tells her.
“No,” she says. “But we have to promise we’ll laugh. Even at the lowest point.”
“We haven’t had the lowest point already?”
“I hope so. Are you sure about the sexy French maid outfit?” She winks at him. “Ooh la la.”
***
The morning he’s supposed to deliver the specimen, he goes into the bathroom with the plastic cup, sits on the side of the tub. Who should he think about? Laurie? He closes his eyes. He remembers watching her take a shower, unaware he’s come into the bathroom. She rubs soap up and down her arms, across her chest, under her breasts. She’s smiling, unselfconscious. She might be singing. He tries to hear the words, but he can’t make them out. Smooth and white and soapy, her body is as attractive as it was when they met. Maybe more attractive.
He opens his eyes and remembers hearing Laurie crying in the bathroom after the first miscarriage. Or was it the second? He’s not sure.
He doesn’t want to do this, be alone in a bathroom with a vial and a ridiculous job to do. But there’s no way around it. It might be easier if he doesn’t think about Laurie—not that he doesn’t find her desirable. She’s the most desirable woman he knows. But if he thinks of her, he’ll see the pain in her eyes. He needs someone more anonymous. Neutral. If he could track down a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, that could work. There’s probably one in the house. Or the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. He likes how they paint suits on the models. He imagines having a job like that, trying to carefully maneuver a brush around a nipple.
Just when he’s considering going out to the den, something slides under the bathroom door. A Maxim magazine with Jessica Alba on the cover. When he looks more closely, he can see Laurie has stuck a photo of her own face on Jessica Alba’s body. From behind the door, he can hear Laurie laughing.
“Not funny,” he calls out to her. “I’m taking this seriously.”
Her laughter trails off down the hallway.
***
It’s good she’s laughing now. But suppose they have a serious problem? He originally assumed the miscarriages were related to Laurie, but the problem could be his. What will they find in his sperm? He’s got to have enough. Millions, right? And at least his sperm was okay before; it’s not as if he’s shooting blanks.
But there could be something inside his sperm that doesn’t work or isn’t compatible with Laurie. He’s heard about complications with antibodies. Is that what this is about? And the solution will be something easy, like taking vitamins—or having more sex.
Suppose he has bad antibodies and needs to have some kind of penis surgery? Something involving a glass tube they stick up your dick. And pull-y things they put on your balls. And the worst part—to do it right, they can’t use anesthesia.
What happens if he finds out his sperm count is five ? And his motility is zero? There’s no way he could have impregnated Laurie. So the first two pregnancies—Dr. God will shake his head at Alan and say like Maury Povich, “Clearly you were not the father.”
***
A knock on the door. “Need another magazine?”
He looks down at the Maxim and realizes he’s been reading an article on “Motorcycle Mayhem.”
“No, I’m fine,” he says.
“They’re not going to find anything, you know,” Laurie tells him. “But we still have to do it.”
She’s right. And he’s a moron for letting his imagination run away to nutso land. Everything is going to work out. They’re young; they have an excellent fertility doctor. Alan has Laurie, his best friend.
“I’m lucky to have you,” he calls out to her.
“You bet you are.”
He hopes she’ll still love him when she finds out about his zero motility, bad antibody sperm.
Laurie taps on the door again. “Hey, Mr. Lucky,” she says. “I could put on my sexy black corset. Maybe find a riding crop.” She lowers her voice. Says in a husky whisper, “Have
“No,” she says. “But we have to promise we’ll laugh. Even at the lowest point.”
“We haven’t had the lowest point already?”
“I hope so. Are you sure about the sexy French maid outfit?” She winks at him. “Ooh la la.”
***
The morning he’s supposed to deliver the specimen, he goes into the bathroom with the plastic cup, sits on the side of the tub. Who should he think about? Laurie? He closes his eyes. He remembers watching her take a shower, unaware he’s come into the bathroom. She rubs soap up and down her arms, across her chest, under her breasts. She’s smiling, unselfconscious. She might be singing. He tries to hear the words, but he can’t make them out. Smooth and white and soapy, her body is as attractive as it was when they met. Maybe more attractive.
He opens his eyes and remembers hearing Laurie crying in the bathroom after the first miscarriage. Or was it the second? He’s not sure.
He doesn’t want to do this, be alone in a bathroom with a vial and a ridiculous job to do. But there’s no way around it. It might be easier if he doesn’t think about Laurie—not that he doesn’t find her desirable. She’s the most desirable woman he knows. But if he thinks of her, he’ll see the pain in her eyes. He needs someone more anonymous. Neutral. If he could track down a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, that could work. There’s probably one in the house. Or the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. He likes how they paint suits on the models. He imagines having a job like that, trying to carefully maneuver a brush around a nipple.
Just when he’s considering going out to the den, something slides under the bathroom door. A Maxim magazine with Jessica Alba on the cover. When he looks more closely, he can see Laurie has stuck a photo of her own face on Jessica Alba’s body. From behind the door, he can hear Laurie laughing.
“Not funny,” he calls out to her. “I’m taking this seriously.”
Her laughter trails off down the hallway.
***
It’s good she’s laughing now. But suppose they have a serious problem? He originally assumed the miscarriages were related to Laurie, but the problem could be his. What will they find in his sperm? He’s got to have enough. Millions, right? And at least his sperm was okay before; it’s not as if he’s shooting blanks.
But there could be something inside his sperm that doesn’t work or isn’t compatible with Laurie. He’s heard about complications with antibodies. Is that what this is about? And the solution will be something easy, like taking vitamins—or having more sex.
Suppose he has bad antibodies and needs to have some kind of penis surgery? Something involving a glass tube they stick up your dick. And pull-y things they put on your balls. And the worst part—to do it right, they can’t use anesthesia.
What happens if he finds out his sperm count is five ? And his motility is zero? There’s no way he could have impregnated Laurie. So the first two pregnancies—Dr. God will shake his head at Alan and say like Maury Povich, “Clearly you were not the father.”
***
A knock on the door. “Need another magazine?”
He looks down at the Maxim and realizes he’s been reading an article on “Motorcycle Mayhem.”
“No, I’m fine,” he says.
“They’re not going to find anything, you know,” Laurie tells him. “But we still have to do it.”
She’s right. And he’s a moron for letting his imagination run away to nutso land. Everything is going to work out. They’re young; they have an excellent fertility doctor. Alan has Laurie, his best friend.
“I’m lucky to have you,” he calls out to her.
“You bet you are.”
He hopes she’ll still love him when she finds out about his zero motility, bad antibody sperm.
Laurie taps on the door again. “Hey, Mr. Lucky,” she says. “I could put on my sexy black corset. Maybe find a riding crop.” She lowers her voice. Says in a husky whisper, “Have
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