We can't get enough!
And neither can the sperm examination clinic!
On the fertility road, one comes upon the lovely
opportunity to deposit ones sperm in a little plastic container.
The honor became that of The Beloved just the other day.
Leading up to this I had somewhat horrifying images
of Porno Room in my head, and asked Beloved if he
would mind my going along to Help Out.
"Because you don't want me dealing with porn?"
"Because I don't want you dealing with porn."
I love The Beloved.
Much like his name might suggest.
Planning consisted of me tossing around super-sexed
images of myself performing all sorts of things
to make this the experience of Beloveds medical life.
Added to this was that Beloved was not allowed
to ejaculate for 4 days leading up to said event.
4 release free days for Beloved is an Awful Eternity.
Plus, it was during one of his vacation weeks,
a time where we indulge my favorite time
of day for sex: afternoon hot love time.
(let it be noted that The Cat is yelling at
me for no known reason while I write this.
Beloved was particularly generous in the
days leading up, and indulged in much
Tantric sex stuff...quite unusual for his
viewpoint on sex...and very, very intimate
So I wanted fireworks for his payoff.
I mean, how often do you get to bonk
in a doctor's office.
O Dear Reader.
How foolish we are when we think
we can control the Universe.
Beloved ended up getting his first case
of "blue balls," a term which turns
my stomach...and for which there is
no term in French.
The morning arrived.
I showered, dressed appropriately with my
favorite black boots. However, nothing
else beyond the professional. I didn't want
to be a sideshow.
I expected there to be a herd of couples
waiting to expel their accompanying millions
of sperm in the waiting room. This would be
a particularly dangerous situation for me were
we in the US, since I would not be able to resist
pouring on the vulgar jokes in idle chit chat
with the other couples....but in French, my humor,
and theirs, is limited. So Beloved was safe
from that sort of embarrassment.
I was also afraid that the nurses would not let
me into the Rocket Release Cabin with Beloved.
I intended not to ask, and to just stride my 5'10"
self past them, staring them down should I be stopped.
But of course, see above Universe comment.
Let it be said that I was more nervous for
Beloved's sperm deposit than for any other medical
procedure in my life. And it wasn't even MY procedure!
The waiting room was empty.
It seems that the French are quite discreet in this arena.
All couples are timed to be alone in the waiting room.
We filled out paper work and the nurses did not
at all seem surprised to see me with Beloved.
Then a nurse took us into the Rocket Room.
She seemed to take it for granted that I was coming along.
A clean room with a little bed, a tv on the wall,
a side table with drawer, and, my absolute
favorite, a bed side lamp for ambiance.
I was ready for the home made porno moves!
I was going to Blow Beloved's Mind!!
The nurse then pointed to the adjoining
bathroom, and told us to follow the cleaning
I can tell you that Hydrochloric Acid
is a real hot sex mood killer.
Clean Penis with Water.
Then Clean Penis with Hydrochloric Acid.
Then Reclean with Sterile Water.
Beloved, complete with aching testicles,
looked positively forlorn.
While he cleaned up I peeked in the
drawer of the bedside cabinet to see
two sad looking skin magazines.
I then wondered which nurse picked out
the porno that was brimming in the VCR,
and wondered about then men who have
unusual taste...and how they would satisfy
the liquid quota in the face of what had
to be traditional and very unwild moving
images awaiting them.
Beloved plodded into the bedroom.
I washed my hands, since that was all
I could really, ahem, use.
I removed certain pieces of clothing...
and we then proceeded to have the very
least exciting sexual experience of our lives.
7 ml of sperm.
That's what they got of him.
Plus the pleasure of being Right Outside The Door
when we opened it to leave.
3 of them. Complete with smiles.
We passed by the next couple, I noted that the
youngish woman of the couple was dressed in a mini-skirt,
black sheer stockings, and very, very, very high heels
and wanted to rush to them and warn them:
It is never what you think!
That is what is needed in this experience,
that is the only thing that will leave you feeling
anything other than flat.
We had a coffee.
We did some shopping.
We went home.
And we celebrated the afternoon.
And then we celebrated again.
And, yes, then again.
Beloved is so cute and sexy
that I could just eat his little nose.
It is doubtful that I will publish this post,
as I am deeply uncomfortable about writing
even to myself when my life feels like it
is shutting down.
There is something of a strangulation
pattern going on in my relationship.
As you may know I had my third miscarriage
3 months ago. A miscarriage at 12 weeks
that stupidly took us by surprise.
Before the miscarriage, we were a couple
who went through tough periods and who
worked hard and felt stronger and stronger
all the time. The tough periods were well
interspersed with periods of joy and bliss
with a hat on. It all seemed very well
wrapped up in circumstances that most
couples would have a problem circumnavigating.
Since the miscarriage, we have been...
how should I say it?
