More Stories to Make You Blush

by Marie Gray

  Double or Nothing

  I don’t think I’ll ever forget that eventful autumn. As the leaves on the trees changed color and we, poor humans, braced ourselves for another few months of winter misery, my life was falling to pieces. In a single month (though it was a lovely September) my boyfriend left me, I lost my job, and almost got thrown out of my apartment for not paying the rent, which had, until then, been the responsibility of the aforesaid boyfriend.

  After a long period of feeling sorry for myself I had to face facts: I’d been asking for it! The whole tailspin started when Jerome left me and for that, I had only myself to blame.

  The problem began with a little party we threw to celebrate my birthday last January. I was looking at my friends gathered together, and realizing how lucky I was for such a show of friendship from so many people I liked and respected. But I suddenly understood that something was missing, some little thing that would make my life complete. And this little thing could be summed up in one word, “posterity.” After I departed from this life nothing would remain to continue my memory. Nothing tangible, anyway. After that moment I could just think of one thing, having a baby. Of course I’d thought of it before; I’d wanted to have a family for as long as I could remember. But I kept putting it off, again and again. “When I’m in better shape financially,” I told myself; “when I’ve found a man I want to spend the rest of my life with,” or “when I’ve fulfilled my career goals.” When, when, when …

  Analyzing my life that evening, several things became clear. First, I was living with Jerome, whom I loved enough to imagine as the father of my children. We didn’t have a lot of money, but after all, wasn’t love what counted—wasn’t love what a child needed most? As for my career I had to admit it wasn’t turning out the way I’d hoped; I seemed to be getting farther from fulfilling my goals, not closer. So what was holding me back from having a baby? The answer to all these questions was, obviously, “Nothing!” Once I realized that, the idea of conceiving a child became a total obsession, despite my companion’s lack of enthusiasm about my new “resolution.” But I did not consider his attitude an obstacle. I’m a stubborn woman, and was sure that once he was confronted with a fait accompli, Jerome would jump for joy and welcome the little jewel with open arms. I was equally convinced that all I had to do for that miracle to happen was put away my contraceptives. To put my conscience at rest I tried for several days, even weeks, to convince Jerome of the benefits of my plan. But this was no more than a simple formality. After persevering for awhile I concluded that my happiness would be his happiness. I put an end to my attempts to persuade him and simply went into action. I stopped bothering him about it. I stopped talking about babies, stopped sighing as if my heart was broken when I saw an infant on television or in the street. In short, I pretended not to be thinking about it any more. What Jerome didn’t know is that I’d also thrown my diaphragm away, saving only the case, which I left lying around each time we made love. If I conceived I could always feign innocence and refer to it as an “accident,” and flatter him by telling him he must have dynamite sperm to be able to get past that thick latex barrier!

  To ensure the desired result I had taken care to find out about the process. I knew which times of the month were useless, and which times my plan was most likely to succeed. Maybe Jerome found me unusually forthcoming on those days I waited in bed for him to get back from work, wearing my skimpiest lingerie, and striking the most enticing poses. But he never seemed to wonder about it, preferring to think it was plain desire, fired by his incomparable sexual prowess. Of course I let him believe what he wanted, while trying not to be too obvious, because men are sometimes less stupid than they seem!

  But anyway … eight months passed and still nothing had happened. I started to get discouraged, and one day I was struck with a terrible doubt. It wasn’t that easy after all; was something going wrong inside my body? I swept these unpleasant thoughts from my mind and tried to pull myself together. I took the initiative once again, taking advantage of the fact that we both had a week’s holiday coming up at exactly the right time. We were going to a charming little country inn where we could “give free rein to our passion.” Jerome pointed out that our passion was already pretty unreined as of late. But I told him, “You drive me wild! If you think I’m hot now, think how we’d be with a whole week to live out our fantasies!” He couldn’t resist. On the tenth day of my cycle we left for the country. I was already overjoyed by the idea of my baby being conceived in such an enchanting setting.

