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Bringing Up Gayby

On Valentines Day my boyfriend tells me he cant ejaculate -- not with me, at least. Sorry, says Bam. Im saving it for the sperm bank. Excuse me? The appointment is all organized, he continues with blithe indifference. The lesbian is about to ovulate. Blech. Spare me the science fiction. Its not the most romantic gesture in the world when your boyfriend leaves you on Valentines Day to go drop a full load at the sperm bank for a pair of lesbians hot for his genes, but he made this Faustian bargain long before we met. As potential padre to an artificially inseminated gayby -- for whom the lesbians will be primary caregivers -- Bam wouldnt have any legal rights or responsibilities. He wants only minimal involvement. He promised it would never affect our relationship. Liar. Didnt he get the memo? Gays get a pass on parenthood. Botox, not babies! If Bam does (gulp) become a father, I worry he could shift his focus to the future of the species. He may start caring aboutglobal warming. Heaven forbid, but evidence suggests he is not alone. Designer children threaten to surpass handbags as the must-have gay accessory. At a recent party on the Upper East Side a well-to-do gay couple showed off their prize possessions: fertility clinicpurchased, surrogate-sponsored twin girls who scampered about in matching white fur coats. Shockingly, 70% of gays polled that night thought they were adorable and not atrocious. They were of course referring to the fur coats, not the twins, but still: The gayby phenomenon cannot be ignored. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes... I dont think so. After several attempts, Bam saw no stork in sight. Nature was against him. I figured he was shooting blanks. I figured I was safe. So on that fateful day, when I heard the words The lesbian is pregnant, I accidentally on purpose broke a plate. Baby-daddy Bam was surprised I didnt jump for his bundle of joy. He thought Id get excited about becoming an auntie or uncle or step...what? This hot potato isnt supposed to be here. My boyfriend used his penis for reproductive purposes? In all my gay life I never could have predicted that one, and although I usually appreciate unpredictability, this time I am not above fantasizing about a hapless zygote swirling down the toilet. I smell competition. I see myself violently mowed down by a giant menacing bloodthirsty stroller. Suffice it to say, I do not rapidly progress through the five stages of grief. If youre having a gayby, Im going to have a gayby, I threaten Bam, with a baster in hand. And Ill tell my gayby to beat up your gayby! He looks at me like Im the absurd one. What kind of world do you live in? he scoffs. What kind of world? A diaper-free world. And if he really wants to know, I live in a place of arrested development, so who needs a newborn? Im just as immature and 10 times the fun. The real fiasco is that life goes on without me. I will shrivel and wilt, and his unborn child represents those who will watch that horror happen in slow motion. I am 100% recyclable, and this is not a pretty thought. It is not a thought Im yet content to entertain. Gays having children could be a fad. It could also be a way to fit in with the masses, a shunning of the rugged outback for safety in urban numbers. Theres got to be an explanation. Homosexual breeder is an oxymoron. Gays dont reproduce -- its what separates us from the animals. Or is that just the logic they prefer us to use? Perhaps this kind of thinking is our society attempting to dictate and define exactly how we have to lead our lives. Do I rail against procreation because Im homosexual, or am I homosexual because I rail against procreation? Having broken free of one box to live openly, it doesnt make sense to crawl into a smaller one. Nobody has to live by a label. There are those among us who genuinely want to nurture children in a loving, supportive environment, and that shouldnt bother me. Bam will be both gay and a parent -- its life outside the box. But no baby is going to put me in the corner. I doubt Ill make a very good aunt or uncle or step-whatever, but something tells me I might make a great playmate. Well have so much in common. Find Jesse at Send a letter to the editor about this article.
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Jesse Archer