I have an Insemination Plan. And because I’m going to be visiting my friend Gertrude in fucking Portland when I ovulate, it’s complicated.
Quentin will give me some premium drag queen ejaculate the night before I leave. Sperm can live up to five days in a womb, under optimum conditions, with female sperms lasting the longest.
Of course, a DIY home insemination isn’t actually optimum, with the sperm spending time outside the body, so Gertrude has arranged for a friend to knock me up the old-fashioned way.
Old-fashioned is the optimum way to go, and I had made a pledge to myself that I wouldn’t let any dating scenarios get in the way of my baby-making plans.
Dashiell and I hadn’t had the talk or anything -- for all I knew she was dating bunches of bitches who were trying to get pregnant! Even so, I had killed off the lingering internet intrigues and long-distance flirtations I’d had going.
Whatever Dashiell might be doing, I didn’t have eyes for anyone but her. Would she understand that this pending sexual activity was purely procreational?
I kept the conversation about it brief, out of respect to the both of us. She seemed to get it. I felt relieved, but still worried -- she was accepting of the situation, but would I be?
In spite of my reputation, I am actually as monogamous as a pigeon. When I stared deeply into Dashiell’s eyes, as we liked to do, I would think, I love you I love you I love you.
We were on the cusp of falling in love, when you already know you love the person but you just can’t say it, because it’s crazy, it’s too soon, you’ll scare them. So I didn’t say anything, except telepathically, gazing into Dashiell’s blue-gray-hazel eyes.
The night of the insemination I waited for Rhonda and Quentin in my bathrobe with the blue-and-white stripes, like a beach lounger in Cannes.
I felt romantic about the insemination, dreamy and excited. I’d picked a sprig of jasmine on my walk home, and stuck it in a tiny glass bottle on my nightstand. I twisted the needle off an IV syringe I’d bought at Walgreens for like fifty cents. (I was shocked that you can just buy a needle over the counter like that!)
I set my oven to "warm" and put a bowl in it. A bowl I served candy and nuts in when I entertained. Did this mean I couldn’t use it anymore, that it was forevermore the Sperm Bowl?
“I’m still going to use this bowl for snacks,” I told Rhonda defiantly.
We were obsessively looking at Dashiell’s Facebook page, waiting for Quentin. She agreed. Rhonda had what she called an "Olde World" approach to food and contamination. Like, she’d leave meat and dairy products out on the table forever and keep eating it. It didn’t seem to hurt her, but Rhonda is an exceptionally hardy person.
Here’s Quentin! “Hiiiiii,” He waves cutely. Quentin is so cute, he’s grown a giant beard! It looks chic and woodsy.
Quentin has shiny hair and big eyes and pouty lips and is just a looker. I feel myself getting an interesting crush on him. The crush a presently lezzed-out mother might get on her adorable fag sperm donor
We discuss where Quentin should go to pleasure himself. My bathroom is right off my bedroom; it seemed the kitchen at the other end of the house would give him the most privacy. I escort him into the small, brightly-lit room. It has been a hectic day, and my sink is full of dishes. That’s not sexy. Two cat bowls sit on the floor; I move them into the other room, leaving a scatter of kibble on the linoleum. Mariah Carey is on my iTunes and Dashiell’s Facebook page is open on my computer.
“Um, do whatever you want,” I gesture. “You know, watch porn or whatever.”
I feel sort of bad presuming Quentin watches porn. Though he is not just a fag, but a drag queen -- a famously depraved segment of the population -- there is something very wholesome about Quentin. Those big eyes, and how he works on political campaigns. I can’t imagine him snorting a line or huffing a bottle of poppers backstage at the drag club.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Quentin keeps saying, like he doesn’t want to put me out even though he was doing me the biggest favor ever!
Rhonda talks about what her old roommates did for their donors when they tried to get pregnant:
“They set up this man-brothel in the living room, with tapestries and candles and incense, and the donor brought his boyfriend over and they made sweet love on rose petals, by candlelight.”