  For the whole week I gave him no peace. I left nothing to luck or accident. True, I’d read someplace that you got the best results when you let a day go by between each relation so the man could “recover his strength,” but I considered this detail totally unimportant. I used my imagination, seducing him in a different way each time to take full advantage of his precious juices. I transformed myself from courtesan to frightened virgin, from brazen whore to curious young girl, and he savored each character with increasing vigour. I was in heaven! In seven days we had made love at least eleven times, and I told myself that if it didn’t succeed, it wasn’t because we hadn’t tried! But I didn’t have the time or opportunity to elaborate on this theory because at the end of the month, Jerome finally figured out what was going on.

  When my period arrived two weeks after our little adventure I didn’t have the strength or the desire to hide my disappointment. The first two days I was in a foul mood, swamped in dark thoughts (this often happens in such cases), and refused to get out of bed, moping around in a gloomy slump. On the third day, his patience worn out and contaminated by my bad mood, Jerome started a major housecleaning to calm his nerves. He cast me disapproving glances from time to time as I sat watching TV, stuffing myself with ice cream. Half an hour later a livid Jerome snapped off the television and planted himself in front of me, flailing the diaphragm case like a lethal weapon.

  “What’s this doing in the bathroom, empty?”

  “What do you mean? It can’t be empty.”

  “Caroline, what kind of game are you playing?”

  Oh-oh! He’d caught on; I didn’t have the energy to deny anything, feeling it was a losing battle. A terrible quarrel followed. He called me every name under the sun, accusing me of deliberately betraying his trust. I just sat there, not even trying to defend myself. Why bother? He was no idiot. Finally, he left, slamming the door behind him, leaving me to understand that he could never forgive me, and refusing to admit that he was plain terrified by the idea of being a father with all the responsibilities it entailed. He disappeared into the night and I didn’t see him until a few days later when he came back to get his things. It was a very hard day. He gave me no chance to explain or to try and make him understand how important the desire for a child had become. The breakup was final, definite, and complete.

  I was devastated. In the following weeks, I missed a lot of work, mumbling something about a mysterious illness. My general attitude was far from charming— and you have to be charming when you work at a dating agency. My work performance was declining, and finally, one day, my boss overheard me being downright rude to a would-be customer. He fired me on the spot. So now I was not only single, but jobless as well. I tried to get a grip on myself and come around to the idea of looking for another job. Time passed—it does have a way of flying by, sometimes—and my situation showed no improvement. The only time I reacted was when my landlord gave me an ultimatum after I told him one too many times that I’d “forgotten” to pay the rent. Finally, I pulled myself together, found a job in another dating agency, and got a bit of order back in my life.

  But I felt really alone. My breakup was still very recent. However, I had to admit that what I missed most was not so much Jerome, but the part of his anatomy that contained that necessary ingredient for making a baby. I had not put the idea out of my mind, far from it. I wanted that baby more than ever. I even told myself any man would do, as long as he had a good disposition and other
qualities I wished to transmit to my child.

  I started to look more closely at the men I knew, examining them with a critical eye. Nothing of interest there. I had some very nice male friends, but the idea of going to bed with any of them seemed too strange, almost incestuous. What’s more, one of them was gay, the other happily married, and the third one too unstable, both financially and emotionally. Next, I tried the agency I worked for. “What better place to find the perfect father?” I said to myself, full of enthusiasm. It was simple. All I had to do was search through the files of all available men and determine their “pedigree,” at my leisure. Many of these men seemed like good candidates; I’d long since stopped believing that the clientele of dating agencies was solely made up of losers and dropouts!

