I’ve been thinking about sperm today. Not ordinary sperm, but super sperm–the kind real men used to grow. When I was in high school, one of my classmates got pregnant. Back then, getting pregnant outside of the holy bonds of wedlock sucked. It usually implied sexual intercourse. But not always.
The girl who got pregnant—I’ll call her Deborah—was a virgin. And yet, she was with child. Knocked up. Bun in the oven. She was in a family way, through no fault of her own. It was very sad. Very unfair.
Deborah got pregnant sitting on toilet seat some guy had recently pleasured himself on. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Sperms used to be so powerful. Hell, a young woman could relieve herself in a public restroom, and leave defiled. After hearing Deborah’s story, I never sat on a public toilet seat again; I knew a sperm could break through one those flimsy paper seat covers, waiting to get at one of my unsuspecting eggs. Though my childbearing years are far behind me, I still don’t sit on public toilet seats. Over the years, I’ve perfected my aim.
Annie Aronson: grandmother, writer, fabulous.