alternate baby-sitting," suggests Carol. "Or we can watch them together. We can celebrate their birthdays together. It takes 'community' to raise happy children, and the four of us together have a natural bond." "Let's do it," whispers Monica. The talk turns now to names. Carol and I are going to call our daughter Tallulah Elizabeth, but Rachel and Monica are undecided. "An Old Testament name, because you're both Jewish?" I guess. "Yes," Rachel agrees, "Maybe Ezekiel, or Jeroboam, or Abimelech, or Zechariah." "You could name him 'Onan,' after his masturbating papa-lineage," I cackle. "Har har, har har har!" No one else laughs. "Maybe Amos, or Obidiah," suggests Monica. "Or Nehemiah, or Ephraim." "Those are all excellent names," I lie. As a Neo-Pagan I've got ornery opinions on the subject, but I don't say anything. He's not my son, after all. He's not my son, he's not my son. Then again, he is, at least sort of, and hard as I try, I can't stop the horrible and sweet emotions bubbling inside me already about this tiny life -- these tiny lives -- coming into the world.
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