The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(120)
“I love your crazy,” he said. “And you put up with mine.”
“I’m sorry, baby.”
He shushed her and pulled her close. “I know how important this is to you,” he whispered. “But please. Mel. My balls are under a microscope. Sometimes I need you to just take me to bed for…”
She picked up her head and managed a wobbly smile. “Just for your cock.”
“Well,” he said, looking up the ceiling. “Yeah. Kind of.”
She laughed then and put her hand on his face. “Come on. Upstairs. Leave your balls. Take the cannoli.”
“You’re adorable,” Erik said, pulling her by the hand.
“You can even pull out,” she said, following. “That’s how uninterested I am in your sperm tonight.”
“Oh, now you’re teasing.”
“Try me…”
Below the Belt
Mel tried hard to separate making love from making babies. But the gonadotropin injections were not helping Erik’s counts, and the doctors concluded he and Melanie would need high-tech assistance. Conventional insemination was ruled out. “Even with the artificial head start, your sperm will never make it to the fallopian tubes,” the doctor said.
“Thanks,” Erik muttered.
Overnight their life turned into acronyms. They jumped right over IVF—in vitro fertilization—to a procedure known as ICSI.
“Intracytoplasmic sperm injection,” Erik said on his daily run with Miles. “You don’t just flood the egg with sperm and hope for the best. You pick up one single sperm and inject it straight in.”
“Sounds foolproof.”
“Ah, but I like to make things difficult. They have to get my boys direct from the source.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Percutaneous epididymal sperm aspiration.”
“Showoff.”
“PESA for short. I mean, who can handle a mouthful like that?”
“Your mother?”
The procedure failed.
“Testicular sperm extraction,” Erik said to Miles. “That’s TESA to those in the inner circle.”
“I can’t compete with this,” Miles said.
“I feel bad you won’t ever know the pleasure of getting a local anesthetic in the nuts. I mean, once you get over the nausea, a needle to the sack really makes you feel like a man.”
“The only thing I feel right now is inadequate.”
But the TESA failed as well. After the doctor called with the unsurprising news, Melanie went straight out with the dog. Erik stayed put.
Slumped at his desk, he pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead, feeling older than he had a right to, and relieved he was finally excused from all of this. He was done. No more would his private parts be under constant public scrutiny. No more acronyms. No more every other word being “sperm” or “semen” or “ejaculate.” No more needles and specimen cups and everything below the belt. The verdict was in.
He wrote sterile on a post-it, taking a good look at the word. He couldn’t connect with it yet. He was too occupied with liberated joy that everyone, including Melanie, would finally get out of his pants and leave him alone.
His computer beeped. He tore off the note and crumpled it as he jiggled the mouse, bringing the dimmed screen back to life. He had been waiting for his brother. They always talked on Thursday nights, via instant messaging.
Ptfiskare74: Hey bro… How’d it go yesterday? You hear anything?
Efiskare: Yeah just hung up with the doc actually. Nada.
Ptfiskare74: Nada like they found nothing or nada found nothing that was swimming?
Efiskare: No swimmers.
Ptfiskare75: Shit. What now?
Efiskare: We look for a donor or adopt.
Ptfiskare74: What are you leaning toward?
Efiskare: I don’t know yet.
Ptfiskare74: Well…I don’t know how you feel about this but if you want, I’ll do it.
Efiskare: Do what?
Ptfiskare74: I’ll donate. Don’t make me spell it all out. You know how I blush…
Efiskare: Really?
Ptfiskare74: Of course. If you guys wanted. I mean… I feel kind of responsible that you can’t.
Efiskare: What the f*ck are you talking about?
Ptfiskare74: Come on, I gave you the mumps and screwed up your boys.
Efiskare: Dude, shut up.
Ptfiskare74: I’ll do it. I’ll do it for you. I’ll do it yesterday. You let me know.
Pete’s offer kindled Erik’s interest. He felt a little genuine excitement. Pete. Of course. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like the perfect solution.
But Melanie refused. She wanted a donor. Furthermore, she was beginning to feel she wanted a black donor.
And then it was war.
Erik’s ancestral hackles were up. He was not only filled with residual gonadotropin, but with insulted Italo-Swedish rage. He turned on her, wounded and angry. Was she declaring him of defective stock, his bloodline and genes of no use to her? He had no problem raising a child who was a biological niece or nephew. It would be blood. He would have a bond. A connection.
“My parents are dead,” she said.
“What does that have to do with it?”