“Well, I hope I can return the favor,” Noah says, his smile turning shy.
I take out my card and scribble my address on the back. I did a background check on him and the other man, Rob, and it’s a calculated risk, bringing them into my home. No more risky than a date, I suppose. Probably less, since no one’s heart is on the line.
I hand the card over. “So, I’ll see you Tuesday night. How’s six thirty?”
He nods, tucked my card into his wallet.
“Sounds perfect.
I’ll come straight from work.”
“Oh.” A pang of unforeseen panic tightens my chest.
“What?”
“Do you want
…
I can make us dinner if you want. Or we could meet up later. Is that too weird?
Me making dinner?”
Noah laughs. “I’d love dinner. I’ll bring wine, if you drink.”
“Yeah, we’ll probably need it. Okay, good. I’ll make ziti or something. Something not gassy,” I add, feeling oddly at home being silly with this man. After all, his threshold for my potential weirdness is already high, given the nature of our meeting. I know the guy’s sperm count, for crying out loud.
He stands; I stand. We hesitate a moment before I put out my hand, and we shake, such an innocuous bit of contact considering the deal we’re signing off on. His touch matches his smile, warm and easy. When his hand releases mine it heads for his wallet, but I swat him again. I leave a few bills for our drinks and tip and let him hold the door for me. I walk him the half block to his car, an old black hatchback splattered with salty winter mud.
“Thanks again for meeting me,” I say.
“And all the doctor rigmarole.”
“Sure.”
“And just so you know, if Tuesday comes around and you decide I’m a psycho after all, don’t feel like you need to call or make any excuses. If you don’t show, I’ll just have plenty of leftovers for dinner on Wednesday.”
He smiles, and his teeth are as white as peppermint Chiclets. I want to run my tongue over them, discover what he tastes like.
Probably just coffee, same as me.
“Thanks for the escape hatch,” he says and unlocks his door.
“Thanks for the sperm,” I say, and I laugh at my own ridiculousness.
“Yeah, no pressure.”
He makes a funny little theatrical stressed-out face and slides into his seat,
then
gives me a wave as I shut his door for him.
I can’t believe this might actually work.
* * *
“Hello there,” I say to the sexiest man I think I’ve ever met. His name is Rob Fellows, and he’s here to impregnate me on an otherwise unremarkable overcast Sunday afternoon in December. He’s punctual too. It’s
exactly
two o’clock according to my cable box.
“Hi, Abby.”
He smiles, standing on the landing to my condo in a long herringbone tweed coat. The gesture crinkles his eyes at the corners and makes his fantastic bone structure all the more enticing. He’s brought flowers: red gerbera daisies wrapped in cellophane.
“Aw, you didn’t have to do that. Come in.” I take the flowers and close the door behind him.
“It seemed too early to bring a bottle of wine. But it felt rude not bringing
something
.”
“Oh, you’ve brought plenty,” I say, and in the grips of nervous, tactless jokiness, I aim a glance pointedly down at his crotch.
“Yeah, true.”
I take the coat he drops from his shoulders and walk to the door to hang it up, relieved for a chance to get control over my shallow breathing. “And I don’t know about you,” I say as I turn back, “but
I’ll
be having a drink. I don’t do this every day.”
Just
most
days this week.
He follows me into the kitchen, and I trim the daisies and arrange them in a highball glass. I steal glances at him, trying to remember everything I learned from our e-mails and our coffee-shop meet-up. He’s not as chatty as Noah and his company’s not as relaxing, but he’s
fucking
good-looking, and nothing about him sets my intuition on edge. I think he said he works in “development,” though for the life of me I can’t remember any details. It’s hard to look at Rob Fellows and focus on anything beyond his perfect shell. I squint at his fitted black sweater, trying to guess what’s waiting for me a couple of layers down.
“Great place,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“You rent?”
“Nope, condo.”
“Nice,” he says.
“Thank you.” It’s the top unit of a three-story house in Somerville, Cambridge’s more affordable, less snotty sister. Nothing fancy, but I’d like to think I have decent taste. The space is funky with eaves, and it won’t be fun hauling a stroller full of fat baby up and down three flights when the other half of my two-person family arrives, but it’s my first piece of property, and I love it.
I open a bottle of wine and pour two half glasses, and Rob follows me to my little living room. He takes a seat on my couch, and I perch on the arm, still anxious, not quite ready to plunk down beside him. Stupid, really, since we’ll presumably be having sex within the hour. I clutch my glass like the hand of comforting friend.
He smiles and takes a drink. “You look nervous.”
“I am. I’m a little rusty. And to be honest, I’ve never paid for sex before.”
Rob laughs. “What can I do to make you less nervous?”
Not much, I think, surveying him. Over six feet, and judging from the shapes beneath his sweater, built for performance. I know he
kickboxes
, because it was listed in his medical documentation under “exercise habits,” and it intrigued me to no end. He has shaggy, wavy, dark brown hair. Noah has dark hair too, as do I. I’m glad it worked out that way, so I won’t have to worry about popping out, say, a red-haired baby, and wrecking the experiment’s anonymity.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “There’s way less pleasant things to get nervous over. I think I just have performance anxiety. This is the first attempt.”
“It is creepy?” Rob asks after a long pause, one I fill with a big gulp of wine. “Sleeping with a guy who answered an ad? Like,
that
ad?
A guy who’d volunteer to impregnate you for cash?”
I look out the
window,
drum my fingers on my glass. “Ooh, that’s a brave question. No. I haven’t given it too much thought, honestly. I’m just grateful you came.
Er
, bad word choice,” I mumble, smiling like a dope as I meet his eyes. “But no. Not creepy.” Sexy, I think, looking him over.
