The Procreant

Intimate Relationship #9.5 is pregnant. She informed me of this while we were eating lunch at a diner in West Hollywood.

“We’re due in February!”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s great.”

“I can’t wait to tell my parents!”

“I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.”

There I was talking to someone I’d known for years, someone I’d lived with and been in a relationship with for years, and I had never before seen this glassy-eyed look on her face. It was a look usually associated with young jihadis committed to blowing themselves up on a bus, or with malnourished Scientologists wandering Hollywood Boulevard offering free personality tests to baffled tourists. It was the look of someone who had taken faith in an entirely irrational belief: that these same parents, her parents, the mother who speaks about her daughter as if she were dead and the father who twice hired thugs to beat me, would suddenly rejoice upon hearing that their daughter was pregnant with my child. I understand that all parents, once they’ve reached that age, desire to be grandparents, but only insofar as their sons or daughters expect healthy and respectable offspring with a mate of whom they approve. Did IR#9.5 actually believe that her parents were going to forgive their grudge against me and accept me as one of their own just because one night their daughter and I were drunk enough to fuck but too drunk to remember our contraceptive responsibilities? How could she delude herself to such a horrible extent? And yet, judging by the tone of her voice and the gleefully stupid look on her face, IR#9.5 seemed to think that the phone call she would make to her parents would somehow go as it does in the movies or on television or in healthy families built around love, respect and understanding, instead of fear, prejudice and other evangelical values.

“That’s wonderful!” her mother would say. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so happy. Let me put your father on the phone. Honey, come quick, your daughter has news. Remember that Jew she brought to Thanksgiving last year? The one who showed up drunk and clogged the toilet? Who chewed with his mouth open, dropped his fork so he could peak under your niece’s skirt and petted the dog in a suggestive manner? Who clearly had no money, no prospects for making money and no intention of ever having prospects for making money – yes, remember that virus your daughter introduced into our home in order to humiliate and get back at us for the wrongs we committed against her in her youth? Such wrongs as grounding her when she was 12 and got caught smoking with her friends? Or buying her a Volvo for her 16th birthday instead of the convertible she wanted? Our daughter, who has always despised us for raising her in the bosom of prosperity; for protecting her from poverty, disease and miscegenation; for showering her with love and affection even after she quit college to pursue a career on the stage – do whatever it is you want, my angel, my rosebud, Mommy and Daddy’s little actress! We will always support you, dear, whatever career you choose, dear, even if it is clear to all and every that you lack the talent, the looks or the drive necessary for prospering in such a competitive field — but come quick, honey, and pick up the phone! Our wonderful daughter, 37 years old now, an adult herself now, has made the very adult decision to enter the next stage of her very adult life. She has decided to eschew tradition, skip marriage, cut right to the chase, and to do so not with any of the nice boys from the club (who are no longer boys really, but men themselves now, with jobs and families and fortunes of their own now, with houses down the block – what houses! – I see them on their way to work, in their suits, a kiss for their wives as they descend their driveways, briefcases in tow, to provide wealth and security for their families, for their community, for the country they love) — but our daughter has no interest in these young patriots and has instead decided to have her child, her firstborn, with that thing that floated here from the East, much like his shit floated onto my hall runner that fateful Thanksgiving Day. With that thing from New York our daughter has decided to couple and bear fruit. With that thing that shows none of the attributes of a human being other than his apparent ability to impregnate another human being, and not just any human being, mind you, but the very human being we hoped would bring meaning to our lives, who instead brings forth the mixed-blood child of a Jewish mongrel, polluting our line and forever sullying our family name. So pick up the phone, husband, and hear this wonderful news, straight from the mouth of the babe. Tell her how proud we are of her accomplishment. How grateful we are of this gift. How much we respect her choices, admire her decisions and look so forward to the miracle of this degenerate birth.”

