I meet up with a writer friend named Candice. Candice’s butch girlfriend had their baby for them about 18 years ago.
He’s now this tall, adorable boy with a head full of wild, golden curls going to college at some cool school somewhere, and he’s gay! Another older lez I know tells me her son is gay, too. I’m sure gays who are trying had to make everyone think they are totally normal and just like straight people won’t like this claim, but I bet that more kids of gay people are gay!
Maybe in part because of some cool gay or bi gene, but also because I think a lot more people would be a lot more gay if they understood it was an option. And being raised in a home where it’s super awesome and no big whoop to be gay will probably make a lot of people feel relaxed about their gayer impulses.
Just a theory! What do I know? I’ve heard that Randall Terry, the creep who started Operation Rescue, was raised by lesbians, too!
Candice has the best stories about her girlfriend Kim having their baby. How Kim rode a motorcycle til she was seven months pregnant (Eight months, Kim proudly corrects me later when I run into her at a poetry reading). How the influx of hormones a pregnant woman gets bombarded with includes testosterone, and so Kim got super buff. How she wore her leather motorcycle jacket open over her giant preggers belly.
Candice thinks it is so cool that I’m trying to get knocked up.
“Having a baby puts you in life’s biggest adventure,” she says, and I believe her. I am all about adventure! I like her attitude.
“Your values change,” she says, “But they change slowly.” Like, how it took Camille and Kim a moment to realize a speed freak was not an appropriate babysitter. Or how they surprised themselves by insisting their offspring go to college.
I can’t foresee how my values will change once there is a baby in the picture, but I think I’m down with that, whatever it looks like. I know a lot of queers who are worried that having a baby will make them a different person, but I am open to whoever that me-with-a-baby person might be. It’s ridiculous to expect that such a life-changing experience won’t change you.
When I first got sober, I thought my life would stay totally the same, I’d just take the booze out of it. This is one of the more ridiculous thoughts I’ve had in my lifetime. My life changed entirely, and when I stopped resisting it I realized that the changes were 100% for the better. So I let it change and I changed, too.
Nine years later everything is way cooler than I could have imagined back when I was desperately trying to hang out with all the drug-addled people in the wasted spaces I’d come to know and was terrified to let go of. I’m totally open to being changed by a baby! I’m totally open to being changed by life.
On the toilet at my gym I am greeted by a splotch of blood in my underwear. Goddammit! I begin texting my sister from the bowl. What color blood is it? she asks, ever-hopeful for the elusive implantation bleeding. We go back and forth about the exact shade and hue of the stuff in my underwear, trying to Sherlock if it’s my period or something better, but I know in my gut it’s my period.
I send a text to Dashiell, who is home sick with a cold (see? happy people do get sick!), and she texts back that she wishes she was snuggling me.
I get the feeling I’m going to be hanging out on this toilet texting for a while, in part because I’d drunk a cup of Get Regular tea earlier in the day (or as I like to call it, Get Regs) and that stuff works. My sister has accused me of being a Laxative Bulimic because of my penchant for Get Regs, Senna tablets, murky glasses of Super Colon Cleanse and sludgy goblets of Psylium Husk. Am I? Who knows!
Between the regular cultural pressure to be thin, my natural thinness, the way my body bloats up so easily, how much I hate feeling loaded down with food and my chosen feminist sub-culture’s demonizing of diets and dieters plus an insistence that your body should be embraced exactly as it is or else you’re oppressing not just yourself but all women -- well, who knows what is a normal way to be in your body? I don’t.
Back to me on the bowl. I am filled with an urgent desire to take the matter of my fertility into my own hands. I’m sick of these periods! Can’t I just get my hands on some Clomid, somehow, without a doctor? As a former drug addict, I refuse to believe I can’t score whatever chemicals I want.
I shoot a text to my friend Dirk, a rent boy who orders bulk Viagra on the Internet. What doseage? He asks. How many? Um…. I text back. Not Sure How Many, But The Highest Doseage! Right? I want this shit to work! I’ll send you an email in five minutes, Dirk texts, and I wrap it up in the gymnasium toilet.
I arrive home to multiple emails from Dirk, messages that comes from a new email, NeighborhoodGuy, clearly his hooker account. I email with him while texting with my sister, who is simultaneously on About.com researching Clomid.
If you say that your order never came, they’ll send you another package, so you get two batches for the price of one, Dirk, an expert criminal scammer, advises. It doesn’t always work, tho. But how much Clomid do I even need?
According to the texts coming in from Madeline, I take 5 per cycle. This web site sells them in bundles of 30, so I’m already set for six months with a single purchase. I can’t imagine I’d need more than that -- if these shady drugs don’t hook me up with a belly full of triplets or at least one good set of conjoined twins within six months, I think it’s time to move on to the harder stuff.
This web site offers free Viagra with a purchase of fertility meds! I text this amazing bonus to my sister. I wonder if I’ll give it to Quentin or save it for myself? Viagra works for girls, too! My sister sends me a text insisting that I should only get the 50mg Clomid, not the 100.
God, I’m Such A Drug Addict, I text her. That is totally the kind of drug addict I am -- if a little is good, a lot is better. I am still like this in most areas of my life. I change my dosage on the web site and the price drops by 10 dollars. A thrill shoots through me. And It’s Cheaper! I text my sister. This makes her crack up, so I start texting her phonetically in the accent of our homeland, the North Shore of Boston. Wicked Pissah! It’s A Sawbuck Cheapah!
How is this even possible? A text from my sister flashes into my phone. That you can just order drugs over the Internet?
I Have No Idea, I text back. All I Know Is You Can, And It’s Coming From India.
Madeline texts me everything I need to know -- I take the Clomid on the fifth day of my period, no counting spotting, and I take it for five days only, at the same time of the day. Side effects include nausea, mood swings, hot flashes; if I get blurry vision I should call a doctor. I enter all my information onto this shady website; later I will wonder if this is how some miscreants tried to charge $5,000 worth of computer equipment and gaming time onto my card. $5,000! That’s like 4 Clomid IUIs!
I am a do-er. When there is a problem, when a problem has been identified, I want to DO something about it. I’ve dated a lot of people who are not do-ers, who prefer just to talk (whine) about their problems forever and not do what we call in AA the next right thing, and I truly do not understand how they can live with themselves, the urge to DO SOMETHING is so physically powerful inside my body.
Of course, I do not know if ordering prescription drugs from an international pharmaceutical website qualifies as next right thing within an AA framework, but it’s the best I can do at this moment.
I also decide to find a Keeper. A Keeper is one of those plastic suction devices ladies pop up their snatch to catch their menstrual flow, thereby giving the finger to the Tampon Industrial Complex. I am deeply unsure of my ability to do this -- it sounds frustrating and messy -- but the time has come to up my game. I make a plan with Dashiell to hit the Lesbian Witch Store that weekend.
Next Week: Magic Spells!