Fiction '05 third-place finisher

THEY WERE GONNA get their landscaper to be the donor because at first they wanted to have a baby with dark skin, but then they're like – and I don't mean this to sound racist – they're like, Why's this guy mowing yards if he graduated from Stanford? What if the baby turns out to have this propensity to set its sights too low? So they chose this old college heartthrob of Heather's, this married guy named Eric who's this self-made computer millionaire, because at least they're sure to be in a better gene pool.

So Heather goes over to this guy's place in Pacific Heights to, you know, do it, and all her girlfriends and myself included we're like freaking out about it because – and again I don't mean to be xenophobic – because at first she's like going to get the guy's spoo or spunk or whatever into a syringe and have Nancy inject it (which is only fair because Nancy will help parent and should have a hand in it, no pun intended) but then they decided to make it more a group effort and have the guy's wife, who's a Buddhist and totally comfortable with the whole idea, she can get him hard or whatever then have Nancy insert it and pull it out the second he, you know, ejaculates or whatever, and we like can't believe it because OK sure, I and all of my lesbian girlfriends have had sex with men at some point in our lives as like stopgaps or to settle old scores, but there came a point when we got them out of our system and knew once and for all that we're not missing anything. So you can imagine our shock at why Heather would want to take this giant step backwards and opt for a live peenie.

So the next morning I'm in the garage heading out to play tennis when Heather's Jeep pulls up in the driveway and I'm like, So how was it? and she like shrugs, and I'm like, Well, thank God it's over and now let's hope you conceive and don't have to subject yourself to this ordeal again.

Did everything go as planned? And then she recounts the whole evening with them sitting there in the guy's living room after the wife fixed them dinner and they're drinking a bottle of wine to kind of take the edge off of everybody and Nancy and the wife are like waiting for the signal for the four of them to go to the guest room downstairs when all of a sudden Heather and the guy up and go upstairs to the master bedroom, and I'm like, Are you out of your mind? You were alone in a room with the Peenie? She shrugs and I'm like, How big was it? if you don't mind my asking, and she like holds her thumb and finger a few inches apart, and I'm like, That's all? His poor wife! Could he even reach the hole? She laughs and gets this twinkle in her eye I know all too well and I'm like, Hey, hey, hey!

Did you strap one on and turn the tables? and she's like, No, we did it the old-fashioned way, and I'm like basically gagging at the thought of laying there under some man grunting and wallowing around on top of you with his chest and back and legs and everywhere you touch there's hair – I know men's bodies are different and hair grows more generally on them, but still it would be like trying to cuddle with a sweaty dog! So she's like, I told him that with me being a lesbian he couldn't expect me to enjoy it, and I'm like, High five! I said, Did you go down on him? And she's like, Ohmygod, Michelle, where did that come from? She said, You mean you'd physically put the peenie into your mouth? and I had to quick and try to backtrack out of it all the while in my mind there's the memory of some guy in some hotel room and he's standing there with it hanging down all heavy and red and angry-looking with those greenish veins swelled out all over it and I'm kneeling down in front of him like men like for women to do, and Heather's like looking at me and I'm like, What? and she's like, You're flaring your nostrils like Ali McGraw, and I'm like, Absolutely not, Heather, because men basically go no telling how many days without washing, and she's like, And how would you know? and I'm like, Because I grew up with three brothers for Chrissake! and she's like, Don't yell at me, and I'm like, I'm not yelling I'm just asking you to understand that, you know, a girl could be all excited and get caught up in the moment and do something off the wall is all I'm saying. So he got hard, puts it in, bada-bing-bada-boom, right? and she like makes this little snuffy kind of laugh and she's like, No, he got too excited and had an orgasm, and I'm like, Typical selfish male all for himself and let the girl get her own. In your mouth, right?, and she's like, In my vagina, Michelle, are you feeling OK? and I'm like having this totally intense sensation of a Starburst Fruit Chew spurting across my tongue – they put a man on the moon, why can't they make a dildo that can do that? – so I like quick and cross my arms over my chest because now I'm getting a wet noodle and my nipples are hard and I can't blame it on being cold because goddamnit the wind's not even blowing and I'm like shouting inside myself, What's going on here? I'm not supposed to get excited over heterosexuality – especially a boring old blowjob – because I'm a dyke and a diesel dyke at that! I mean, maybe some lesbians are subject to latent surges of wanting the peenie, but not me, I haven't missed a Dyke March in 15 years! So she's like looking at me like the Spanish Inquisition and is like, Michelle, don't tell me you'd actually swallow some guy's slime, and I bent my hair behind my ear and I'm like, To be truthful with you, Heather, one time I did, and she's like, Euuw, gross! I'm like, It wasn't so bad, he'd just eaten lamb. I turned and gazed out the garage door at the trees in Dolores Park and said, No, asparagus.

THE END