by John Maley
As was usually the case, a long silence followed this exchange, Karen pulling her feet up onto the armchair and assuming the foetal position.
Karen’s yearning for a child was no mere voice in the wilderness. She had sounded out a friend of theirs, Jack, a gay man who wanted to be a daddy as much as she wanted to be a mammy. The two couples, Maureen and Karen, and Jack and his partner Fred met in Delilah’s to discuss it.
‘They’re not mutually exclusive,’ said Karen decisively. She looked pleadingly at Jack for back up, as she did the whole evening.
‘What aren’t?’ Maureen wasn’t going to make it easy.
‘Lesbianism and motherhood.’
‘And the world is round,’ retorted Maureen.
‘I don’t see why I should have to sit here and justify a basic natural instinct.’
Jack looked at Maureen, sympathetically.
‘She’s made up her mind.’
Maureen leaned across the table, her lit cigarette inching towards Jack’s eye.
‘She’s made up her mind. But who’s goin’ to change the nappy and collect the kid from school?’
Fred intervened.
‘This baby’s going to have four parents, Maureen. I think, between the four of us we can manage to raise a child.’
‘Don’t patronise me.’
She settled back in her seat and stubbed her cigarette out in the small pink ashtray.
‘Don’t all look at me as if I’m Herod or something. I just think there are practical things we need to talk about here.’
‘Such as?’ asked Karen.
‘Where will it live, who’ll look after it, how much will it cost?’
Jack drank from his bottle of beer. Fred sipped at his mineral water. They looked at Karen.
‘We’ll work these things out. I’m not the first woman to have a baby, y’know.’
‘You’re Miss Obvious tonight.’
Jack attempted to smooth things over.
‘What we need to do is clear the air. None of us are getting any younger. Karen wants a child. She really, really wants a child. And it’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot, haven’t I, Fred?’
Fred nodded gravely.
‘Karen and I want to try for a baby. We’ll be the mum and dad. We’ll share the care. But we hope our partners will stand by us and help and support us.’
Maureen tried to take the edge out of her voice.
‘When are you starting to try?’
Karen looked pleadingly at Jack, who said nothing. She looked shyly at Maureen.
‘We’ve been for tests.’
‘Tests?’
‘Y’know. Like HIV.’
‘Oh that old thing!’ said Maureen sarcastically. ‘Really, Karen, you’re a queen of the understatement.’
Karen again fixed her eyes on Jack, looking like a bewildered puppy. Jack accepted the challenge.
‘We’re going to try the natural way.’
‘Am I fuckin’ hearing things?’
‘We didn’t want all that hassle with test tubes and syringes and all that.’
Maureen turned her attention to Fred.
‘Fred, are you into this?’
Fred shrugged and then nodded.
‘I just want Jack to be happy.’
‘That’s very self-sacrificing of you,’ said Maureen. There was a short pause in the proceedings. Fred went to the bar to get another round of drinks in. When he came back, Maureen spoke again.
‘I’m not trying to be a spanner in the works or anything. I just want you to have thought this through. It’s such a big fuckin’ step. The repercussions are enormous.’
Karen put her hand on Maureen’s arm.
‘We have. We’ve thought it through.’
Maureen took a swig of her Tia Maria and Coke and then looked over at Fred.
‘So Fred,’ she asked, trying to sound jovial but only sounding like a bitter old lemon, ‘how do you feel about your boyfriend shagging my girlfriend?’
Soon after this initial meeting efforts at procreation began. The attempts were made in the spare bedroom of Jack and Fred’s house. Jack had made sure everything in the room was fresh. He bought a lamp from Habitat that gave off a soft, gentle 40 watt light. Karen had been christened Miss Ovulation by Maureen. She was as prepared as prepared could be. But on the first evening of passion everything seemed to go embarrassingly wrong. At one point Karen thought she’d have to kill Jack to make his cock go stiff. When he finally got a hard-on it was a long time coming. As for Karen, she giggled and farted and even screamed with laughter at a feeble attempt at foreplay before becoming very quiet and still once Jack finally got to work. She was so stiff and immobile that if it hadn’t been for her laboured breaths Jack guessed that this must be what necrophilia felt like.
In the afterglow, Karen turned away from Jack and lay rigidly at the far end of the bed. Jack’s face was burning with a mixture of embarrassment and exertion. They both hoped she was now pregnant. She wasn’t.
Maureen’s behaviour throughout the long haul towards that golden moment was reprehensible. She swore, she sulked, she went for days without speaking to Karen. But Karen and Jack were unstoppable.
‘Do you think it’s easy for us?’ Karen asked Maureen, sharply. Maureen gave her the silent treatment. Karen sat down beside her on the sofa.