I listen to Rhonda with horror. She looks at me, then at Quentin, then at the cat food on the floor.
“Oh, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that, huh?”
Back in my bed, I lay my hips upon a stack of pillows. Rhonda is wearing latex gloves. Like all lesbian-ish people, I have a giant unused box of latex gloves in my sex toy box, just to show that I’ve made the effort.
I give a couple to Rhonda, and we chit-chat until Quentin yells, “Rhonda!” from the other room, and in a panic Rhonda leaps from the bed and slippery-slides out of my bedroom and into the kitchen. She returns holding the warm bowl, nestled in a dish towel.
“Okay, okay, okay, okay,” She is chanting. I hold the bowl while she draws the sperm up into the syringe.
“Is it working?” I ask nervously. “Yeah, yeah,” She is focused on the bowl with Scorpio-grade concentration. “I just want to get it all.”
“Yeah, yeah, get it all!” I cheer.
Both of our hearts are pounding. I lie back, put my legs in the air, and offer my bestie my vagina. It’s not like I haven’t seen her vagina. We shared a hotel room for a solid month on a performance tour, and Rhonda slept Porky Pig style the whole time (T-shirt on top, naked on the bottom.)
Once she answered the door bucknaked, just for kicks.
“Sorry,” I said, apologizing for her having to see my genitalia like this.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she says, carefully inserting the syringe.
“I’m fine!” I chirp. My vag is so tough! She pushes the plunger.
“We did it!” She cheers.
“Yay!” I holler. There is sperm inside me, that’s so weird! I swing my legs up in the air and keep them there for the next half hour.
“The whole drive over I was like, ‘I’m going to see Michelle’s vagina, I’m going to see Michelle’s vagina,’ preparing myself,” Rhonda says. “But then it wasn’t really a big deal.”
“Quentin, you can come in!” We yell to Quentin, who comes in. And thus begins our ritual: Quentin in the kitchen, his holler for Rhonda, loading the syringe, me spreading my legs, insertion, insemination, letting Quentin know the coast is clear, and then a sweet and slightly awkward hang out, my friends standing around my bed while I lay there with my legs in the air.
Eventually a cat will come sit on my vagina, which feels nice, like my vagina is a nest of eggs and the cat is the feathered creature keeping it warm. We giggle a lot, and there is an ebb and flow of shyness and blurting. It feels like we are doing something bright and special together.
Eventually my team leaves, Rhonda home to bed and Quentin to the Occupy camp downtown. I pull my gigantic Hitachi magic wand out from under my bed and give myself an orgasm. It’s supposed to help, though I think, If a lady needed to have an orgasm in order to get pregnant, there would be no people. Right?
Still, it’s always nice to have an orgasm.
I wrap myself up in my robe and drift to sleep smelling the smell of that jasmine on my nightstand. If I get pregnant, I think, I will press that jasmine and give it to my baby and we will always be able to smell a bit of the night they were conceived.
In Portland, Gertrude is scandalized and delighted that I will have the sperm of two different men dukeing it out in my womb.
“But how will you know who the father is?” She asks.
“We’ll go on Maury Povitch!” I imagine Quentin strutting on stage as Miss Super Extra Deluxe Pandemonium, and the crowd going bonkers.
I have my practical, procreative rendezvous with Gertrude’s friend, and when I get a positive pee stick the next morning I am relieved another round isn’t necessary. It is too awkward to have utilitarian sex with a stranger, even for a higher purpose!
I feel unexpectedly connected to Quentin, invested in him being the donor, in having a little baby drag queen with a full beard and political convictions. It’s so Weetzie Bat!
And mostly I just don’t want to have sex with anyone but Dashiell.
Before I left town, I had told Dashiell, “I’m not dating anybody else. Just so you know.”
I needed her to understand that the scheduled fornication was not a date, and that there were no other dates. I wanted her to know everything.
“Why would I date anybody else?” he said, and kissed me.
Next Week: Dark humor!