Word Count: 1500
RANDY AND PATRICIA MAKE A BABY…ALMOST
Since I couldn’t talk Patricia out of her diabolical plan to out breed straight people, I accepted her proposal. I had to. She hits harder than I do. And since, according to Patricia, straight sex outside of holy wedlock is just plain wrong, I borrowed something blue as they say. It was a simple ceremony with just a few extremely confused friends in attendance.
I dodged the bullet on our wedding night as Patricia pulled a lumbar muscle while carrying me over the threshold. What is it with lesbians and trying to lift beyond their capacities? Anyway, the next night was the night. We went to our room after a blissful day. Patricia went to the batting cages and I attended a Bette Davis retrospective.
We stood there, in the bedroom, facing each other like gunslingers. I made my last desperate lobby for the turkey baster, reminding her of the death oath she had taken in regards to ‘men and their filthy members’ but Patricia informed me that she hardly considers me to be a man and, for the cause, she’s willing to take one for the team. After a great deal of soul-searching…and a grappling hook, I was able to pull a compliment out of that. Besides, she was still in her ‘we should try everything once’ mind space. She does make one good point. If a gay person wants to try to have sex with the opposite gender, who better than an opposite gendered gay person? Since our combined expectations are at rock-bottom, there’s virtually no chance of disappointment. Plus, just think of the war stories. We undressed.
As I removed my shirt, Patricia declared (out loud) that “eww, you have a belly.” I looked at her with my head held high and informed her that if this was going to be our foreplay then “let’s talk about those cankles.” She pointed at me (as she often does) and informed me that, “one, there will be no foreplay, and two, shut up!” We continued undressing in silence, without looking.
We stood there, naked, until finally we slowly turned toward each other, our bodies braced for the nightmarish unknown. It wasn’t so bad. Patricia lowered her gaze. “Well, there it is,” she finally said. “Do they always just hang there like that?” “I was about to ask you the same thing,” I countered. The score was now Patricia 2, Randy 2. Then, something flashed in my eye. I looked down and screamed, “Oh my God, what is that!?” Patricia got all defensive. “That is Everest baby, prepare to climb.” “I know what that is,” I barked. “I mean that.” I pointed to the source of the flashing. She looked down. “Oops, piercing, sorry. I’ll take it out.” My mind was racing. “Am I going to need a tetanus booster after this?” I asked. Patricia pointed at my ‘Trilogy of Terror’ and declared, “If I didn’t need those little danglies for a higher purpose, they’d be hanging from my ears by now.” The score is now 3 to 3.
Patricia jumped onto the bed, assumed the prone position, and stared at the ceiling. “Alright, I’m ready,” she said. “Do you think you’ll need more Novocain?” I asked. I sat on the bed and reclined beside her. “So, this takes what, a couple of minutes?” she asked nervously, which is an extremely rare color for her. I pointed out that in these circumstances; at least one person should be ‘into’ what’s going on, so this might take a bit longer. I also warned her that barking out directions would only result in furthering ‘the little sizzler’s’ northern retreat. Her referring to ‘him’ as a pathetic little drama queen didn’t help.
Patricia scooted up to a sitting position and proudly displayed…a remote control. “I thought this might happen and I came prepared,” she said, aiming the remote like a pistol. She turned on the DVD-player. I scooted up next to her thinking that this might actually work. Ten minutes later and I’m trying to figure out how to tell her that BAMBI’S ALL-GIRL COMANDO SQUAD just wasn’t doing it for me…but I didn’t want to interrupt.
An hour later and we decided to try a new strategy, and it was working pretty well. Soon I heard that familiar rhythmic slapping sound accompanied by the occasional grunt. Of course Patricia ruined it by storming in from the bathroom too soon. We sat there, contemplating our plight and the wisdom of some of our more recent decisions. I tried to console her by pointing out that this is what happens when you throw two tops together. It worked, she laughed hysterically. She asked if we couldn’t give her plan of me continuing in a ‘manual mode’ and her running in and ‘crossing the line of fire’, one more try. I reminded her that I am not a porn star and that ‘aim’ was never my strong suit.
I’m not a religious man, but the next idea must have come from God himself. I remembered my collector’s edition of ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY’S “Star Wars Retrospective” (vol. 14 issue 23) and grabbed it. I braced myself before asking the question that could A) help us accomplish our goal or B) make me sorry that my mother said yes to my father way back in 1982. Patricia looked at the magazine and then directly into my eyes. She knew. She knew exactly what was coming. I fumbled out a few sentence fragments, postponing the final request as long as possible. She waited for them, like a panther. “Would…you be…willing to….possibly…maybe….” The next words came out as a whisper wearing a cough. “…..roll over?” “Oh, hell no!” blasted against my face. “You roll over!” she screamed. At this point it struck me. We’re about 4 hours into this little adventure and I’m a little tired. “Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem,” I said with just enough sincere anger to catch her attention. “But if you’ll remember, this was your little project.” She grudgingly agreed.
What happened next was the stuff of pure legend. Never underestimate the power that a strategically placed head-shot of Hans Solo (smiling with an open mouth) can have on even the most impossible situations. The fact that Patricia allowed me to tape it there was a testament to her commitment to the task at hand. We were making good progress, all things considered.
As Hans and I embarked on our sextravaganza, Patricia felt the need to encourage me in her own special way. “I can’t believe some women allow this! How much longer! Is this really all there is! What’s going on back there!?” I politely told her that she was making it difficult for me to hear Harrison Ford beg for mercy as the Wookie cheered me on and that at this rate; ‘warp speed’ is an even bigger fantasy. I suggested that perhaps if she were able to think of me as Melissa Etheridge with a strap-on, we could both have a better time.
It worked. We each got lost in our respective happy places as evidenced by the totally separate yet oddly compatible pillow conversations we were having.
“MAY…THE…FORCE…BE…WITH…YOU!” mingled effortlessly with “COME…TO…MY…WIN…DOW!”
A lot of things can happen in the moment of ‘the little death’, when you lose all grip on reality. I vaguely remember hearing the words “what the hell!” I didn’t really feel the first punch, but the second one had real heft to it. When my vision cleared and the room stopped spinning, I noticed that I was now looking up at Patricia from the floor. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. When I realized what had happened, all I could do was choke out a feeble “Oh, my God. I’m sorry. It was reflex, really. I’m so sorry.” Patricia stepped off the bed and stood over me. She pointed right at my face. “Sorry ain’t gonna cut it! I can’t believe you did that! Now pull yourself together.” Patricia turned and walked toward the bathroom. “Where are you going?” I asked. She spun around. “I’m going to scald my back under the shower for about 20 minutes! Use this time wisely!”
As I recovered from the orgasmic blunt trauma to the head, I began to consider my situation and ponder my options. I could simply play dead in the hopes that she would just sniff me and move on. Of course that’s never worked in the past. I could run, but she is ex-military with a flair for tracking. I could try to explain to her that in hindsight, her plan is just a bit under thought…if I wanted a quick death.
I sighed deeply and spotted my ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY. I picked it up and thumbed through the pages as I heard Patricia singing ‘Sisters Are doing it For Themselves.’ As the last ounce of hope was about cut-tail and run, I turned the page and there it was, a photo-tribute to Burt Lancaster. Thank you God!