More Than Sperm

At age 32 my friend Steve will give me his sperm. That is the pact we agreed upon almost two years ago during a two hour phone conversation. I remember it clearly, how I paced the beige and pink tiled floors while discussing the logistics of our flawless plan. And then I remember hanging up and feeling defeated, like I had been clobbered with twenty-something hammers for every year I had lived, single and childless. Not only could I not imagine creating a child atop a cold examination table where the only object being inserted would be a plastic catheter, but I also couldn’t imagine an amorous liaison with Steve as my feelings for him leaned toward the platonic, the brotherly, and the inconceivable. And the thought of relinquishing the search for Mr. Right to then wed in a quickie wedding and hope for the best a lá Jennifer Lopez was more than I could bear. So I decided to be bold, be a woman, and take matters into my own hands.

Just a few weeks ago – and less than five years to the donation – I started my new life as a woman. I found myself hoping for more than sperm as I sat in the little coffee shop of the Virgin Mega store across from Michael. We sat in black plastic chairs around a little round table. There were no coffee cups to sip from, no CD’s to listen to or discuss, just the nervousness that overwhelms during a first date. I immediately realized he wasn’t my type. His hair, gelled and spiked at the front, was too perfect. His slim fitted slacks were too pressed. And his black rimmed eye glasses were too cool. Yet still I felt a tingle, like we were meant to be joined, like Bacardi rum and coke - I being the former.

After a few “getting to know you" minutes, we decided to leave the coffee shop and walk over to Patsy’s, a little Italian American restaurant in Union Square, to eat lunch. The walk over was telling. He didn’t walk ahead of me, which screams I-will-beat-you-with-a-club-and-drag-you-to my-cave, or walk behind me, which pleads walk-all-over-me-I-am-yours-to-lead! But then there was the opening of the door. He didn’t hold it in a traditional and chivalrous manner, where the man actually rushes ahead and holds it open at a perfect 90-degree angle. But then again who does.

Michael and I were seated. We were across from one another again, a square table now between us. As we ate lunch, a cheese pizza pie for me and a salad and white bean soup for him, my agreement with Steve crept back into my mind. How could a man fill himself up on soap and salad? I thought. How could anyone? I pushed the negative thoughts aside and held on to the potential because he was cute enough, educated, had a job, was childless and woman less, and didn’t live with his momma. Because there was a chance my egg count was plummeting as the minutes passed, as we sat within the confines of that restaurant. Because you can’t drink Bacardi without coca cola! And then he looked at me and said:

“I really enjoy talking to you.”

I was taken aback, feeling guilt ridden at how much I had nitpicked, tore his slender limbs apart. I finally managed to form words and said:

“It’s really nice talking to you too. It’s easy.”

And I was speaking truthfully. Even though he was smaller than I preferred. Even though he lived in New York City and I lived in South Jersey. Even though he spoke of his tough financial status and harped on about the injustices of the world and the United States school system. I liked him. And I would give this a try. Yes, I would give this a try and even consider a long distance relationship. I would open myself up to the possibility of Michael, if only to attempt love again, if only to lessen the odds of marrying a Marc Anthony.