How else could her mother respond, and how could IR#9.5 imagine otherwise? Unless this was precisely the response she hoped for. Unless an angry and bitter response was the very aim of her carelessness — or her very careful planning, for who’s to say this pregnancy was truly the accident she claimed it to be? It certainly wasn’t my idea to have a child, but convincing a 37 year old woman to have an abortion is no easy task. Especially IR#9.5, whom, I must admit, I had never seen looking so happy. Not even when we first met, before I had drained her of any hope and optimism, any feeling that the world was not the cruel and meaningless abyss that it so blatantly is – not even then had she ever glowed with the greasy luster she glowed with now, ordering herself a bacon burger, a waffle, a biscuit, a vanilla milkshake, a diet coke and a slice of pie. As if the reason for getting pregnant was to justify a guiltless eating binge, her face shining like that of a cultist-religious-zealot, enlightened by the seed that sat festering in her womb. You’d think she was pregnant with the child of God Himself and not the spawn of an unemployed writer living on the Hollywood skids.

“What about your career?” I asked, as she slurped the last clumps of her shake.

IR#9.5’s favorite topic of conversation had always been her career. The woman had worked all of five days in the last ten years, and yet she could hold court for hours on the exhaustive research that went into every role. Roles that included the audience member with a question in an infomercial and a victim of strangulation on a cop show.

“I can still do voiceovers,” she slurped. “And after the baby’s born, I’ll lose the weight and start auditioning again.”

I didn’t believe for a second that IR#9.5 wanted a baby. She just wanted to be pregnant. Wanted to see the mugs on her opponents as she strolled down Larchmont Boulevard in her maternity dress. “When are you due?” the competition would smile. And IR#9.5 could tell them. She could tell them when she was due, what method of childbirth she preferred and what names were being considered. And wasn’t that what she really wanted? To make other women jealous? To create the illusion that she had found love? That she was worthy of love? That she was worthy of the attention she could never garner as an actress. That she could never garner from me. That she could never garner from her father, who found his other daughters more interesting, especially the middle one, who had developed perky little breasts at puberty, who may have been touched by the old man, one lonely night, in the bath, while her mother lay asleep in the next room. In their home, the accusations were echoed and denied for years. This Orange County Treasurer, friend of Oliver North, linked to missionary groups in oil-rich South American jungles, careful with his finances, careful in his council, careful in his testimony before Congress — but careless one night with an eleven year old girl. So careless, in fact, that, years later, bribes would have to be paid to prevent her leaking it to the press, as she threatened, even though her mother never believed the scheming bitch was telling the truth!

And what effect did this have on IR#9.5, the youngest daughter, who normally would have benefited from the full range of her father’s affections, but instead, due to the man’s shame, he could never dote on her the way a father wants to dote on his youngest and most precious child? Compelled by these accusations, true or not, to deny, to ignore, to neglect his baby daughter. To turn away and re-enter the house every time she sunbathed by the pool, so that IR#9.5 became ashamed of her body and thought her body abhorrent to men. So that she began vomiting up her meals at the age of thirteen in order to have a body worthy of Daddy’s attention, or so the shrinks would argue when her parents carried her 80-pound skeleton to that recovery center in Ojai. He never attended her swim meets, dance recitals or gymnastics tournaments. And then, even when she was older and he too feeble to ever accomplish anything untoward, he walked out again, this time from that production of Equus at Chapman University.

How many times had IR#9.5 regaled me with that story? How proud she was of landing a lead role only to have her father storm out on opening night, during the climax, when IR#9.5, in all her undergraduate glory, stripped down and simulated the sexual act, surrounded by theater studies majors costumed as horses, while the real horse, the ultimate observer for whom this false tragedy was being played — this Murder of Gonzago played to a Claudius who’d pour poison into his own ear rather than confront the sight of his naked daughter — fled the theater rather than see his daughter exposed in the name of an art he never understood, or understood all too well to have exploitation as its purpose and not some deeper, creative revelation.

What difference did it make to IR#9.5 what happened to her older sister? “I am my own person,” she must have thought. “A living, breathing being who needs love and attention from my father.” What a perfect disaster for the self-esteem! All the stunts she pulled growing up: the fake suicide note, the photos left on the kitchen counter, the panties stuffed into the cushions of Daddy’s chair. But she never received from him the attention she wanted. Never received the response she was looking for. And what response might that have been? Your Honor, can you only imagine? (I know I can. I can imagine it in great detail!)

