Jay was a gay teenager born without the filtration system that separates thoughts from statements. One day, as we were eating frosting packets from the local mall’s Cinnabon, I caught his eyes drifting toward my lower body. Fearing that Lake Oswego was about to lose its singular homosexual, I asked Jay why his eyes were burning a hole through my jeans. His index finger tapped my hips in disapproval.
“Ideally they’d be wider,” he said. “Your hips are too thin for childbirth. All I can picture is that scene from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory where that fat kid gets jammed in a pipe. The kid would have to be a fighter to get out of you—I mean, he’d have to really want it.”
“What gives? Here we were having a perfectly nice discussion about why Showgirls works as both a comedy and a drama, and you pull a reproductive analysis on my figure.”
“Sorry,” he said. “But I’ve got babies on the brain.”
“We’re in high school. Lifetime makes movies about that kind of teenager.”
“I don’t want one this instant,” he said. “But now that I’m fifty percent sure that I’m gay, I can’t help thinking about the future. I’ve always wanted kids. Lots of them if they’re on the quiet side. But being gay, well…I’m freaked out that I won’t have any options.”
“Sure you will. Adoption.”
He shook his head. “That’s like picking an Oreo off the ground—you don’t know where it’s been. And what if the kid’s estranged dad is the Oakland Strangler? I wouldn’t know it until he’s fifteen and watches his first Quentin Tarantino movie, and then strangles me with dental floss in my sleep.”
I set down my packet of frosting and stared at him, unblinking.
“Here’s the deal,” Jay said. “You’re good breeding stock Courtney. Good skin. Nice hair. Aesthetically pleasing eyes. So I’d like you to be my mare.” He leaned forward and clasped my hand. “Ten years from now, I want you to have my baby. We’ll use a turkey baster so I won’t have to deal with your icky parts, and then nine months later you’ll give me a beautiful child.”
“There are several offensive aspects of what you just said, but let’s focus on this for now: I don’t want to have my own kids. So why would I want to go through—”
“You probably won’t have to,” Jay said. “I’m pretty sure that by the time I want kids, science will have figured out a way for two men to reproduce. But I need an insurance policy, you know?”
“I still think this is really—”
“I’ll poke holes in your condoms.”
“I said it would mean a lot to me if you agreed to it.”
I stared into the frightened eyes of a teenager with a Spice Girls t-shirt and frosting on his nose.
“I’ll buy you a diet Coke,” he said.
I could see Jay’s eyes traveling forward through time to Barbara Streisand family sing alongs and his son’s first ballet recital. I couldn’t take that away from him.
“Okay,” I said. “But I want the soda upfront.”
I think Jay has since warmed to the idea of adoption, as it’s been ten years and he has yet to come for my womb in the night. I’d love to be the warm, compassionate baby oven that blesses a friend with a little miracle of nature. But sadly, I’m also the girl that isn’t dying to hold your baby or hear all about the cute names your child created for his poop. And I’m the girl that doesn’t want to feel something shift sharply inside her, administering “love kicks” until it gets tired of simply making me vomit daily and decides to turn one of my favorite body parts into a leisurely gopher tunnel. Ungenerous? Sure. But if you’re appalled by my refusal to be an oven for someone else’s bread, then know that I’ve got a perfectly legitimate out: My diet Coke was flat.
Courtney Bee's articles on sex and relationships have appeared in Hustler, Playgirl, and numerous adult books. On ellorascave.com she's the bestselling author of Athima, an erotic novella, and a contributor to the new X-rated anthology Flavors of Ecstasy III. She's also a top-ranked sex columnist on examiner.com, where she betrays her prim Catholic upbringing on a daily basis.