The Lie (9 page)

My first abortion
was in high school and it was fucking terrible. Like easily one of the worst experiences of my life. The guy was a baseball player at my high school named Gordon Hillhurst. It was just a onetime thing at this party where we were both really drunk and I was in between boyfriends and we didn’t use a condom or anything, obviously, and I missed my first period after we had done it. I started getting morning sickness and everything and I seriously was like thinking about telling my mom, but I knew she’d make me have the baby and there was no way I was going to have a baby in high school.

At first I just kept it a secret and got like completely anorexic because I didn’t want to start getting fat and have people notice. Plus I read online that if the mother has bad nutrition it can sometimes cause a miscarriage, which would have been the best thing in that scenario. I mean that’s what I was hoping for. And of course it didn’t happen, so like almost a month later I decided I was going to get an abortion. I didn’t even tell Gordon I was pregnant and I didn’t tell any of my friends so I didn’t really have anyone to help me with money or anything. I just ended up telling my mom that there was a diamond necklace on sale for one week only and I really wanted it and it would be like an early birthday present and she gave me the money. Then I went out and bought a cubic zirconia version of the actual necklace and used the money to pay for my cab ride to McCarthy Family Planning Clinic, the abortion, and the cab ride to my friend Stacy’s house. I had prearranged with Stacy to spend the night at her house. I didn’t think I’d be able to look my mom in the face for at least a day after lying to her.

So I made the appointment during the day, skipped school, and got my first abortion. I guess I was sixteen. Yeah, it was like two months before I turned seventeen. And, like I said, it was seriously like one of the worst things I’ve ever gone through. I guess I didn’t know what to expect—who does, right? I mean, everyone knows what an abortion is. They kill the baby in your uterus and pull it out. Up until that first one, that didn’t sound so bad. Holy shit, though. It was awful.

With the first one, no one else was in the waiting room, thank God. And after I filled out my paperwork they took me back to what would be my room for the next half an hour and my doctor came in. His name was Dr. Staggert. He was seriously old. I remember thinking he was going to be the oldest guy to have ever looked at my pussy.

We didn’t say much or anything. He was just like, “Because you’ve started your second trimester, we’re going to have to use a procedure called dilation and evacuation. This means that the fetus has reached a size that will require your cervix to be dilated in order to safely remove it after the pregnancy is terminated.”

I remember thinking that “safely” was a weird word to use, because the thing would be dead, but I guess he was talking about me.

He was like, “This is not going to be the most comfortable thing, but we’re going to give you some local anesthetic that should help.”

Then he put my legs up in the stirrups and a nurse hooked me up to an IV and he didn’t say anything else except, “Okay, you’re going to start to feel some discomfort.”

No fucking shit. First he jammed a pair of forceps up my vag and started stretching shit out like way up inside. He had given me something for the pain, but it still hurt pretty bad. Then he was like, “Okay, I’ve dilated your cervix, now I’m going to terminate the pregnancy. Are you doing okay?”

I was like, “Um, yeah, I guess.” I mean, what are you supposed to say at that point? Then he jammed the forceps up even further into my vag and started twisting around on stuff. Thankfully that wasn’t as bad as the first part. But then he actually started pulling out chunks of stuff and I could tell that he and the nurses were doing their best to keep me from seeing anything, but I saw it. It was so bad.

On this tray that was sitting next to the doctor, I guess where he was putting all the chunks he was digging out, there was a thing that looked like a little piece of a leg with a foot that had no toes and there was this other thing that kind of looked like a hand that was missing a few fingers. I couldn’t really tell what it was, but it looked so bad that I just started crying when I saw it and I know that one of the nurses saw me see it because she moved the little sheet thing that was supposed to keep me from seeing it up a little higher. It was too late, though. I saw it.

After that I just closed my eyes and cried while Dr. Staggert finished what he was doing. I really didn’t think there would be hands and legs. I thought that didn’t happen until later. I thought the baby was basically just a blob until like the last month. God, it was terrible.

After it was over I went to Stacy’s house and waited for her to get out of school about half an hour later. I was still crying when she got there and I had to make up some story about Troy Perness calling me fat in geometry, which she called me on because she knew I wasn’t in school all day. So I like had to make up another story about how he called me fat the day before and I couldn’t deal with seeing him so I skipped school. She didn’t hassle me about it. I always kind of thought she knew what was going on.

That night I figured there might be like a lot of bleeding or something, so I brought like a whole box of tampons and pads, but it wasn’t too bad. It didn’t even hurt, really. It just kind of felt generally sore, but that was it. It was really like a kind of light period for a few days and then everything was back to normal—except I always had to deal with my mom asking me why I never wore the necklace. I couldn’t really tell her it would always remind me of my secret abortion and also it’s a cheap piece of shit.

Anyway, that was all my first abortion. I hoped that, because I caught the second pregnancy way earlier, it wouldn’t be as bad. I had heard somewhere that they could maybe even do it chemically and just make you have like a seriously heavy period that might have some chunks in it or something. I was going to wait until I got to the place to see what the options were.

