Chapter Three: Attempt Number Two -Where is the penis?

‘Feel how hard I am.’
Thrusting my hand under the duvet, I tried to seek it out. I started by patting the area where it was most likely to be but it was useless - I couldn’t find anything. His body pressed down heavy. His mouth up by my right ear.
‘Feel it,’ he repeated.
It must be down there somewhere. I pushed my hand down to his pubic hair area, it felt hot and sticky but no penis. Where was it?
‘That feels good,’ I whispered trying to buy myself more time.
‘It’s hard,’ he said pushing his upper body down so now my hand was wedged between us both.
Then just when I thought perhaps I’d located something down there, a stirring, something rubbing, a hint of friction, he bit down on his lower lip and sighed. He rolled onto his back, his eyelids fluttering. He’d been so heavy that I half expected to see my legs and feet rolled flat like tissue paper.
‘Wow,’ he said closing his eyes.
I took this opportunity to gently lift the duvet and take a peek. Sure enough, nestled up in his abundant, blonde pubic hair, there it was. I lifted the duvet a bit more, tempted to get a photograph with my mobile, just so I could get some sort of external corroboration. Luckily he’d fallen asleep already so I could avoid any tricky analysis of his performance. But in reality his performance had been alright, he’d taken a while to have an orgasm, he hadn’t pulled any terrible faces and he’d moved his hips with gusto. There was just the issue of the most important bit being missing. And he’d been so confident when we met. It was always the arrogant ones! He was a creative director (whatever that meant). He wore an obscure brand of trainers. He wore glasses even though he didn’t need them. We’d met in the Curzon cinema. I know what you’re thinking. You picked someone up in a cinema? It’s not what I usually do but I was actually waiting for someone else- someone that Simon had set me up with and then he didn’t show up and the film had already started and I was staring mournfully out of the window watching all the babies and the pregnant ladies dancing past and then I heard a voice and there he was and we quickly started chatting and I tried to keep it to two glasses of wine but then we moved onto a pub round the corner and his hand started migrating up my skirt. And it was Day Sixteen so why not? It was either now or wait till next month. The timing was never going to be perfect- Attempt Number Two would have to be all about ‘making do’. You can’t set out and say ‘tonight I am going to have sex’. Or you can but it doesn’t make it anymore likely. It’s all about luck, chance, a combination of strange coincidences that result with you ending up squashed underneath a blonde creative director with a tiny penis.

I slid out the bed and escaped to the bathroom. Were small penises hereditary? If so what kind of legacy would I be passing on to my son? Shutting the door, I settled myself on the toilet, like a mother hen warming her eggs. This was where I did most of my serious contemplation these days. Day Sixteen. In fact the likelihood of me getting pregnant this time was not very high.
‘Feel how hard I am,’ I said tearing a piece of loo paper off the roll.
I crept back into the room and managed to gather up my clothes with minimum fuss. He had posh coffee table books scattered next to the bed. As I pushed the bedroom door open, his eyes opened very briefly, he looked over in my direction like perhaps he was going to say something, then rolled onto his front and moaned.

In the taxi back to Crystal Palace I was filled with self-loathing. I was losing my grip. First a hairy bear, now a man with no penis. What next? A hobbit? I should have waited for the date to turn up. Simon knew the kind of men I liked. But then on the other hand I needed to be realistic; sacrifices needed to be made. Did I really think I could have great sex and get pregnant with a man with a decent sized penis! In fact it was better this way. A tiny penis ensured I didn’t develop feelings, didn’t muddle up the task at hand. In fact the small penis combined with the extreme arrogance was ideal- it meant I’d never get in touch with that guy again. I looked up to see the cab driver clocking me in his rear view mirror. I realised I’d been mouthing the words ‘small penis’ over and over whilst we sat waiting at the traffic lights. I quickly looked down and retrieved my purse from the bottom of my bag.

Back in my room I pushed two pillows under my waist so my crotch was higher than my head. Are you still there? Are you still attached or are you disintegrating? Don’t worry- he was a nice man, he was a creative director, whatever that means, and we’ll just forget about the other stuff. He was generous, he bought me two drinks and he also paid for the taxi to his flat. That makes him a good person. So come on now egg- don’t get all judgemental. I lifted my hips a bit higher imagining the sperm sliding downwards on an enormous water slide. Powerful sperm from a small penis. Concentrated and determined. I hit the radio alarm button and squeezed and released my pelvic floor in time to A-ha. Then once I’d given those sperm a really good chance, at least half an hour, I popped into the shower. My baby would be blonde. My baby would be creative.

As I lay in bed I could feel the concentrated sperm working their magic. They were like those little fire-fighters on the indigestion adverts, they were determined, they had hose pipes under their arms, they weren’t going to stop until they’d done the job. Even if it was Day Sixteen. Now the fertilised egg (who had been growing tired and had given up – was anyone really going to show up?) was dividing, once, twice and was on its way to becoming a person. If it was a girl she would be really intelligent and artistic. When she grew up she would have a natural empathy towards men with small penises. She would never judge them. Or if it was a boy, he’d have bags of confidence and be a top creative person. He wouldn’t be too arrogant, instead he’d be humble, staying grounded, never getting carried away with himself. He’d never scatter poncy coffee table books round the bed to make himself look clever. And in fact the small penis would be a blessing. It’d make him well rounded, thoughtful and sweet.

