My Hard, Biological Truth, Part 2

I am considering asking him for some of his sperm.

Yesterday, I hosted my inaugural Sex Writing Workshop. It was a truly amazing experience. I felt so honored to teach writing and explore sexuality with an intimate group of 8 awesome women. I will host these monthly, and paid subscribers will continue to receive a discount on tickets. I know this is kind of a big thing to say, but in addition to writing, I feel like these workshops could be my calling. So, here is what I wrote in my very own workshop, which I edited a bit for anonymity 😉.

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P.C. Deon Black

I want him to come back to Mexico City so badly. I see his cute smile and his buzzcut, and his deep brown eyes glance at me through my phone screen.

“You’re an artist, Tash,” August says to me through the crinkling microphone. This is after I have spent months following all his self-publishing advice and putting my book out there in the world. "You’re killing it.”

August is almost completely bald. But as he winks at me through the pixels, across 3,000km of land and multiple time zones, I want to tell him that I’ve masturbated to the idea of him fucking me more times than I can count. August, with his tall stature and muscular arms. Is it too strange to say I love him? That I want to be with him? Or more, that I could do with a vial of his sperm. His sperm, though?

The genetic makeup. The material. I want him to cum inside of me. I want that trilingual, sensitive, half-Turkish, half-Swedish international-relations-aficionado sperm inside of me. Why is ovulation, my want to reproduce, so overwhelming and cruel? It almost got me to pay $700 to get on a plane to Washington, D.C., to watch him graduate from the Georgetown School of Foreign Service. Before I realized that would mean I'd have to meet his parents, and we're not even dating, and how truly weird that would be. I wouldn't even be ovulating that time in May, so there was no real point in going. I still want to go, though. But I've decided against it.

Why can’t he come back to Mexico City to visit me? It's not fair. All his friends from his program get to see him every day. They’re all on the East Coast. The female ones, the divorced ones, and the married ones. Of course, I’m jealous that other people get to see him. And I really couldn’t care how much hair he has. Hair really doesn’t matter to me. My dad is 57 and has a decent hairline. I have enough hair in my family already. 

It's getting too intense during our monthly writers' catchups now. August asks me how my book sales are going, and I can’t even look at him. I can’t let myself be seen beside him in the same little corner of cluttered squares of our virtual mentorship group. He’s read my book and shared it with his family and friends. He’s so hot and so cute. I love him so much.

What if I just gave in? Give biology a chance. Let Mother Nature take the reins. Be a teenager all over again. Have sex without a condom, but do it on purpose this time. Even though I know how reckless that is. Even though I know how babies are made. Let's make babies on purpose.

I know he’s addicted to his work. Maybe when he comes back to Mexico City, he’ll just sit on his computer all day, filling out memos for the UN, and not be able to spend any time with me. Or maybe we'd just be complete and truly happy together. Maybe I'm overreacting. The balding guy. My love. Oh, I forgot to tell you. When I was sleeping in Luis’s bed the other month, I had a dream about August. Can you imagine that? Waking up in someone else’s bed, knowing my subconscious is trying to wake me up to the fact that August is the optimal person I should be fucking and impregnating myself with. August. Full stop. The brain and the body never lie.

I knew I liked August from the moment I met him five years ago. Even though we were just out of college, and he had more hair back then, he always had that cute smile. I really messed up the first month of our friendship, but he still offered to mentor me in the writers’ program. Somehow, he's kept me on as a friend and a mentee. I wasn’t always this obsessed with him. Over these last five years, I’ve seen other dicks. I’ve woken up next to other lovers. I’ve kissed other lips. But now I’ve been in a dry spell for a number of months. Now I’ve started to think about him when I masturbate. I think of his buzzcut. His sweet, even buzzcut. Short and spikey to the touch, I like to think.

But anyway, when August comes back to Mexico City, I imagine him kissing me on my bed. I imagine him talking off his shirt. I imagine his muscular arms. I imagine his hands. I have seen his hands before. I have thought about his hands. I can know whether I want to fuck a guy or not just looking at his hands alone. I can tell from August’s hands that I want to fuck him. Then I imagine us in my bed. I imagine us kissing. I imagine us kissing each other everywhere. Five years of sexual tension and cute messaging and professional pleasantries and giggles and smiles. I imagine me sitting down on his dick as he's sitting on my bed. I imagine him looking up at me, his mouth wide open because he is kind of a bookworm, an intellectual nerd at the end of the day, and he has never slept with a woman quite like me before. I imagine running my hands over his buzzcut and wrapping my arms around him. Then he cums already. But then he has read my work, and now he wants to make me cum, and I imagine his cute smile between my legs. I know him, and he knows me. I catch his eye as he’s kissing my inner thigh, and it feels amazing because we’ve known each other for ages, quite intimately now, and that cheeky smile of his really just gets to me. It just digs in my chest a little bit. It drives me crazy. We are smiling and laughing throughout the whole thing because we know each other. We know, and we are knowingly choosing to do these things to each other.

It’s kind of forbidden, but this time, it’s hotter than hell. All around us, the world is crumbling. All we can do is steal this moment away from everything and everyone else, open our hearts, and make love to each other. That is all that we can do. That is all that we have left to do on this earth. That’s what happened to our parents and our parents’ parents. That’s what will happen to our children and will probably happen to our children’s children. Because for the last 10,000 years of humankind and more, some people were just walking around and just started fucking in a field, and now we’re here. Now we have this. Now we have humanity. 

It's like torture, this stage of my life. It's like torture when every fiber of my being wants a cuddle from him and a kiss. Hormones. Pheromones. Oxytocin. Opiates. Skin to skin. The stuff that makes a moth stick to a blistering lightbulb. Even though they know they're probably burning alive and dying, and it’s killing them all at the same time. But they drink in the heat. They love the danger of it anyway. They'll burn their little wings off. What the fuck are they putting in the water these days? There is nothing so strong, no potion or pill, that could turn me against Mother Nature's will. That could convince me that I don’t want that man’s erect penis rubbing up my leg and shooting cum into the depths of my inner orifices. August is allowed in there. There’s a warm, juicy section and layers of my inner labia with his name written all over it. I will probably let this happen. Jesus fucking Christ. I will probably let this happen. I'm just not sure when. That’s it, really. That's where we are right now. That’s all we've got.

August is dating in Georgetown. I know it. I think he wants to have a kid before I do. I doubt that by the time I am ready for a kid, he will still be on the market. I am completely serious when I say this:

I am considering asking him for some of his sperm.