Coming down off the nervous energy of handling the strange, foreign substance called sperm took all evening. This was our first shot. K took two jars over to the potential kid's biological don don this morning and then she stopped by after work to pick up the stuff--the little drizzle of liquid holed up inside a clean artichoke heart jar.
I biked home from work like a mad man on a mission, cause in reality that's what it was and is and may continue to be for sometime.
The mission is this--K's mission--She is in charge of all of the tracking stuff that females who want to get pregnant have to do (well at least females who do not have a permanent source of sperm in their houses). I sit by and listen, watch, and comment little tid bits. She touches her mucus to see if it is fertile, charts her temperature, checks her ferning, documents her cycle, and pisses on a stick that makes her obnoxiously anxious (ovulation sticks).
My mission--I sit back and wait for the word. And then say, "ahh, fuck it baby--you are horny and that's a sure sign; it's near you 13th day so let's just do it. If it takes, it takes; if it doesn't, it doesn't." So, she drives up and gets out of the car with a grin the size of a large eel on her face and a blue towel in her hand. All wrapped up in that towel is the artichoke jar full of sperm. Full is not the right word--it's more like a little slug of spit in the bottom of the jar.
When we get up into the bedroom and get naked, I discover that the little layer of sticky goo actually amounts to two CCs after I pull it up into the syringe and prepare for the injection. Preparing for the injection includes arousing and triggering an orgasm in my girl. See, orgasms cause the sperm to be drawn up inside the girl's body moving the little squids closer to a potential meeting with the special egg. So I get her all jollied; make her come; and still have the energy to suck the life liquid up into the syringe, stick it in her vagina, and shoot.