Kyle picked me up and drove me there and made sure I had everything I wanted. He really was a good boyfriend, I mean the best I probably ever had at that point. Sometimes it really does suck to think about how everything turned out. But, whatever. So I made the appointment for the same place I got my first one—the McCarthy Family Planning Clinic. This time there was another girl in the waiting room. Kyle was there with me, but she didn’t have anyone. She looked way younger than me and I hoped that if she ever had to come back here she’d have someone like Kyle with her.

So I filled out my paperwork for the second time and then, like twenty minutes or so later, they took me back to a room that was maybe even like the same exact one I was in the first time. It was a different doctor. It was a woman this time, Dr. Jiminez. That made me feel a little better about the whole thing for some reason.

She looked at my paper and was like, “Okay, so it looks like you’re in your first trimester, toward the end of the first month. The procedure we’re going to be using in this case is called suction-aspiration. It will involve inserting a suction tube through your cervix and into your uterus.”

I was like, “Are you going to have to dilate me?” Because I remembered that being the worst part other than actually seeing chunks of the baby.

She was like, “Not much. Because you’re still very early in the pregnancy I should be able to remove the tissue from the termination with not much dilating.”

I was like, “Okay.”

The nurses gave me the same IV and same anesthetic as they did the first time and then Dr. Jiminez was like, “Okay, try to relax.”

Then she jammed this tube thing up my vag, and even though she said she didn’t have to dilate me as much, I could totally feel the thing going in my cervix. It actually wasn’t much different from the first time, except this time I didn’t see any nasty chunks or baby parts or anything and I have to think it’s because there weren’t any. I mean I saw like red blood and everything getting sucked through the tube, but nothing recognizable. I guess because it was so early in the whole development of the baby and everything it probably really was just a blob this time. The whole thing was a little quicker than last time, too.

Kyle paid the bill and we left. He was really nice. He was like, “Do you want to talk about it? Are you okay?”

I was like, “We can talk about it if you want to. I’m fine, though.” And I really was. This time didn’t seem near as horrible as the first time and I think it had something to do with knowing that Kyle was there. He was kind of like normal life waiting for me out in the waiting room.

He was like, “I don’t need to talk about it. I just want to make sure you’re okay and you know I’m here for you if you want to talk or if you need anything. I’ll do anything for you. You know that.”

I did know it.

A few days later we celebrated Christmas. We did Christmas Eve with his mom and dad and we did Christmas morning with my mom. My sister stayed in Boston for the whole Christmas break. Some guy.

It was weird how much my mom liked Kyle. She never liked any of my boyfriends, but she really liked him. It was kind of funny—well, not funny, but like ironic or whatever that she liked him so much and was excited to have him over for Christmas and everything, and like three days before that he paid for my abortion.

The last day
of our winter vacation coincided with my nineteenth birthday—January 3. I hadn’t heard much from Kyle since the abortion. He did call to thank me once again for loaning him the money, which I assured him was unnecessary. I explained that I despised children almost as much as women, and any opportunity to destroy one while causing the other pain was something well worth my investment. But larger than that was the opportunity to save Kyle from what would ultimately be a horrible existence. A child for Kyle in his freshman year of college would lead to him dropping out to support Heather, who would no doubt drop out as well. But instead of getting two jobs, like Kyle would, she would expect to be financially supported for the rest of her life.

I’ve always despised women who claim raising children is a “full-time job” and an important one at that. If indeed it is full-time, then why must the child’s father participate in it part-time after his actual job ends each day and on the weekends? What of his actual full-time job, which he performs alone, with no help from anyone, least of all his wife? But as soon as he walks in the door from the job that actually pays money, he’s expected to help his wife with the kids. She’s been watching them all day long, with the aid of hired help, which her husband pays for, and now she needs a break. Well, whore, he’s just fought traffic for an hour each way to perform a highly skilled function that you can’t even begin to comprehend in order to purchase the home that you must consider your office if, indeed, watching the children he sired is truly your job. Heather has always struck me as this type of terrible whore.

At any rate, I was more than happy to help Kyle, as any friend would be, in a situation that could potentially change his life forever in the worst way possible. And it was with this happiness that I found myself on my nineteenth birthday. I’ve never been one to get overly excited for the coming of birthdays or any holidays, really, but my nineteenth birthday was also an anniversary of sorts for me. It was one year ago, on my eighteenth birthday, that, after passing through a few screening processes, I began donating sperm at the South Texas Fertility and Family Medical Center in the South Texas Medical Plaza.

I would have never even considered donating sperm had I not happened upon a random episode of
60 Minutes
a few years prior. Part of the episode contained a feature about a website called donorsibling registry.com. The Donor Sibling Registry was a resource for children who had been produced through sperm donors, their legal parents/guardians, and potentially for any donor who realized he wouldn’t mind being contacted by any of his illegitimate progeny. On the program a doctor was interviewed who had sired half a dozen or so children through different women who had selected his sperm and had it surgically implanted in their wombs. The doctor, of course, had all the earmarks of a man these hopeless whores would want to be with if any man would have them. He made a good living, was intelligent enough to become a doctor, had generally desirable physical characteristics, et cetera.

