Twice for good luck (A work of imagination)

I want this for you…

That you do not discover you have breast cancer at 44, in a country where you know no one. And that the sperm donor you met on craigslist [so you can have the grand child you refused to give your mom before you are rendered unable to feed it] does not turn out to be fibbing when he claimed to be the father of a rambunctious, interested-in-goosebumps-but-not-girls-yet, baby boy.

That he was, in fact, a closeted white nationalist ex-Marine with low sperm-count who thinks black women were “cherished” in this country “judging by what you see on TV”. A man who doesn’t own a television, has given up on politics for the last 15 years, “because all politicians are crooks”, works as a security guard at a run down strip mall, lives with 5 other roommates and pet-watches for a gay couple he quietly despises where he took you for your second “insemination”.

Four tries. That is, according to him, how long and often it takes. [Of course that was before you found out that his kid was imaginary, just like his “average penis”. And he discovered you wanted kids not because you were nearing 40 and want to surprise your mother upon her first visit to America but getting ready to have Dr. Wechsler carve your breasts as if they were so many ingrown nails].

Four tries + “patience and persistence”. Two of the lesbian couple he donated to had to try four times before the strip test color changed to pink [blue, you found out later]. NI, of course, has a much better chance of succeeding if we tried up to 6 days before and after my ovulation date. Do it twice for good luck.

It was comforting, like a mother’s hug, this insistence on going in and out of you.. this eagerness to give you your mother’s dream. So you let it happen the afternoon or evening you saw a somewhat-promising color change on the ovulation stick, and at lunch time the next day. What have you got to lose? His penis maybe small but the sex wasn’t bad. Plus, he was good with his tongue. Really good with his tongue. As if your pussy wasn’t black on the outside, and pink on the inside. As if he liked the taste of it once he forced himself to face “the animal”. To discover how pussy was pussy. Wet was wet. A black cat was just as cuddly in the dark as a white one. Cuddly and “tight”, apparently. Maybe even too tight, per his speculation, after he came so fast you did not have time to discover how deeply his sharp knees could dig into your thighs that first time. Never imagined a woman who has been married to a black guy for three and a half years would manage to remain so tight, he added half apologizing, half whimpering.

What is more, he kept it in, he pressed longer and harder to make sure he emptied all his “bullets” in you. Which felt good, generous, and even intimate. That he ate a lot of protein, stopped masturbation for days, and let his “bush” grow because you liked the friction [and because he was mesmerized by how your own “bush” was shaped like a heart. A road map. An arrow. ‘20 miles to Fuckville’]. He was also attentive afterwards, not like Jason who bounces out of the bed and tries to find the wet spot, afraid his mother or his sister would find it in one of those purposeless rummagings he is sure they go on the minute we stepped out. He was quick to grab a pillow and mount your ass on it.. adjust the timer.. make sure you were comfortable and have everything you need before he heads out. That you weren’t crying the way you did the first time you artificially inseminated yourself. “Think about it,” he has said gently, after you stopped sobbing, your body trembling with the bitterness and shame of it, “you can’t eat when you are stressed out, right? Your stomach closes. Maybe your [pointing at my hoo-ha] closes too when you.. are feeling that way”.

Feeling that way. Being that way; all twisted with agony. Sobbing in a hacking voice that almost made you throw up and then choke on that vomit, lying sprawled as you are, with your pelvis mid air. Calling the god of your mother, in your own language, to ask Him “why me”. Have I not suffered enough? Has not 32 years of over-bleeding that requres tweleve night-guard sanitary-pads a day for three days [with a total of 4 accidents and one spot on a co-worker’s car seat] been enough of a monthly torture? Hasn’t immigration, a divorce, working at Goodwill with arrogant morons, living alone for 7 years in an apartment complex where prostitutes brought their Johns, where I can be murdered in my bed, chopped into pieces and flushed down the toilet; then going to school, working two jobs and being the only person standing alone on my graduation day, my citizenship day, and the afternoon I was told it was malignant sufficed? Was it not enough that I nursed myself back to recovery, in an empty room, after both biopsies, while my good arm tried but was unable to reach that spot on my lower back?

Why this? Why me? What did I do to deserve this other than being born? And/or my mom being raped by a man 13 years older than her 17 years of age, who then threatened to take her to court if she tried to abort it? And my father being brought up by a step father who beat him within an inch of his life because he cried out for his mother in the middle of the night at finding himself covered in ants?! Being insecure about and eternally pissed-off at his child-bride that those who knew his mother while she was still alive said was a spitting image of Shenkore?

Did You imagine growing up watching her pay for her original sin, her first rejection, was something to be desired? Being told she would have left if it wasn’t for you? Have her lash at you when you tried to find comfort in food? Hearing your loving mother, your barely grown-up young mother, call you “pig”, “hyena” and the various forms of “disgusting”? Watching as your old man, your very old man, your cruel, abusive, “ugly on the inside and out” father end up being your defender?