  I got right down to work. Isn’t the computer a wonderful research tool? I made a first selection on the basis of a few vague criteria, like age, height, and social standing. Did I want someone single or not? A married man would have the advantage of not being around too much, but he also might not be available on the nights I really needed him! My experience with Jerome was enough to convince me that you don’t get pregnant on your first try! No, he’d have to be single. I’d just get rid of him afterwards, if I had to. I left the age category fairly open so as not to limit my research unnecessarily. Next, height; if I had a boy, I’d want him to be tall and athletic. Hair color? I chose brown or black. Eye color? Hazel, why not? I decided not to get into the “special interests” category, preferring to examine each case separately. Finally, I pushed the “return” key one last time, and so began my research for the ideal man. The computer pondered for a few moments, then presented me with my first file: fourteen candidates. Fourteen! Fantastic! But my excitement dropped a few notches when I read the data on the screen.

  “John, fifty-four, single. Currently unemployed. John is looking for a classy, sexy companion, and is not afraid to broaden his horizons in order to discover the pleasures of life.”

  I had nothing against broadening my horizons and considered myself fairly sexy. But this John, though six feet tall, was seriously overweight. That was no father for my son, and certainly not for my daughter! I continued reading.

  “Stan, twenty-two, marathon runner.”

  Hmm, this was interesting! A bit young, but that wasn’t a problem. Quite the opposite! But as I read on, I saw he was looking for a man in his forties who was as athletic as he was. Too bad! Next …

  “Maurice, thirty-six, architect. He likes going for walks in the forest, water sports, and nature in general. He’s looking for a woman who’s available, a nonsmoker, for conversation and romance. Overweight and over thirty need not apply.”

  Again I was discouraged by the photo. Maurice was wearing glasses so thick that it was hard to see what his eyes really looked like. I wanted my child to have perfect vision.

  And the list went on. Sure, some of the men looked interesting at first view, but there was always some detail that was not quite right. My initial enchantment gradually faded as I read on. Either his teeth were a bit crooked (think of the orthodontist bills!), or he had no hair. A bald man could be very sexy, but not when you could see his nose hairs, even in a computer photo! Another man, Greg, might have suited me, except he had to travel a lot for his work. The lack of availability might prove tricky. Peter lived with four cats, and I can’t stand those two-faced, unpredictable animals. As for Michael, the dog trainer, I’d been allergic to every kind of dog since I was little. Then there was that charming doctor, but he specified that he was looking for a woman who could dominate him and make him her slave—definitely not a character trait I wanted my child to inherit! To make a long story short there was nothing very exciting in this bunch, and I started to get sick of it all, until I came upon someone who was decidedly appealing.

  “Louis, thirty-nine, contractor. He likes intimate meals and is an excellent cook. His favorite sports are swimming, inline skating, and downhill skiing. Louis is looking for a female companion to share these pleasures with, and maybe others too.” Judging from the photo, he had the physical assets that most appealed to me. Without waiting another instant I left a message on his voice-mail, hoping he would phone me back quickly.

  He phoned me the next day, and our conversation, though brief, was very pleasant. He had a charming sense of humor and a soft, warm voice. As he was talking I could hear children laughing in the background. I asked him if they were his children.

  “No, unfortunately. My sister left them with me for the evening.”

  We made a date for the next day at a popular café.

  I was sitting at a little table in the corner when he appeared. Curly light brown, almost shoulder length hair; bright, impish hazel eyes; a straight nose with a few pale freckles; sensual lips; and perfect teeth—he was splendid!

  I got straight to the point; it’s my habit to be direct.

  “How come you’re using a dating agency? You must not have any trouble meeting pretty women.”

  “Not as pretty as you! Anyway, I might ask you the same question.”

  I flashed him my most charming smile as he sat down at the table. We spent several pleasant hours together and went our separate ways with regret, making a date for the following day.

  * * *

  Over the next few weeks I had plenty of time to get to know the man behind all these charming assets. Jovial and energetic by nature, he was knowledgeable on all sorts of subjects, which made him a fascinating conversationalist. But conversation, though pleasant and important, was not where he excelled most. Louis was an incredible lover. He had a cozy little house in the Laurentians, and took me there as soon as he knew we were attracted to each other. Our first night together was extraordinary, and I remember it fondly to this day.