The doctor claimed he donated sperm in college, if memory serves me correctly, and he had no intention of ever being contacted by his offspring. But once he found out about the website, and the possibility that he might have multiple carriers of his genetic legacy out in the world, he was less apprehensive about allowing his identity to be known to the various whores who bought his seed.

The idea of anonymously fathering children to whom I would owe nothing, to whom I would have no legal tie, was immediately intriguing for two main reasons and a third less important reason. One, I enjoyed knowing that somewhere in the Dallas area a desperate whore would be paying a doctor to inject my seed into her. Her life would be so hollow, so bereft of meaning, that she would believe ultimate happiness and fulfillment could come only from my seed. That, to me, was vastly entertaining. And two, through the website I could track my progeny and even make known to them who I was. I pictured a sea of children all knowing, along with their whore mothers, that their father was the heir to one of the largest fortunes in Texas, maybe even in the country, and that they couldn’t touch it. They’d never see one penny. This entertained me as well. And lastly, I thought it actually might be interesting to track these children’s progress through life, to see if there was some constant in them that would reflect an innate predisposition in my own genetic makeup. Would many of them seem to be drawn to similar things in life? Would none of them? Just how great a part would my semen play in the lives of these strangers?

I set up a fake account on the Donor Sibling Registry as soon as I saw the episode. I must have been sixteen or so. I practiced proper interactions between users, so when I was finally able to become a donor it wouldn’t seem like I was making my identity accessible for any nefarious reasons. And the day I turned eighteen, I filled out the necessary paperwork, went through the necessary screening processes, was found to have “desirable genetic characteristics,” and began masturbating weekly at the South Texas Fertility and Family Medical Center. I created an actual account on the Donor Sibling Registry and registered my donor number and location. I had no ability to contact any parents or offspring, but I opted to have my account eligible for contact from them should they feel the need. I surmised this wouldn’t happen for some years, if ever. Despite allowing people to contact me, I was still anonymous. No one would know my identity or my net worth, so they would have no reason to contact me until the offspring was of an age to question his or her own identity. And even then, they would only seek me out if the parents were forthright about the child’s creation and about the ability to contact me. And all of this was dependent on the parents or children being savvy enough to know about the Donor Sibling Registry.

The only people I would ever see who knew about my secret attempts at fathering children were the staff at the office where I masturbated. And they all knew who I was—who my father was, I mean. Several of the nurses made open advances on me based on what I correctly assumed was their interest in my status. One of them, a girl whose name might have been Sandy or Sandrine or something with an S, I actually did coax into letting me fuck her in the ass in my car in the South Texas Medical Plaza parking structure while she was on her lunch break. I would have fucked her in the pussy, but something in the back of my mind warned me that any woman who works at a sperm bank would probably keep the rubber and empty it into her own womb in order to produce a child to trap someone like me into being financially responsible not only for the offspring, but for her as well. I wasn’t sure, but it seemed likely that once the semen commingled with any bacteria or other undesirable fluids in the anus it would be rendered ineffectual. There was another girl I found more attractive than the one I fucked in the ass, but I also found her to be more of a cunt. So the second time she asked me if I wanted to go get lunch with her sometime, I accepted, and further explained that the acceptance of her invitation was contingent on her thieving a vial of semen from the cryobank and swallowing all of its contents in front of me. For some reason this seemed like it would have been an amusing thing to witness. She, of course, declined and never asked me out to lunch thereafter.

Although I wasn’t positive, I thought the odds likely that my father wouldn’t find as much humor in the whole thing as I did, and I couldn’t risk him finding out by telling any of my friends, including Kyle, which was difficult once I started siring children. Kyle, I knew, would find it interesting if not outright comical like I did.

My first child was born a little more than nine months after my first donation and cared for by a gay couple. One of the men involved coerced his sister into carrying my seed to full term and delivering the child naturally. My second genetic legacy was born a few months later to a woman whose husband had some type of deformity in his sperm. Mine had no such deformity, and as a result created a child with my genes that another, less virile man would have to financially support for at least eighteen years. Then a few weeks before my nineteenth birthday my third child was born in Spokane, Washington. This was strange to me, as the other two were local, in Dallas. I reasoned that I must have had some unique genetic marker that the parents, who counted my child as their second to be fathered by a sperm donor, found so desirable they were willing to scour the country for it.

And so on my nineteenth birthday, one day before the second semester of my freshman year in college, I drove to the South Texas Medical Plaza, parked my car, and went into the Fertility Center, suite 602, to masturbate into a cup while watching the best of the subpar pornography offered at the South Texas Fertility and Family Medical Center, a video entitled
Hot Teen Asses
that could be described as slightly more explicit than soft-core porn, so that some other whore might pay for my seed and raise my child.