The Donor

Chapter 2

Prologue“So how was I?”

“Sufficient, if you’re referring to getting yourself off.”

“Oh, come on Edie. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes. You want a recap of your s****l prowess... since you can’t remember a thing.”

Though the rebuking words come softly, my wife’s disappointment is evident. As she steps to the kitchen counter for the coffee pot, I quickly reach into the pocket of my robe to find another aspirin. Head pounding, of late the analgesic has become a regular part of my breakfast. Though wife Edie has given up lecturing on my drinking, I sneak another 350 milligrams without drawing notice to avoid more rebuke.

“The clock ticks, Mort. You could... well... slow down for a night... when you know... the timing...”

Yes, in approaching age 27 and of much desire to have a child, Edie meticulously records her cycle. Last night was the peak in terms of ovulating and I was the beneficiary of very attentive fingers, hands and foreplay. Unfortunately for her plans I was beforehand also the beneficiary of much single malt Scotch.

She returns to the table. As she pours me another cup, I reach forth and tenderly smooth my hand on a shapely right cheek. Edie stays fit, the flesh firm, the muscling supple.

“Don’t bother, Mort. You know you’ll need a few days to reload.”

Damn the cogent advice of the fertility clinic, apprizing that the male reproduction system for a man my age requires longer and longer intervals for restoring the spermatozoa count. So in advising that I’ll need to reload, I must assume I indeed got off.

“So... ah... you don’t think... you were...”

“Impregnated? Mort you have to come in me... not on me.”

“So my performance...”

“Great for the first ten seconds, then you passed out, went limp and little Mort oozed a nice load on my inner thighs.”

Edie likes to ride. Cowgirl style she terms it. I have learned to cede to it, meekly lying supine as her exquisite hand work brings little Mort to full blossom. She knows the male anatomy... touching and stroking the right spots such that any thoughts of fellatio seem superfluous. Yes, mounting and straddling me in a way suits my condition. Too many nights of lovemaking are preceded by visits from Mr. Glen Fiddich thus inhibiting physical exertion on my part.

With the disappointment obviously transcending to anger, I return to silence, realizing more words can only bring more scolding... gentle... but scolding all the same.

And Edie is right, I should lay off the booze. Yet the anesthesia of alcohol seems to dull the wounds... slow the cascade of thoughts over life’s missed opportunities, quashed aspirations. It’s the workplace, I’ve so many times told myself. A promising early career has led to being side lined. My title of Sales Administrator really nothing more than a clerical function.... highly paid yes... but a function with no ability to demonstrate skills over and above assembling numbers.

While Boss Lady Martina’s crack sales team functions like a championship ball club, I merely keep score.

Adding to the frustration is my boss and her relationship with wife Edie. Edie’s mother and the Boss Lady were close friends. After her Mom’s untimely death, Martina has stepped into the role of confidante... a defacto mother-daughter relationship. There is much exchange of information over my performance... job related and otherwise.

Breakfast consumed, Edie steps away. As I finish my coffee, planning a leisurely Saturday morning of hangover recovery reading the sports section and later an afternoon of baseball, I hear Edie on the back porch, speaking on her cell phone.

It’s for sure Boss Lady Martina. And she is being informed of my pusillanimous s****l effort. Yes the relationship is that close.

Heading for the stairs and a shower, I hear the blunt words the fairer s*x is known to exchange when not in mixed company...

“Yeah Martina, he passed out... his little thing dribbling all over me...”

I need a drink.