Ghastly words no 21 year old man worth his salt wants to hear. Roughly translated, it means ‘I think I’m pregnant, can you take me to Carousel Shopping Centre to get a couple of testing kits that I will urinate on in order to accurately determine whether or not your powerful seed has indeed caused my female reproductive organs to respond in such awe to said power-jizz as to completely surrender their counter-attack lady stuff defences’ (roughly).
I did the manly, chivalrous thing and took her. Equally manly was me staying in the car when she went to the pharmacy to get on to Family Planning quick fucking smart to figure out if perhaps my cheap health insurance would cover her own fanny-vacuum (and my life saving) procedure.
It didn’t, but I put on a brave face when she returned and deleted all evidence of my furiously anxious attempts at bargaining with the fetus frying people (they do not accept bribes that include old cricket balls and a stack of Simpsons comics), as she often went through my phone looking for suspicious messages from others (not other women, blokes. She totally thought I was gay for whatever reason. My first car was a VL for fucks sake how can I possibly be gay?)
Anyway, she was here studying, and had to go back home for a year for her PR visa stuff to get sorted out. We were only in a casual relationship, so there was no real heartbreak, but none the less, I had to go back on the dirty prowl to find more stable, less pregnant-prone gash. She came back after a year, called me up for a silly dalliance, but with one of these:
Doing our thing in a dimly lit room that stank of chicken log for some reason, I didn’t notice any thing. Afterwards, she was brushing her hair, arse naked, in front of a full length mirror, as I attempted to try and re-enter the human race under the doona after utterly excruciating – and some what pathetic – coital exhaustion. When she turned, I saw it all. It took a few seconds to piece it together in my state of total heat stroke, but it hit me like a tonne of shit wrapped in lead. The awful arithmetic:
Pregnancy scare 12 months go + She leaves for 12 months + She comes back with caesarean scar = Holy shit she lied through her teeth about being not pregnant, went back to the old country, had a kid, put it out for adoption, came back.
I could not bite my tongue, and asked what happened to her belly whilst knowing exactly what happened to her belly (I can spot a c-section a mile away, as my 60-something Mum still loves showing her scar to me whenever she can (like at my nephew’s Christening, I kid you not, long story) and reminding me of how I killed her briefly from blood loss whilst giving birth to me. Every single Birthday I get that, but I’ll get back to the point – she said it was an appendectomy scar.
Ah, no, sweetheart. Your appendix is not located directly in front of your womb. I may know precisely fuck nothing about the female anatomy, but I know that at least (also I only recently was told that women have separate holes for birth and wee. Who’d have guessed?)
Point being, there truly is some kid in the tropics running around with half my genes. I have four different passports ready to go in case the adoptive parents show up at my door, subpoena in hand, demanding half of my cricket balls and Simpsons comics. They got no chance. But if the kid ends up rich and famous, I’ll be up there pronto doing roughly the same thing to them.
JDP
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