So of course, after college, when IR#9.5 began attending the cattle calls advertised in Backstage West, she was inevitably viewed by casting directors as trying too hard, desperate for validation, never learning that the art resides in playing the scene without forcing your ambitions past the footlights. She had chosen a profession that guaranteed her the continuing diet of rejection she had known since birth. Whatever youth, innocence and naïveté she possessed was gradually displaced by all of the anger, bitterness and frustration that goes along with years upon years of struggling to book that tampon commercial or that role as an understudy in a play no one wants to see. It was a giant disappointment of a life oozing across Silverlake like the rancid water from an overstuffed toilet. And how was she going to mop it up? What was IR#9.5’s grand plan to clean up the mess that was her life?

“Why aren’t you more excited that I’m pregnant?” she asked, as I drove her back to the office where she worked as a temp. A 37 year old temp.

“We can’t have a baby,” I stated. “We’re three months behind on the rent. How could we possibly afford a baby?”

“We’ll make it work,” she smiled. “You’ll just have to find a job of some kind. Something that provides health care and a steady salary.”

“Is that all?” I asked. “I just have to throw away every plan I had for my life?”

“Would you prefer I stuck a wire hanger up my cunt?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That was different,” she said. “I was young and still had a future.”

“And he was black.”

“That had nothing to do with it.”

“Babies aren’t easy,” I told her. “They need to be fed. Every day. Sometimes more than once. They need toys and clothes and care. They require a level of emotional support that, quite frankly, isn’t your cause celebre.”

“You think I’m incapable of being a mother?”

“I think a child should be brought into a family based on love and sound economic principles.”

“You’re saying you don’t love me?”

“Have I ever said otherwise?”

“I’m having this child,” she replied. “I don’t care what you, my parents, my doctor or anyone else has to say about it. I am having this child.”

Intimate Relationship #9.5 and I first met when I was living with Mitzi (Intimate Relationship #9.0), a woman I would have been happy to marry and have children with. Mitzi had class, long, silky blonde hair and a lanky frame, stretched and sculpted five days a week by the most expensive Pilates instructor in town. She was a European-born descendant of Swiss nobility who owned a high rise apartment in Westwood and ran her own business out of an office in Century City. In three years of dating, I never once saw her pussy unwaxed. Sure, she had Daddy issues of her own — they all do — but the woman stood to inherit millions from her old man, and I looked forward to a life of easy luxury and bourgeois ennui.

And Mitzi’s parents actually liked me. At least they seemed to. They always had a kind word on the phone, and on holidays, they’d invite us to London, where we’d sit around the fireplace in their Kensington home, laughing over a pricey vintage as we discussed art, literature and international affairs. Maybe they were just amiable people, appreciative of my narrative gifts and my Ivy League charm, or maybe they were compensating for the guilt they felt over the role Mitzi’s grandfather played in Switzerland during the war. “We have done everything we can to return assets to the rightful beneficiaries when it can be proven that they are the heirs to the deceaseds’ accounts.” And in more private circles, “In fact, my daughter is even marrying a Jew.”

Only we never married. I offered her a ring but she wanted to wait. I fucked her every which way ’till Tuesday, in every position possible, using every variety of stimulant and erectile dysfunction medication on the market to increase my potency during our marathon sessions of unprotected lovemaking. But no matter how many times I hid her birth control pills or switched them with Claritin, the only thing my relentless intercourse engendered was a sexually transmitted disease that forced Mitzi into the gynecologist’s office and left her hairless pussy stitched up like a Haitian baseball.

It was during this time that IR#9.5 happened on the scene after booking a bit part in a play I wrote that was being produced at the Hollywood Park Casino. Starting with the first rehearsal, she threw herself at me every chance she could, never subtle, offering to suck me and fuck me wherever and whenever I wanted. “You don’t even have to ask,” she’d say. “Just grab your cock and stick it in me.” I rebuffed her every advance without hesitation. It wasn’t hard to do. Not when I had millions of dollars waiting for me at home. Not when I wasn’t even remotely attracted to this psychopath and couldn’t stand the way she ruined my play with her amateur hysterics on the stage.

