But if it helps to know, we haven’t just been going around wildly I can see how there would have been a misunderstanding.” After a moment: “Of course I will respect any disinclination you feel.
And most of the time it just means they had fun hanging out.” Which is a thing that gay men say to me frequently, these days, to be honest. “We were wasted and I was jamming him into a cab and he said we’d have beautiful babies if we had babies. “You and Kevin didn’t…? You didn’t have a wee chat?”
come up, so I thought perhaps you might have guessed what I wanted to talk to you about?”
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But when Jerome is anxious, like now, the orchestral force of his full accent seeps back in. In the days before Kevin, it used to make the boys go crazy. His Northern Irish accent is much softer than it was in college: lilting but with far fewer layers. “I realize it’s something that you probably need to think about,” he adds. When my silence stretches out, Jerome gets nervous. Kevin is a former dancer his sperm would be very agile. I imagine-briefly, convulsively-my eggs clasping hands with Kevin’s sperm. interact.” He makes a gesture with both hands, like a vague handshake. But we’ve been learning quite a bit about IVF, and there appear to be a multitude of ways in which your eggs and Kevin’s sperm could. “Although Kevin is bisexual, as you’ll recall, if that would appeal to either of you. We’re perched at the end of a swanky bar, and Jerome is starting his second martini when he pops the question he’s been building up to all evening: namely, whether I will have a child with his husband. You can call the cops to get your friend out of his garage, but he’ll just finish the job a month later. What I know is that when I imagine being responsible for a life, I think: no human can really protect any other human. But I have used up my penchant for unconditionality. Something that suggests a higher level of evolution. There is something beautiful in that, admittedly. Unconditional sacrifice, unconditional acceptance as everything you cherished about your life falls to pieces. Parenthood, I have observed, is the practice of ultimate unconditionality. They always tell me that they wouldn’t trade their children for anything, but then in the next breath, they admit that they haven’t slept in seventeen months and their marriages are disintegrating. In the past few years, the people I know have begun producing babies and vanishing into wormholes of diapers, mucus, and misery. I find it calming to go back to my apartment at night and never once worry about their happiness or their safety. Their apartments are landscaped with simple but sophisticated furniture from non-Ikea sources they have therapists, and refer to them casually, in passing. No revelations that veer into the uncomfortably personal, no cries de coeur that are incandescent with self-loathing.
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Over the past decade, I’ve made a series of new acquaintances: calm and pragmatic people who have reasonable conversations during which we weigh both sides and make a determination. Not sure whether he wanted to be saved or whether he remembered how rarely I checked voicemail, but the cops retrieved him from his parents’ garage nonetheless. I called cops in another state once, for a friend who left me a goodbye voicemail and then tried to hang himself. But it was the same with my friends: the phone calls late at night, trips to the ER, razors and guns and pills and nooses. I was a camp counselor for young teens for two of those summers, and that may have explained some of it: all the precocious kids away from home for the first time, imploding. The summer I turned eighteen, everybody I knew started trying to kill themselves and didn’t stop until we were all twenty-four or twenty-five. The idea of keeping a child alive baffles me.