Mum popped into work the next day. I was stacking the usual tragedy smut onto a trolley. This stuff sold very well these days. Everyone enjoys a good tale of abuse. I looked up because I could feel her standing there. I can always feel her before I see her. She’s that type of woman.
‘You look tired,’ she said.
She always says I look tired. However today she was right. The fertilised egg was sapping my energy. Already I could feel the baby inside making me feel light-headed and dizzy.
‘I’m a bit under the weather,’ I replied.
Mum stared deep into my eyes. I turned back to my trolley and resumed stacking. You have to be careful. She’s a mind reader - she knows me inside out- she could easily glean every detail – the man, the tiny penis, the whole fiasco. So I had to shut down.
‘Are you coming over this weekend?’ she asked picking up one of the abuse books and looking at the title. It was called ‘Please Daddy not Tonight Please!’ It was in our top ten bestsellers that month. I hadn’t read it. Didn’t need to. The title was pretty self explanatory. I mentally counted off the days. One day for the egg to be fertilised. One day for it to divide into two. Three days for it to grow a penis. Or was that too fast? I needed to take more iron. Make sure the baby didn’t end up with an iron deficiency. I stacked two new books onto the shelf. One had a picture of a small boy holding a puppy. If that was my son- what would I call him? Names! I hadn’t even started on names yet.
‘Kate, what’s wrong?’ Mum said placing her hand on my shoulder.
I didn’t turn round. If she looked into my eyes she would see her future grandchild, she’d see the plan, she’d see it all. Even touching my shoulder she’d be able to feel some of the vibes, some of the brainwaves, she might even be able to tell I was pregnant.
‘I’m fine, just got a bit of hay fever you know,’ I said, ‘How’s George? Is he okay?’
George was always a useful distraction. He was an inexhaustible source of woe and worry. I turned round. George’s woes would drown out any baby hormones leaking out of my pores.
‘That’s partly why I want you to come over. He’s very down. He’s always in his room,’ she flipped the book over, skimmed the description, shuddered and put it back on the trolley, ‘And he plays this awful, dooming music, like it’s the apocalypse, then he comes out, eats a whole tub of taramasalata and then goes back into his room.’
‘Sounds perfectly normal to me,’ I said.
George had always preferred games for company. Even when he was younger and we all went out for a meal, he’d bring his Nintendo along and play it underneath the table.
‘Can you talk to him? He’s never going to find a job sitting playing computer games all day.’
I nodded. Mum I am going to have a baby. I am finally going to have one of those things that you want me to have. I can’t tell you now because it’s only half a day old and about as big as a piece of eye grit. But it’s there, I can feel it. And Mum – it’s going to be absolutely fucking brilliant! Luckily Mum’s mind reading skills were skewed; George and his addiction to computer games sapped her emotions. For a second she looked puzzled, cocked her head to one side, then pecked me on the cheek and left.

Twice during the day I was convinced I felt something inside shift. Something molecular. Cells joining and reforming. All day I held my abdomen as still as possible.

Simon and I got the bus home together. I resisted the urge to spill the beans about the man from the night before. If Attempt Number Two was my baby’s father then it would be disloyal to make fun of him. But it was extremely difficult not to talk about it. Just like it had been extremely difficult not to tell Simon about my plan. But he would never understand. He didn’t like babies. He screwed up his face if you talked about them. He didn’t get womb ache every time one of them passed by. So instead we talked about how much we hated our new boss Carla, how the books we sold were all shit and written by mugs, how we were both too good for our current jobs, how we had to leave soon and do something new, how a book shop in Croydon was not the place for two talented, artistic types like ourselves. The same conversation had gone on between the two of us every day for four years.

Simon got off two stops before me. He waved and smiled but as the bus pulled away I saw his face fall and he looked miserable. It was true. We had to get out of the book shop. We had to do something more meaningful with our lives. Luckily I was half way there already. I was carrying the baby of a man with a tiny penis.

I had an early night and was in bed by eight thirty. I wanted my fertilised egg to rest up. Wanted to do everything I could to ensure a successful merge. No hot baths. No exercise. Only 25% of couples trying to conceive will get pregnant within the woman’s first cycle. I’d got this copied down in my pregnancy book, right underneath the list I’d made of potential fathers. However 90% of couples will achieve pregnancy within the first 12 months of actively trying. But what if you sleep with a different man every month over a 12 month period? Is that more effective? Surely an egg would get bored seeing the same old faces swimming past every night. Oh there they go again. Same old, same old. Hang on, wait, never seen them before, hey, they’re cool, they’re wearing really outlandish fashions, they’re really different. Woohoo! Over here! I’m here! And what about the size of the penis? Did it make any difference? Apparently the largest surviving baby ever born weighed 14 pounds, 13 ounces and was nearly 23 inches in length. That could mean my baby could end up being twenty one inches longer than its father’s penis. Imagine! But I would never tell the baby about its father. I would certainly never joke about it. Because I would always be grateful to him.

Your father acted with dignity and decorum. He had only had my comfort and pleasure in mind. I would always be grateful to Attempt Number Two.
Always.