But during this time, things were changing between Mitzi and me. 9.0 had grown suspicious since the surgery and obstinately un-sexual even after the stitches were removed.

“I just don’t feel pretty,” she’d say. “I don’t feel ready to make love again.”

“Then let me look at it,” I’d plead. “Let me see how it’s changed so I can become re-acquainted with your vagina. The fact that it’s scarred won’t make it unattractive to me. A scar is merely the memory of a battle won. A victory against death, disease and decay. This scar represents the mark of all the obstacles our love has overcome. Like the mark a child puts on a tree to see how much he’s grown in the past year. Let me see that beautiful mark on your vagina. Let me make love to that beautiful, marked vagina.”

“I can’t,” she’d plead, turning away from me in bed. “I need time. Please give me more time.”

“And anal is definitely out of the question?”

Meanwhile, at work, IR#9.5 was laying it on thick, boasting to me about her miraculous sexual prowess, her affinity for the menage-a-trois and the way she loved to go to sleep with a hot flush of come in her mouth. What would be the harm, I wondered, in a quick blowjob at work if afterwards I returned home to the woman I truly loved? She’d never have to find out. And besides, wasn’t it possible that Mitzi had cheated on me at some point? Did she really contract that STD before we met, or had there been an affair I didn’t know about? Something other than stretching and sculpting going on five days a week with that Pilates instructor? How else to explain the mysterious appearance of this strange disease? (Actually, there is a likelier explanation which I’ll get to in a moment).

The problem was it all looked so easy: a blowjob received in the wings of the theater, in the dark, where no one could see it and no evidence would remain. If IR#9.5 blabbed, I’d deny it. No one would take her word over mine. I was a playwright, for Chrissake, with a beautiful, intelligent girlfriend, and she was just some crazy actress looking to get ahead. It would be the perfect crime, and I, the master criminal, soon-to-be relieved of the sexless anxiety that had been building in my loins.

But what think tank, what wise men, what tribunal of learned minds would have predicted IR#9.5’s blowjob to be a force of nature so spectacular that I would soon be sucked into her mouth like a wrong-footed dinosaur misstepping into the La Brea Tar Pits? Sweet gentleman of the jury, I tell you, this was no ordinary blowjob. If IR#9.5 applied half the craft to her acting that she applied to her cocksucking, she would no doubt be remembered as one of the all time legends of the silver screen. For what IR#9.5 accomplished in the wings of that theater, so far superior to anything she ever accomplished on the stage, rendered my reactive mind weak, my body limp, and my senses dull to all but the sound of ancient cherubs singing forth great visions of rusted spacecraft gliding over lilied fields atop the gentle vesper forged from a molten core of erupting Earth piercing the ether with lavic apocalypse burst through the marble of an incense laden hallway petaled with 72 dulcimer-strumming damsels dancing circles of crossing threads to weave silken tapestries depicting desert armies hacking pyramids with bloodied scimitars unleashing rivers of honeyed yogurt to overflow the chalice of an elixir sweet to my lips like the warm embrace of an opiate slumber wrapped in the blanket of a good God’s grace.

She made a believer of me.

And all it took was 18 seconds. 18 seconds for IR#9.5 to turn a man of no faith into a firm-bellied acolyte to her Temple of Fellatio. 18 seconds to unzip my fly, confound my life then strut onto the stage and deliver her lines as if nothing had happened.

The next evening she serviced me in my car after I drove her home. Then it was the dressing room. Then the alley behind the theater. Then center stage one night after the house closed. Before long I was calling her in the middle of the day, meeting her in public parks, department store bathrooms, library stacks, peep show booths, slow-moving elevators and confessionals. Each time a miracle. Each time a religious experience as her mouth burned, her hands gripped, her tongue flicked — she knew exactly how long to tease, to bob, to stroke, to suck, to finger my ass and massage my prostate until I came like a drunken monkey. She could drop a line of saliva with her eyes closed from a standing position and have it land squarely on the red, sore tip of my cock. Oh, IR#9.5 may not have been much of an actress, but she was an artist of oral such as my Swiss Miss could never compare. And with each successive blowjob, the vision of my life with Mitzi grew evermore faint: floating the Mediterranean in her daddy’s Yacht, summers at the chalet, our multi-lingual children sent to the finest boarding schools in Switzerland… all of it vanishing in the wake of these mind-melting, knee-buckling, asshole-quivering blowjobs. It was a competition between a life and a sensation. On the one hand, Mitzi, a perfect wife, the promise of family and the realization of my economic ambitions. On the other hand, IR#9.5 — the orgasm masquerading as salvation!

