Chapter Eight, Part Two: Shots and Loads
[NOTE: This is Part Two of Chapter Eight. If you haven't yet read Part One, please do so first, or you will be missing some context. Also, though not vulgar, this piece includes mature content and may not be suitable for some audiences. You have been warned.]
The night before our first insemination, I administer the ovu-shot, in about as unmanly a fashion as is conceivable. I flinch. I grimace. I forget completely that my wife has no sensation where I’m sticking her. I’m really not that good at this body stuff and I, once again, realize I made the right choice in not being smart enough for med school.
On the morning of our artificial sex, we get up early and I grab the specimen cup I was given at our previous visit to the office. It still seems unfairly large, but I begin to wonder if maybe this is on purpose – something like having a big target. My wife’s already staked her claim to the bathroom so I have the bedroom all to myself. I have a bit of practice at this, so I don’t expect it to be a problem, but am surprised at how difficult it is to get into a rhythm under the circumstances. I finally find the mood when my wife calls out with a schoolgirl giggle, “I can hear you breathing heavy.” Zap – mood gone.
I’ve always considered myself to be a kind of Jedi Master(bater), but this is proving to be trickier than raising an X-Wing from a Dagoba swamp. I look at the clock. Bad idea. Now I’m under pressure to be quick as well as quiet. Not things I usually find difficult, but I’m also not usually trying to be either. I get up and close the bedroom door. I can hear my wife’s disappointed frown, but this needs to be done. Concentrate Deaniel-san – wax on, wax off. Things finally start to get going when I suddenly have a paranoid fantasy of her walking in and startling me, causing me to miss the cup and send my “collection” willy-nilly around the room. Okay. Start over. Breathe. Let muscle memory do its thing. Finally, I relax enough to do the deed, and we get out the door only a few minutes late.
We make it to the office on time and I drop off my cup to the lab tech in charge of handling the collections (whom I have secretly dubbed “Sir Sperm”) for a sperm-bath. This is a process where he harvests the cream of the cock – I mean, crop – for insemination. It’s like Darwinian theory in action I guess: only the strong survive to get the girl. As I hand over my cup, it occurs to me that this guy has a really lousy job. I mean the smell alone. Ick. But he accepts my cup of man-bait with grace and poise and tells me it will be ready in an hour.
My wife and I head across the street for breakfast and return at the appointed time. We’re ushered into a room: table, stirrups, we’re getting used to the drill. Dr. VaJayjay comes in with the standard smile and asks us if we’re ready. We say we are and he takes a small syringe from a table, presenting it to us to verify that it has our names on it. Presumably this is to reassure us that the DNA inside is mine. However, the thought that they might accidentally squirt someone else’s stuff into my wife hasn’t occurred to me until now, and I kind of wish it never had. I mean, really all they have is handwriting. I decide I need to be much nicer to Sir Sperm. Maybe buy him some chocolates or something. Certainly don’t ever refer to him as “Sir Sperm” out loud.
Dr. VaJayjay takes his position, grabs a speculum and the syringe and starts feeding it into my wife. Though I don’t watch this time, I can’t help but notice how small the syringe is. I always thought it would be more Turkey-baster-y, and actually find myself feeling somewhat inadequate that the syringe holding my manhood is so small. Maybe I’m stupid in this way and it's just delusions of porndom, but even in Artificial Insemination I think I should be well-endowed.
It’s in, it’s out, it’s over. Dr. VaJayjay tells my wife to lay there for 10 minutes so that she can, I don’t know, steep or something. He leaves us alone and we stare at each other, wondering if this is it. Somewhere inside of her, a part of me is racing to a part of her in order to combine into a whole other person. I crawl up beside her on the little exam table and place my hand on her belly.
Swim, fellas, swim.
Up Next… Baby Maybe?