Where and when did I sow the seeds or rebellion that I am reaping the fruits of today? When I crisscrossed streets to avoid my abusers as an obese child at 13? When I was being mocked by my Phys. Ed. Teacher for not running as fast as my classmates at 15? Or was it that time when my college bestie could not help but laugh at one of the insults my harasser flung at me on one of those long bus rides home? When I run from those who came after me, unwilling and unable to believe I could be loved, in the hope of being chased, arrested, and kept? When the one man who recognized my good, traveled all the way to where I am to meet me, and married me 9 months later decided to file for divorce because I refused to give his Filipino mother, also my co-sponsor, a curly-haired grandkid to brag about?

I want this for you, dear reader. Not to be, feel, end up this much of a loser. A black woman fucking a white trash while his cold and clammy hands dug into your flesh. A White trash who stopped calling, texting, and showing up outside your work after you told him the truth. After your tearful confession he “awww”ed and emoji-hugged you for. When the hope of having gained a friend, a steadfast friend, got dashed once he found out what deadly secrets your “fantastic boobs” held.

[You should have, of course, heard the alarm sign go off when he said, of his gay employers, “they are homosexual” and in the way he announced how Robert De Niro’s wife was black. With certain flair. Like someone with the courage, the bravado, the crusade to go where no one has gone before. Our man in the sticks! When his only favorite NPR show turned out to be “Car Talk”! Should have guessed he wandered into your world by mistake. That… Craigslist’s “HotJizz4u”, America’s “Always faithful”, and Co-parent’s “Leopard” wasn’t a mere tall thin cat. A tall thin cat made toothless by the times and these here Mexicans. But sleek and slippery, like soap. Oorah!

Which is, come to think of it, what his penis tasted like that time he asked you to suck it. You were surprised, although you tried not to show it. He licked you, a lot and often. But that was to “get you in the mood”. “So you’d open up like a flower ready for pollination”. “So you’d enjoy it. They say the better the sex, the better the chance of conception.” He never had a problem getting it up, even though he kept saying he was doing it “for you”, and still pretended he wasn’t getting anything out of it. He certainly did not hesitate to make you fork the $199 for his STD lab test. So you were surprised at the request for a blow job. But said it was okay when he protested you really didn’t have to if you don’t want to. You were not new to giving blow jobs, that wasn’t the problem. Jason has taught and guided you well through it, God bless him. You have enjoyed watching him squirm in silence before going down on you, as the less noisy form of executing his marital duties. [After all, his mom, her 3rd and “racist” white husband, and “baby-sister” literally slept in the rooms to the left and right of the one you guys are paying rent for to make up for all the expenses spent on bringing you to America. The exotic wife he met on Yahoo! Answers! and travelled all the way to the “Dark Continent” to marry. The wife who turned out to be, surprise surprise, just as independent, liberal, and a bad-cook as all the black girls he avoided from home. Refusing to become barefoot and pregnant, before she went to school and got a career anyway, just to compensate for his mother not being part of her only son’s wedding ceremony.]

But Jason was half-black. It was not the half he liked. It was not the half he grew up with, or wanted to date amongst before one too many heart-break and disappointments from his yellow-fever-flames made him swing the other way [When they go white, we go black. Yassar! Back to our, possible, roots. Roots buried deep into the dark continent containing, hopefully, light-skinned women with lixurious hair and non-flat-nose]. It was certainly not the half his “Pino” “Cuz”s forgave him for going all the way to Africa to marry into, even though you were lighter-skinned than most of them. But he was half black, and “the love of your life”. Certainly not a white man towering over your kneeling black figure, pumping himself in and out of your mouth, while his bare soap-flavored-penis gave you a gag-reflex. Twice!

[He came all over your chest, although that was not the plan and made him pretty regretful afterwards. “Creaming” your “jugs” while moaning how much he wanted to titty-fuck you was not what he set out to do. Not because he was wrong, you do have spectacular titties. Your best features, really. Big girls do have nice breasts. And legs. And soft skin. He just wasn’t in it to win that. Know what he means? Nor to waste so much good functional jizz that way.]

I hope this for you, dear reader, that you won’t miss him and his brief but intense friendship. His texts in the morning and his phone calls at night. The way he talked about the curly-haired, reading-glasses-wearing, hair-bead-sporting, book-loving nerdy-but-not-ugly, Malia-Obama-look-alike daughter you would have. (Yeah, his Texan dad certainly voted for him before learning how Obama gave taxpayers’ money to his cronies in the form of a stimulus cheque). The fact that you almost made him believe in interracial relationship before he texted, out of the blue, 3 months after your 4-month unsuccessful try, leaving you convinced that it was your ovary that was ornamental instead of his testicles, to say maybe you should give this another shot with a different guy but to make sure you have the guy’s sperm count in file. His was, he must admit, and sorry for telling you untruth [he just didn’t know you were terminal], “less than, shall we say, top bunker material?”. More like a POG than a Grunt. Hope you know he didn’t have to tell you, he added resentfully, when the “Atta boy” and “Good job!” for finally owning up to his lies failed to come. After he got over his resentment at your lies about your age and motive, however, he felt it only fair. Hope your mother’s visit goes without a hitch. You deserve this after all your hard work to make it happen.

I wish this for you even more, dear reader, that you won’t feel so alone that you have to write letters to yourself to feel less lonely.