I am not someone who shies away from
head to head suffering. I believe that I take
responsibility for my actions, examine my
thought and behavior patterns, and try to
change where I believe I should...and even
in places I believe I shouldn't just to try it out.
But I am very tired.
If relationship bullshit is tiring to you...
and boring.... and visual jokes amuse you...
check this out and be done with
me for today.
Therapy with Jane has been good.
Over here they only do couples therapy twice
a month. Which seems odd to me. But we seem
to leave her feeling positive and having learned.
In therapy Beloved has taken a lot of "clacks,"
as they say here. He has a lot of work to do.
This is expected seeing that he is 9 years my junior,
living with a person for the first time, and, of course,
He has been brave, owning up to his shit.
It is, it seems, easier for him to hear about it from
a wise old woman who makes a little bit of fun of him
than from me.
I have also been "guided." Which is fine
with me...that is why I am friggin' there.
We eat a pastry that we buy at the neighboring bakery.
We actually had 1. great. week. up until yesterday.
I felt my heart opening up to him and I felt in love
with him again.
But the miscarriage lives on under the surface.
It is not to be denied.
The first miscarriage, I cried and I cried.
The second, I cried and I cried.
The third...not so much of the crying.
Like, hardly any.
Wow, I thought. I'm doing pretty good.
I congratulated myself to Beloved.
We then proceeded to where we are now...
along an emotionally violent path...
"I think we should talk about the miscarriage"
I said, after one of our battles.
"What is there to talk about? You are
sad, I am sad, I can't do anything to fix
it, I feel helpless, I'm sure you feel helpless."
"No. I don't feel helpless"
"I feel like I deserve it. I feel like I will
never have a simple life when it comes to
my sexuality and reproductive system.
I feel this is because I am essentially a bad person.
That has to be the reason for all the sexual and emotional
abuse. And, I destroyed my ex-husband. There's that.
O. And three abortions along the way while I was
playing out all the fucked-upness about my childhood.
Yes. I am a bad person.".....said I.
Yesterday I had my second period since the miscarriage.
My period gets heavier with age (mine) and I feel
low, fat, ugly, and bloody.
Which is nice.
But Beloved was being lovely to me, joking
with me, making dinner, cuddling me.
Then a friend and her two boys dropped by.
The friend likes to argue with me...and I'm cool with that.
Beloved doesn't really like it when I argue with others.
But I had my period, and it was friendly arguing, so
I rolled with it.
Then her 8 year old asked me if
my baby died in my stomach.
So there was that.
On the table.
but, you know...
I handled that shit...
answered his questions,
and those of his brother,
about just about everything,
including how eggs age
and how they will be able
to make babies until their
The evening continued on.
Then they left.
Beloved reproached me for arguing.
I defended myself.
We sat down to eat.
I talked about how our friend,
who I really like, has a tendency to
push the conversation into very intimate
areas where, perhaps, her nose does
not belong (especially since we have
not known each other so long...).
**note: I am someone to whom the world
pours out their problems. When I meet
strangers it is almost gauranteed that I
will know throatloads of their personal
life within 3 hours. That is to say, I do
not shy away from deep and challanging
personal conversations. But I am sensitive
about it, and about when it is appropriate.
I postulated that perhaps this tendency
teaches her kids that they, too, can
say anything that pops into their heads
regardless of how personal.
Beloved pointed out that kids just
say shit. Which, of course, I know.
1) I don't know many kids who ask
people if their babies died in their stomach.
2) I do think that if one talks with ones
kids about a sensitive subject, such as the
miscarriage of a family friend, it would be
helpful to mention to the kids that perhaps
this is a subject to bring up carefully.
3) Hello! Do I not get at least a mini
"what what" for my smooth and careful
handling of the enormous pile of shit
that they dumped in front of me?
I said this to Beloved (except for #3)
and he said that people said all kinds
of stupid shit to him when I miscarried
("It's fine! She had a miscarriage already!")
and I pointed out that perhaps those
people need to be educated, if not with
a finely tuned baseball bat...at least
a verbal correction.
(like when my friend actually said to
me "don't worry, he can have a baby
with someone else". Yes. Really.
She said that. And she is 63! And
not at all an idiot!)
somehow things escalated very, very
quickly and all of a sudden I started
...and Beloved imitated my crying.
I can't even believe I wrote that down.
Who apparently loves me.
Imitated me crying.
I left the house.
I sat by the river and cried
and read Charlotte Bronte
(who, by the way, was a huge revolutionary
as far as women's rights)
I returned in an hour.
I took a shower.
I told him I wanted to be alone.
How can one accept an apology
for that sort of cruelty.
We did not sleep together
in our newly finished bedroom.
He slept on the couch.
I put myself in our old attic bedroom.
I cried on and off through the night.
So there we have it.
What does one do when faced
with such cruelty.
All I feel is that he must not love me.
Aren't you glad you dropped by to read that?