Out-of-my-league sexy, under more traditional circumstances.
“Would you mind doing the waiver now?”
“Fine with me.”
I fetch the paper, and he reads it, signs his rights away. I file it carefully and return to the couch.
I take another sip. My wine’s starting to work, mercifully, or perhaps it’s just this man’s proximity. He’s got a quality, as though he’s giving off a signal to a sense science hasn’t yet identified, his message as tangible as a scent or sound. “You know what made me want to pick you?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“We have the same birthday. Not just the same day.
The same year too.”
His eyebrows bob up. “Wow, really?”
I nod. “I know—what are the chances? I read it in your medical history. I thought it was a good sign.”
“Unless we’re twins, separated at birth.”
I laugh, take another drink. “Okay,
now
it’s creepy. Anyhow, there was that neat coincidence plus, you know, your lack of congenital diseases and mental disorders,” I add with a guilty grin. “So…are
you
nervous?”
He shakes his head. “Not really.”
“Let me know if you need anything special. You
know,
a video or whatever.”
He shakes his head again. “I think we’ll be okay. I’m pretty easy. Actually, can I be honest with you?”
“Please.”
“I don’t think I can get much
skeezier
than offering myself up for money, so I may as well admit this whole thing kind of turns my crank.”
A warm flush of relief and curiosity washes over my skin.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.
I’ve actually never had sex without a condom before.”
I blink at him.
“Never?”
“Never.
And I’ve definitely never tried to get anyone pregnant, let alone a stranger. It’s sort of…” He trails off, squinting as he searches for the right word.
“Taboo?”
He takes a sip of his wine. “Yeah, I guess. Or like, fake dangerous.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s
skeezy
at all. I’m glad there’s some fun in it for you.” Rob’s eyes
squinch
up when he smiles, so frigging handsome I want to bite him, just to make sure he’s real.
“You want to get started?” he asks.
“Oh,” I say, suddenly feeling like a rude hostess. It cools my perking libido a bit, thinking I may be just another thing on his Sunday to-do this.
Go to
laundromat
, return library book, impregnate Abby
Winchel
,
buy
paper towels
. “Sure.
Whenever you want.”
I spent some time picturing how this moment might play out once I’d let Rob into my home. Would we kiss? Would we talk about it? Or would I just lie down, and he’d do his thing? And what would his thing consist of?
He drains his glass and sets it on the coffee table. The clink sounds like a starter pistol in my brain. “You want to use your bed?” he asks.
“Yeah, I figured we’d go there.” I down my last couple of gulps and stand, take the wineglasses to the kitchen, and leave them in the sink. Rob follows me into my bedroom. My heart’s sudden pounding could be from fear or arousal or some combination of the two. I turn to face him, and he’s pulling his sweater over his head. I stare at the sexy shapes behind his gray T-shirt. He has a tattoo on his arm, a thick band of black vines. I wonder absently if my future child might ever take up kickboxing or come home with a similar tattoo and blow my mind.
“Are there any ground rules?” he asks, looking around my room.
“No, not really.
You should feel free to do whatever you need to…to accomplish your goal. You know, within reason.” I laugh. “Don’t smack me in the face or call me any mean names, please.”
“Is it okay if I say stuff?” Rob has a sexy voice, a little deep, a little scratchy, an octave lower than it was a second ago if I’m not mistaken. His gaze moves up and down my body, and heat flashes between my legs.
“Sure.
Just nothing derogatory.
But you
know,
whatever it takes. Close your eyes and say someone else’s name if you want to. It’s nothing personal. And if you need me to do anything, let me know.”
“Sounds good.”
He puts his hands on his hips, businesslike, and looks me in the face. “Can I watch you undress?”
“Sure.” Predictable self-consciousness cools me for a second; then a glance at his eyes to confirm the desire burning there banishes my inhibitions.
I unbutton my cardigan and slip it off and toss it on the floor, sit on the edge of the bed to pull my socks off. I smile nervously up at Rob, who’s watching with mischief on his face. He pulls his T-shirt up and off, and my breath catches. His skin is winter pale with a line of black hair running from his chest to his navel. My pulse hums. He’s got the finest, tightest body I’ve ever been this close to, and I suddenly understand why someone might pay for recreational sex. My eyes drink in his long abdomen. I pray he likes doing it face-to-face so I’ll be able to watch his muscles work as he fucks me.
I pull off my camisole and drop my jeans, stand before this insanely hot stranger in a matching set of silly polka-dot underwear. His expression’s hard to read, but I think he’s pleased. He unbuckles his belt and unzips his fly and pushes his jeans down just enough to reveal the bulge in his shorts. His chest muscles contract deliciously as he runs a hand over his erection. He looks predatory, but the intimidation I’m feeling is welcome, as welcome as the wine heating my skin.
I reach back and unhook my bra. I try to remove it nonchalantly enough that it doesn’t seem as if I’m trying to seduce him but not so quick that it feels completely mechanical. I watch as he eases his underwear down and takes himself out.
His cock is long and heavy looking, standing out proud from its nest of black curls. He wraps his hand around his base, gives himself slow pulls. I glanced up to find his eyes locked on mine. Fear and guilt and excitement stand all my arm hairs on end and tense my nipples. I’ve never been to bed with someone I’ve known as briefly as Rob, and it’s hot. I have a free pass to ignore my own standards, to enjoy the
gorgeous,
ready man right here before me and not feel sleazy or used when he leaves. The rule-breaking is an honest-to-God chemical high.
He licks his lips. “Keep going.” His voice is low and hungry, and his command gives me another taste of that thrilling intimidation.
I push my panties down my hips and kick them off. I watch him stroke faster. I swallow and sit on the edge of the bed. “Should I lie down?”