Lesbian Husbandry

What the fuck are we doing? The following items are currently on our living room carpet: two plastic syringes, sterile; two plastic sample jars, sterile; two pregnancy tests, two ovulation tests, one packet of instructions. The instructions are ridiculous, describing the plight of het couples who, failing to conceive the normal way, might find it a better course of action to squirt it up there with what is essentially a very tiny water pistol. There is nothing in them about single women who are trying to conceive on their own, or lesbians. Our good friend Tom reasonably points out that some men only have one-inch penises, so of course they might feel moved to use a syringe instead. We pause briefly to pity the man with the one-inch cock. We are verging on hysteria; after all, this is disturbing, and very, very gross. Today Tom is going to masturbate into one of the tiny containers and then I’m going to dip a syringe into it and push the contents into my partner in attempt to get at least some of it to land on her cervix.

A few months ago, my civil partner, Bec, and I sat Tom down and asked him if he would consider fathering our children for us. We were terrified that he’d say no right away, so we had made a sensible plan: we would ask him, but tell him that he wasn’t allowed to respond to us for six whole months. Six months of thinking and discussing it, if he wanted to, with close friends, but essentially keeping it quiet. So we did, but instead of looking terrified he looked quite pleased, especially when we said that the reason we’d asked him was that we loved him quite a lot.

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Lesbian Husbandry Part 2: Testing times

Part 3: Disappointment and how to survive it

Part 4: Sometimes

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We eye the sterile plastic goods nervously and concoct a plan. Bec and I will go to the shops for dinner while Tom, er – "There’s no need to finish that sentence," says Tom quickly – whereupon we will return, for a brief 'handover'. Tom will then run home for a couple of hours while I cook dinner and inseminate my partner. He tells us to call him back for dinner when 'the bun is in the oven'.

Our eyes bug out of our heads with nervousness and we can’t stop laughing. More unfortunate jokes are made, such as "You’ll be the flatmate who left a deposit." Oh yes, it’s that bad. It’s horrible to be so out of control of our own expressions. My face hurts, the muscles being repeatedly squeezed by horror, then hysteria. I look at myself in the mirror and to my dismay see that it looks like I’m smirking. Is this the origin of the smirk? Is humour just evolved horror? Bec and I put on our coats and head out, leaving a dismayed-looking Tom to deal with the terrible task of going from a state of stress and embarrassment to ecstasy and ejaculation, preferably within half an hour. Since we’re worried about taking too long and the sperm getting cold, or, God forbid, coming home early and walking in on him, we ask him to call us or text us as soon as he’s finished. He looks especially stricken at this.

We trudge out over the snow, pity for him heavy in our hearts. In Sainsbury’s, just after squabbling over the definition of organic versus dodgy cheap off-cut horror meat, we run into a couple of friends. "How are you?" they politely enquire. "Nothing! I mean, great!" we yell. "We’re just buying dinner, we’re very hungry and have to run home and cook it, bye!" Then, to make up for being a bit manic and suspicious, we hang about chatting inconsequentially for a further three minutes. No quick getaways for the polite British. We receive a single-ring call from Tom and rush home to find him sitting calmly on the sofa. He looks fine, very controlled, until he hands over the jar. We spend a moment marvelling at its consistency, and at the amount, and then he shoots out the door, looking wild eyed, almost guilty, like a cat that has just done a poo in a cupboard.

We all agreed that this would be the comedy run, that this time we probably won’t get a baby out of it but it will mean that we’ve done it, given it a go, laughed all the embarrassment and emotional intensity away. This will be the worst it can be. But I’m not so sure. I think we’re going to be a little bit mortified every time.