  He made me a delicious meal, serving it in the big living room by a roaring fire he had made in the stone fireplace. The decor was simple, but so welcoming! The meal was exquisite, from soup to dessert— especially dessert! All evening we looked into each other’s eyes, lingering gazes that hinted at the very pleasant night ahead. He kissed me just before he cleared the table, and came back with a big bowl of strawberries, whipped cream, and champagne. He made me dance to soft music in his arms by the fire, undressing me slowly, letting his hazel gaze penetrate deep into my eyes. His eyes were lit with a special glow, full of tenderness. He drew me down onto a bearskin by the hearth, admiring the reflection of the flames on my skin, and slipped strawberries into my mouth one by one, daubing whipped cream with his other hand on my erect nipples, belly, and thighs. He licked my skin with avid flicks of his tongue, making swirls in the thick cream.

  He seemed to be having a real feast, and told me my skin was exquisite. When the heat of his breath made the cream slide down my thighs, he sighed and tasted the mixture, which he said was sublime. Certainly, the sensation was delectable to me.

  Now naked himself, he slid onto my body, his movements becoming a sort of languorous rubbing. He hovered over me, his pointed sex tickling my face without getting close enough for me to taste it, then my breasts, which I squeezed around him. He gently slid between them, then continued down to my belly, resting a moment at the place my body opened to him. Finally, with a single stroke he slid inside me and made love to me, at first tenderly, then with mounting ardor. My pleasure was intense and I didn’t want it to end. I tried to slow his movements, wrapping my legs around his taut waist. I held him still for a moment, trying to guess as I looked deep into his eyes if he appreciated me as much as I did him. What I saw reassured me; the spark in his eyes blazed more brightly than ever. Now I wanted to taste the mixture of his skin and whipped cream. I made him lie down beside me and generously spread the cream over him, taking care to cover every inch of his impatient member, belly, and thighs. His taste in my mouth was sweet, delicious. He filled me completely, crushing against my jaw and sliding down to my throat. The cream, now liquid, trailed down my neck to my breasts, which he eagerly started licking.

 
Kneeling over him, I guided him back to my moist slit, welcoming him with gratitude and greed. His legs rocked me gently while his hands grabbed my buttocks, lifting me and lowering me down onto his cock like some divine sort of swing. We were a single entity, two parts of the same organism. Louis slipped out of me and plunged his mouth down between my thighs. He tasted me slowly like a succulent meal, nibbling and sucking with precise, artful movements. I could see my body reflected in the big windows, illuminated by the bright flames. My hair almost completely covered my face, and his head poked out between my spread thighs. I watched him like this for a moment, stroking my quivering breasts, fascinated by this man’s head working over the most sensitive part of my body. His tongue lapped at me. He kissed me so much and so well that I came between his lips, my own lips opening in a long shuddering sigh.

  I lay down, breasts crushing against the soft fur, letting my lover penetrate me deeply until his sap mingled with mine, and all the other flavors on our burning skin.

  Huddling together, we fell asleep by the fire. It was fantastic.

  That night I decided Louis was the ideal man to make me the child I wanted so badly. There was only one cloud on the horizon. I was struggling with a serious dilemma. I could tell him my intentions and risk seeing him run away as fast as he could. Or I could just not say anything, let nature do its work, and decide later, depending on how our relationship was going. I spent a few days thinking about it and finally decided on the second option. I wouldn’t say anything, but just enjoy making love without taking precautions; you never knew! Once again I started calculating what dates would best serve my purposes. The next month I took a break from my lover a few days before I ovulated. Of course I missed him, but I wanted this wait to make our desire (and his sperm) as strong as possible. I had assured him that I was planning a dynamite weekend for us, and phoned him Friday afternoon to make a date— but just got the answering machine.