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“Good, and you didn’t answer my question before about what you’ve been doing,” she reminds me.
“Mostly just online research,” I reply vaguely, hoping I don’t sound as nervous as I feel.
“Research about what?”
I swallow hard, then, trying to sound casual, answer: “Sperm banks.”
For a moment, there’s nothing, Cassidy falling so silent that I’m almost unsure she’s still on the line. “Cass?”
“I’m still here, that’s just…um, that’s kind of major. And seems like maybe not the best thing to be considering after a big emotional shakeup?” she says hesitantly, in a gentle sort of “talking down the crazy person” tone.
“I know, I know, I promise you I thought about that,” I assure her, “And you know me, you know I think everything through to death.”
“That’s true. And you did just say you’ve been doing research, not that you went to some stranger’s house and got him to shove a turkey baster full of his jizz up your cooch or something,” she admitted.
I grimace. “Gee, you don’t have to make it sound so glamorous,” I deadpan.
“Well, I mean, a legit place wouldn’t use a turkey baster, but is the rest not true? Are you not considering letting someone put a stranger’s spunk up your lady bits?”
Gross, maybe, but she’s not wrong. “Is this you trying to talk me out of it?”
I know Cassidy herself doesn’t particularly want kids, but she’s known since we were teenagers how badly I do. But I also understand her hesitance. “Maybe a little. It just seems kind of…hasty. You’re only twenty-six, Mars.”
I smile a bit at the nickname. When we were around fifteen, one of our friends, Steven, had once complained that there wasn’t a good nickname for my name, and Andrei had blurted out “Mars” without a second thought. We’d spent the rest of the afternoon jokingly assigning everyone their own space-themed nicknames, but mine was the only one that stuck.
“You might still find someone,” Cassidy continues.
“I’m not sure I want to, Cass,” I sigh, “I mean, I’ve been reading all these other stories of women doing this alone, and a lot of them weren’t even in as good a position to do so as I am.”
I go on to explain my own reasoning, my job and my supportive boss, and share a few of the anecdotes of women who’d raised amazing kids with less. “They say there’s never a good time, but honestly? I feel like this is the perfect time for me,” I tell her, “I want to be a mom, Cass, and I don’t want to wait for some possible someday where I might have the right man in my life, you know? That doesn’t happen for everyone.”
Cassidy is quiet for a long moment. “I get it,” she sighs finally, “And you don’t sound half as crazy as I expected. You’ve really been giving this some serious, rational thought.”
“I really have,” I agree.
Before I can stop myself, I make a confession. “Although I did have one totally harebrained thought,” I tell her, “I was thinking instead of going through a bank, maybe I could just ask Corey and Andrei.”
Cassidy laughs. “Ok, now that sounds crazy.”
“I mean, it’s not the most insane thing I’ve ever thought of,” I hedge, “They’re young, healthy guys, right? And wouldn’t that be less weird than, as you describe it, ‘stranger spunk’?”
“I mean…maybe it’s slightly less weird than a stranger, but maybe it’s weirder, I’m not sure. I feel like I’d have a hard time looking them in the eye the same way.”
“I thought maybe if they want kids, maybe they could do this for me and I could be their surrogate somewhere down the line,” I added.
“Yeah, because those are totally equal gestures,” she snorts, “Jacking off in a cup versus hosting a second human in your uterus for nine months? And wait, hang on, you said it was a passing harebrained thought, but this almost sounds like you had some kind of plan to make them an actual offer.”
I fall silent. The reality was that I’d been all set to make a decision and contact one of the sperm banks today, but now, suddenly, I was unsure. The idea had latched onto my brain and wouldn’t let go.
“Mars,” Cassidy probes, “Are you telling me you’re actually planning on asking Corey or Andrei to be your sperm donor?”
“I’m considering it,” I admit.
“And you don’t think that might possibly put a wrench into your friendships with them?” she asks, “I mean, suddenly you’re not just friends, you have a kid together.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that if they don’t want it to be,” I say, “If they don’t want to be involved, they don’t have to.”
“And what’s going to happen if your kid pops out the spitting image of one of them? How are you going to explain to them why they look just like ‘Uncle’ Corey?”