In the end, as often happens in situations such as these, fate would intervene, sort out the complications and reduce the argument to its inevitable consequence. It turned out I was not the master criminal I thought I was, for a true, master criminal would never have documented the crime on his camera phone for the purpose of showing it to Arty from Philly and the other drunks at his favorite bar. And he certainly would not have downloaded the footage onto his desktop and allowed it to be discovered by his girlfriend on the very day her doctor informed her that the surgery was not successful, and that the STD she had contracted would leave her barren and possibly cancerous unless her entire cervix was removed.

There would be one final fight between us, the evening that Mitzi, in a rare show of emotion, threw my belongings off the terrace of her Westwood Apartment, demanding that I tell her if IR#9.5 was the “slut” who gave us the disease that wrought such havoc on her body, but, in a strange twist of biological inequity, did almost nothing to damage mine. “Just tell me it was her,” Mitzi insisted. “Just admit it to me, you bastard. You Goddamn Zionist bastard!”

I did not lie to my love. I could not, and I would not lie to her. I held her hands in mine, looked her in her tear-filled eyes, and I told my Mitzi the truth. I told her I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Intimate Relationship #9.5 (obviously borrowing “sexual relations” from a former leader of the free world who had defined the term in a way that rendered certain acts no more perverse than a hand shake). I told her IR#9.5 was NOT the cause of her genital defect (again, not a lie, for Mitzi had contracted the disease long before IR#9.5 and I first met, likely the consequence of an evening I spent with a junky under the 101 Freeway — a confession for another trial, dear jury, but suffice it to say that I have needs as various as they are sordid). And despite my overwhelming honesty and my heartfelt plea that we stay together, my Swiss Princess, my Mitzi, the love of my life, declared that she was, indeed, finished with me and with America as well. In her view it was the whole country that had wronged her, ravished her, as we’d done in Vietnam and were about to do in the Middle East. Plundered her worth and left her a barren desert at war with herself and mankind. We forget that though there are immigrants who come to this country, dig a foundation and construct a new life, brick by brick, with the mortar of their sweat, there are also some who take a wrecking ball to everything they’ve built, raze the ruins and scatter ashes into the sea. Who return to their native lands to bequeath a bitter resentment of Americans to their children (adopted children as it will have to be in Mitzi’s case), cursing the country that provided them for so long with protection from the truly evil empires of the world as opposed to the merely careless. And perhaps this is the true cause of modern, European anti-Semitism. Perhaps it has nothing to do with Israel’s treatment of Palestinians or with the guilt felt over Europe’s role in WWII. Perhaps it has only to do with the many venereal diseases Jewish men have passed on to previously neutral Swiss women, who, for a brief and vulnerable moment, found us charming and worthy of their trust.

I gathered my belongings from under Mitzi’s terrace and drove them over to IR#9.5’s Silverlake flat, thinking I’d crash there for the night and score a quick blow job before planning my next step in the morning. But once I told her I was no longer with Mitzi, my relationship with IR#9.5 was immediately changed and changed forever. No longer was I the non-reciprocating recipient of her oral virtuosity. No longer was I the brilliant young playwright who would cast her in all of his plays. Now, instead, I was a prisoner to her mania, expected to pay back in spades for her unrequited lavishings. In short, I was expected to fuck her, to eat her hairy pussy (you could lose your keys in the thing) and to suffer under the weight of her bouncing, flopping, thumping attempts at orgasm. In exchange for a place to stay, I would suffer constant reminders of the times I had rebuffed her and used her as a whore. But now I was the whore, commanded to put up with her never ending criticisms and embarrassing public outbursts. If only I could sell another play, I thought, I’d have enough money to move out and get my own place. But how could I be expected to write when IR#9.5 made it her daily work to reduce me to an empty husk of a man barely fit to hold even a kernel of the human spirit? The blowjobs had vanished, a tactic of seduction never to be repeated, all leading up to this final act of treachery wherein IR#9.5 would extract from me my sperm and use it to impregnate herself so that even the law, the full weight of the American legal system, would now serve to enforce her hegemony over my life.

