Bess, “but Borden wants too much sex.”
Robin looked at her pocket cards. “So gorgeous Borden is wildly attracted to you after many years of marriage,” she said. “I can see how hard that must be for you.”
Bess said, “I think he’s got a compulsion, seriously. I get sore!”
“Tragic,” said Robin.
“The thing is, I think he wants another baby,” said Bess. “I’m forty years old. Four kids is more than enough. I can’t bear another pregnancy.” She paused, looking around the table at their unsympathetic faces. “This is a real problem. We fight about it!”
Carla turned over her cards and said, “Four of a kind. I assume I win?” The others checked and nodded. Looking at Bess, she said, “By the age of forty, you must have heard of a little thing we folk in the medical profession call
birth control
?”
Robin snorted. “How about what we folk at the singles table call a
blow job
? Or a hand job? Or anal sex?”
Alicia said,
“Eww.”
“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” said Robin.
“I have a diaphragm,” countered Bess. “If I went on the pill, I’d be withholding vital information from my husband. It’d be a little lie, every day. Don’t you think that’s wrong?”
Crickets.
“Go on the pill until menopause, and then you’re done,” said Robin. “So what if it’s a deception? It’s your body. Pregnancy is your decision. I’m sure your feminist mom would agree.”
At the mention of Bess’s mother, the formidable Simone Gertrude,Bess’s blue eyes got two shades darker. Robin sensed that she’d stepped on a toe; she quickly gathered up the cards, and started shuffling loudly.
“My turn to deal, and talk,” Robin announced while flipping out cards to each woman. “Since we’re on the husband theme tonight, and since I don’t happen to have one, I’m going to tell the true story of how I got pregnant with Stephanie.”
The three other women ignored their cards, and leaned forward in their chairs, their full attention on Robin, their anticipation palpable.
Robin said, “I see you’ve been curious.”
Alicia said, “Only a lot.”
“I usually tell people one of two stories,” said Robin, placing five cards faceup in the middle of the table. “Story one is from an old
New York
magazine article about a single woman going into a sperm bank, the name of her doctor, the money, the hormone shots. You give people a few specific details, they’ll believe a total fiction. The other story is that I went on vacation to Quebec and had a fling with a French Canadian named Jacques. I never knew his last name. I had no way of contacting him. I didn’t even know I was pregnant until I’d been back in the city for two months. Again, the lie had just enough truth to be believable. I had been to Quebec, and could mention my hotel name, the park where Jacques and I met, where we had a romantic dinner. There was no Jacques. I described the concierge at the hotel, if need be.”
Robin checked the women’s reaction thus far. Carla seemed appalled. Alicia was expectant. Bess appeared frankly fascinated. It occurred to Robin that this wasn’t really a diversity meeting. Or a card game. It was grown-up storytime. Women needed stories. More than food and sex, maybe.
“Okay,” continued Robin. “The
true
story, which I haven’t told anyone, except my therapist, starts on New Year’s Eve, 1999. The eve of the millennium. I was single, of course. A three hundred and forty pound woman who rarely left her apartment? Who was I going to meet? I’d been making Zogby calls all day—even on New Year’s Eve.That year, the big night was on a Friday, and most people were too busy to talk. I must’ve placed a hundred calls, but did only a dozen interviews. The question of the day was timely. Something like, ‘Do you feel you’ll be better off in the New Year?’ I called one number and the woman who answered the phone asked, ‘Don’t you have somewhere to be?’ and
Robin looked at her pocket cards. “So gorgeous Borden is wildly attracted to you after many years of marriage,” she said. “I can see how hard that must be for you.”
Bess said, “I think he’s got a compulsion, seriously. I get sore!”
“Tragic,” said Robin.
“The thing is, I think he wants another baby,” said Bess. “I’m forty years old. Four kids is more than enough. I can’t bear another pregnancy.” She paused, looking around the table at their unsympathetic faces. “This is a real problem. We fight about it!”
Carla turned over her cards and said, “Four of a kind. I assume I win?” The others checked and nodded. Looking at Bess, she said, “By the age of forty, you must have heard of a little thing we folk in the medical profession call
birth control
?”
Robin snorted. “How about what we folk at the singles table call a
blow job
? Or a hand job? Or anal sex?”
Alicia said,
“Eww.”
“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” said Robin.
“I have a diaphragm,” countered Bess. “If I went on the pill, I’d be withholding vital information from my husband. It’d be a little lie, every day. Don’t you think that’s wrong?”
Crickets.
“Go on the pill until menopause, and then you’re done,” said Robin. “So what if it’s a deception? It’s your body. Pregnancy is your decision. I’m sure your feminist mom would agree.”
At the mention of Bess’s mother, the formidable Simone Gertrude,Bess’s blue eyes got two shades darker. Robin sensed that she’d stepped on a toe; she quickly gathered up the cards, and started shuffling loudly.
“My turn to deal, and talk,” Robin announced while flipping out cards to each woman. “Since we’re on the husband theme tonight, and since I don’t happen to have one, I’m going to tell the true story of how I got pregnant with Stephanie.”
The three other women ignored their cards, and leaned forward in their chairs, their full attention on Robin, their anticipation palpable.
Robin said, “I see you’ve been curious.”
Alicia said, “Only a lot.”
“I usually tell people one of two stories,” said Robin, placing five cards faceup in the middle of the table. “Story one is from an old
New York
magazine article about a single woman going into a sperm bank, the name of her doctor, the money, the hormone shots. You give people a few specific details, they’ll believe a total fiction. The other story is that I went on vacation to Quebec and had a fling with a French Canadian named Jacques. I never knew his last name. I had no way of contacting him. I didn’t even know I was pregnant until I’d been back in the city for two months. Again, the lie had just enough truth to be believable. I had been to Quebec, and could mention my hotel name, the park where Jacques and I met, where we had a romantic dinner. There was no Jacques. I described the concierge at the hotel, if need be.”
Robin checked the women’s reaction thus far. Carla seemed appalled. Alicia was expectant. Bess appeared frankly fascinated. It occurred to Robin that this wasn’t really a diversity meeting. Or a card game. It was grown-up storytime. Women needed stories. More than food and sex, maybe.
“Okay,” continued Robin. “The
true
story, which I haven’t told anyone, except my therapist, starts on New Year’s Eve, 1999. The eve of the millennium. I was single, of course. A three hundred and forty pound woman who rarely left her apartment? Who was I going to meet? I’d been making Zogby calls all day—even on New Year’s Eve.That year, the big night was on a Friday, and most people were too busy to talk. I must’ve placed a hundred calls, but did only a dozen interviews. The question of the day was timely. Something like, ‘Do you feel you’ll be better off in the New Year?’ I called one number and the woman who answered the phone asked, ‘Don’t you have somewhere to be?’ and
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