It is a Friday in July and all I can think about is sperm. As a child, I was told that if I drank enough milk each day, my bones would grow tall and strong. If I flossed between my teeth every morning and night, my gums would be healthy and cavities would be a stranger to me. Now I am all grown up and I do my best to eat well and take care of this body that is with me until I am gone. It should be no mystery or surprise to me that no matter how many pounds of spinach I eat or gallons of milk I drink each week, I will never produce sperm. I will not wake up one Wednesday in November and find that I have dripped sperm from inside me into my underwear. This will never happen. Because of this, and for several other reasons, I have become severely jealous of semen.
“We weren’t even trying and she’s due in December,” he said to me. My friend, who comes with his own sperm, has gotten his girlfriend pregnant. I want to feel excitement for this joyous, yet accidental, achievement. But all I feel is sadness.
I never use the pull out method. I thrust my clit as far as I can into my girlfriend’s vagina and leave it there allowing all my female juices to flow inside her. We do not use a condom and neither of us practice any forms of birth control. We are not careful. We have yet to engage in safe sex.
I try every time we have sex. I think about Tallulah with red, curly hair to match mine with big, blue eyes and freckles borrowed from my girlfriend’s genes. I think about going for walks with tiny Tallulah on my back as my girlfriend sings songs about fireflies or the ocean. I want to get her pregnant. I want sperm. I want to have an accidental baby. I want our cells to collide to create a new life with lungs and ribs and eyes and fingernails. So, what can I eat or how many sit-ups should I do each day or what types of vitamins must I be ingesting in order to make some sperm inside me? Tell me. Tell me. Please?
There was a time during my twenties when I decided to experiment with my sexuality. I dated a man. My mother was very confused. I must admit I was too. It was my first time emotionally and physically engaging with someone of the opposite sex. I worried people were going to stare at me when we kissed in public. No one ever did. This man that I dated came with his own sperm. I was slightly resentful, though never told him of this. He had so much power. We had sex together and yet, he always got to sign his name at the end. Sperm is like a fancy signature at the bottom of a really important document. I may have written most of the words, but he claimed it all as his own at the end.
It didn’t last very long because, well, I’m gay. But it was during this time that I got to experience what it was like to worry about becoming pregnant. During the course of our relationship, I must have purchased at least ten pregnancy tests. I always thought I was pregnant because we weren’t careful. Because he was allergic to latex and everything that condoms were apparently made from. Because maybe deep down I wanted to experience one of the many luxuries of being straight. I never got pregnant. We broke up and that was the last time my partner came with sperm. I haven’t experimented since.
I have a really good imagination. When I was younger, I had four imaginary friends: Chi-Chi, Lillian, LuLu, and Stanley. We played together in a world where trees lifted out of their roots and the sky could turn upside down and become a place where feet could walk. I still believe that if I want something bad enough, I will get it. I want sperm. It seems unfair to watch others around me get pregnant, sometimes deciding not to continue with it, while I stand beside my girlfriend on the sidelines.
There will always be a lot of planning involved. When, and if, we are ready, we will go shopping for sperm. Learn about the containers they came in and pick which one sounds best. Harvard education. Six feet tall. Blond hair. An artist. We decide. There will never be a night when I am beside my partner, limbs intricately tangled together, where we wonder if this is the time. We will never have an accident.
I’m still doing my research. Asking around. Searching for herbs to enter into my diet that may make my wish come true. We can practice, which can be fun and exciting, yet also realistic. I love being a woman. I value all my parts: my curves, breasts, thighs, hips, my clitoris, my uterus, my all-encompassing vagina. But, I’ll never get to make that announcement.
“We weren’t even trying and she’s due in December!”