A trap. A tar pit. A child.

“You think you’re some fucking prize?” she asked when she returned home from work. “You think I want to be stuck with you and not Brad Pitt or Bill Gates or at least someone with a fucking job? Where the hell do you get off being pissed I’m having your baby? You should be so lucky I’m having your fucking baby!”

IR#9.5 went on to list for me all the reasons why I was fortunate to be linked with her, or with anyone, considering my profile as it had been compiled by Ana, IR#9.5’s “spiritual therapist,” a woman capable of reading palms and auras but not licensed to prescribe medicine in the state of California.

“Ana warned me you were a damaged person because of that bipolar bitch who raised you!” This was how IR#9.5 referred to my mother. “The hair-trigger temper and hour long tirades. The wild and unprovoked mood swings. The year long depressions that created your fear of abandonment.”

“What fear of abandonment?” I asked. “Abandon me! Please! Take my unborn child and leave the TiVo.”

“Ana says you mistake violence and hysteria for affection. That you’re completely unable to love a woman in a normal emotional state.”

“Like the state you’re in now?”

“You drive me to this state,” she screamed, knocking a bottle off the kitchen counter. “You do it the same way your mother goaded your father into beating her while you sat by like a pussy, helpless to stop the abuse but secretly desiring that he would kill her. Because that’s what you really wanted, wasn’t it? For Daddy to kill Mommy, thereby setting you free from the interminable warfare in your apartment. Free from the late night visits from police and social services. Free from trying to make that miserable cunt happy when you knew damn well she’d never be happy. She’d never be normal and nice like that Swiss anti-Semite you treated like shit. And don’t even get me started on what Ana says about your father!”

“Why not?” I asked. “Who knew a fifty dollar Gypsy would hold the key to unlocking the enigma that was Abel Fischman?”

“Ana thinks you’re ruined as a man because you’re unable to live up to the role model your father provided. Even though you want to hate him, subconsciously you envy him because he was capable of smacking a woman when she needed to be smacked. Capable of cheating on his wife without the moral bellyaching that’s the signature of your tribe. Fuck you and your Jew morality, Fish, telling me to kill my child so you don’t have to feel guilty about being a shitty father! Did I ever ask you to feel guilty? Did I ever tell you to stick around? I absolve you of all responsibility, Fish. You have the permission that your morality requires. So go ahead and walk out on me like your father walked out on you. I bet you don’t make it past the 110 freeway before that churning feeling in your gut brings you slithering back to my door. But give it a shot, Fish. Go ahead and abandon your woman and child. Try it on and see how it fits, you disgusting piece of shit!”

And so I tried. I threw on my coat, grabbed my laptop and drove to the bar to say good-bye to Arty. I was going to leave Los Angeles. Abandon the mess I’d made to start a new mess somewhere else, anywhere else, so long as I was no longer subject to the endless, screaming reproaches of that intolerable woman.

“As far as a full tank will take me,” I told Arty.

“Do you even have a full tank?”

“Can you spot me a twenty?”

Arty sat on a stool staring at the barkeeper’s ass. She was a perfect “one-hander,” i.e. she had an ass so compact a man could scoop it up in one hand. They grow this kind of ass in LA. It occurred to me, I’d miss this kind of ass.

“She was supposed to be the chick who blew me during intermission,” I said. “Not the mother of my child.”

“Everyone settles,” Arty belched. “Hell, I wanted to be the King of Sweden and fuck my way to Nirvana. Instead I’m married to a plumper, working 60 hours a week, lucky I get an hour a day in front of the internet to pull my pud and dream of better things.” He took an angry swig of his drink. “But it could be worse,” he alleged. “I could be back in Philly working in my old man’s shop, waking up at four in the morning to freeze my ass off half the year.” He admired what he saw as the barkeep bent over to pick up a crate. “Or I could be alone.”

“I don’t love her,” I told Arty. “I don’t even like her. And I think she’ll be a terrible mother. I think the child would be damaged beyond repair from growing up in the toxicity of our home.”

“And the way we grew up was so great?”

I admitted it wasn’t. But I also pointed out that we didn’t turn out to be happy, friendly people. “We became self-loathing, drunken misogynists, and as such, it is our obligation to the greater good that we refrain from reproduction.”

But Arty wasn’t listening. He was staring down into his scotch like a twelve your old peeking through a keyhole into his sister’s bedroom. He paid the tab and threw an arm around my shoulders.

“Let me show you a trick,” he said. “Hey barkeep! My friend here is having a baby!”

“Congratulations,” said the one-hander. “This one’s on the house!”

I went from bar to bar that night telling everyone who’d listen that my girl was knocked-up. I drank for free in no fewer than six establishments, hitting on one-handers into the wee hours before someone finally took mercy on my soul, called me a cab and sent me back to her lair.

IR#9.5 was asleep when I got home. I could see the outline of her body curled up beneath the duvet. I pulled away the covers and lifted her nightgown to get a better look. Her ass was enormous. You couldn’t scoop it with one hand or even two. You’d need a shovel for that ass. You’d need a fucking snow plow. In my drunken state, I thought it would be a good idea to stick my dick in that enormous ass. I took some lube from the night table and greased her up with my fingers.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Editing my myspace page.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“So sleep,” I said. “What do I care?”

“Get off me,” she yelled, nearly breaking my finger as she rolled over on the bed.

“Then how ’bout a blow job?” I asked.

“At three in the morning?”

“Yes,” I answered. “A blowjob at three in the morning!” I turned on the lamp at the side of the bed. “Is that such a horrible thing to ask?” She turned over and buried her face in the pillow. “I would even go so far as to say that three in the morning exists for the very purpose of blowjobs and suicides. And since I haven’t the rope for the latter, I might as well settle for the former.”

She cursed into the pillow.

“Why is it I’m worthy of being the father of your child but not worthy of a blowjob?”

“Fish,” she said, turning fiercely in my direction, “I’m tired. It’s late. And I’m in no mood for this now.”

“Now?” I asked. “You’re in no mood for it ever! You never want to blow me anymore. It disgusts you to even think of it. Years ago, you loved to have my cock in your mouth. You loved the way my body shook as I spewed hot come in your mouth…”

She covered her ears with her hands and screamed.

“Goddamn it!” I declared. “You owe me a blowjob. Even if you hate it, even if it makes you sick. Because as much as you hate my cock in your mouth, that’s how much I hate the idea of your having my child!”

“Get off me!” she screamed, as I laid my bulk on top of her, preventing her from kneeing me in the balls.

“You want to get rough?” I asked. “Is that how you want it, you little brat.”

“Fuck you, Fish,” she shouted, her teeth clenched and her body twisting beneath me. “Fuck you, you piece of shit!”

“Is that how Daddy’s little girl likes to play?”

“I’m not a little girl!” she insisted, in her little girl voice, angry and petulant, with a scowly little look on her face.

“Then why are you acting like a little girl?” I asked, pinning her wrists with one hand while I unleashed my cock with the other. “Why are you hurting Daddy’s feelings like a bratty little girl?”

I poked my prick against her chin as she wiggled and flipped, fighting to get away.

“Daddy’s hurting me,” she said, tossing her head as I jabbed my cock into her lips.

“That’s right Daddy’s hurting you,” I replied. “He’s hurting you because his little girl has to learn she’s a big girl now. She has to do some big girl things. And if she doesn’t start doing some big girl things this very instant, then Daddy’s going to smack the shit out of her until she opens her mouth and puts his cock-in-her-mother-fucking… OHHHHHHHHH MY LORD ALMIGHTY!”

I’m going to be a father.

About Judd

I'm a writer, screenwriter and director in Los Angeles. For years I had a column called Filth that was published by Rudius Media. Now you can read it here. You can also click a link to preorder my new novel, Love in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. Enjoy.
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