‘It’s pretty arduous. I think it’s putting a strain on all our relationships. But it’ll be worth it, Maureen. In the end, it’ll be worth it.’
Lovers fight, and Jack and Karen were no exception. They tried to adopt a cool, professional approach to their sex sessions but this proved increasingly difficult. There were times when Jack couldn’t quite ‘cut the mustard’ as Karen put it. Jack blushed at the use of the Americanism. He suggested he take Karen from behind.
‘Okay dokay,’ said Karen. ‘That way you can pretend I’m a guy and I can pretend you’re a dildo.’ They both giggled at that; a rare, light moment punctuating the sweaty tension that dominated their procreative proceedings. Jack had no problem cutting the mustard this particular evening. In fact he closed his eyes and felt every thrust take him closer to heaven. He groaned with pleasure, to the quiet fury of Karen. What made her furious was the knowledge that she was about to come and could do nothing to stop herself. She trembled and gasped and finally said, ‘God,’ as they came together.
Later, Karen sat on the edge of the bed in a dressinggown of Jack’s which she had adopted. She spoke in a wounded whisper, as if she had been winded by remorse. She said she felt ashamed and compromised.
‘You came,’ said Jack, coldly.
‘So did you,’ whispered Karen.
‘That’s the whole fucking point,’ said Jack.
Karen said then that perhaps this supposedly natural method of conception hadn’t been such a good idea after all. She said she knew of a woman who provided free fertility treatment no questions asked. It was artificial insemination. There might be risks but at least they wouldn’t have to keep going through these gruelling episodes. Jack didn’t respond to this. They sat despondently on either side of the bed. They both felt terrible. It had been such a great fuck.
Whilst Maureen grew more difficult and distant, Fred was a mountain of strength. He behaved like a meticulous madam, ushering her favourite lady of the night to a rich and generous houseguest. Yet he was never intrusive. He respected the privacy of the mare and her stallion, closing the stable door and bolting into the lounge where he listened to Sondheim and sipped malt whisky. Karen and Jack grew closer to him, praising his tact and his tenderness. Secretly, Fred wanted more than anything to watch them at it. In any respect, his sex life with Jack had improved immeasurably.
‘Don’t be such a cold fish,’ urged Karen, attempting once more to put her arm around Maureen’s naked form in bed. Maureen shrugged her off and sat up, holding the bedclothes protectively against her.
‘The audacity of you,’ she hissed. ‘You come in here – smelling of cock – and start
groping me. Are you surprised I’m revolted?’
Karen burst out laughing, it was either that or cry.
‘How long is this going to go on?’ pleaded Maureen. Karen shrugged.
‘I honestly don’t know. It’s one of Nature’s great mysteries.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t know anything about Nature,’ said Maureen, ‘being a pervert. Being a lesbian, which if I can remind you Karen, is what you used to be till you started shagging a man.’
Karen took a hold of one of Maureen’s hands.
‘I love you, Maureen. Please bear with me on this. It’s important to me.’
Maureen looked impassively at Karen, her hand going limp. The whole thing was impossible.
Jack and Karen deliberated about other options before resuming business as usual. Karen decided there was no harm in trying to be tender and affectionate with each other. She reasoned that it would make the sex easier and more productive. She had read in a trashy magazine in a dentist’s waiting room that the mood you were in when you conceived a child affected the temperament of the child. So if you were nervous or angry the child would be nervous or angry. But if you were relaxed and loving then the child would be the sweetest baby born and would become a well-balanced adult.
She began to think pleasant thoughts while they were doing it. She thought of sunlight flashing on a beautiful blue sea. She thought of Maureen’s lips brushing the fuzz of her fanny. She thought of Kim Basinger in LA Confidential. She thought ‘I am happy’ and ‘Life is wonderful.’
‘It’s okay for us to enjoy it,’ she reassured Jack.
‘But we’re gay,’ he replied, anxiously.
‘Of course we are,’ said Karen. ‘But we’re friends – working together to achieve something. Something that will bring us so much happiness.’
She put her arms around Jack and beamed, ‘We’re making a baby.’
Karen began going into baby stores and checking out the clothes and toys. She even bought some things and took them home, sheepishly, furtively. She thought of hiding them from Maureen, then decided to be open about her purchases. Maureen found the blue romper suits and blue vests and socks.
‘Now that’s what I call forward planning,’ she commented cattily, holding up the offending articles.
‘No harm in forward planning,’ sighed Karen.
‘What if it’s a girl?’
‘Then it’s a girl.’
‘But these are boy’s things. They’re blue.’
Karen looked resignedly at Maureen.
‘Since when have you thought gender should be colour-coded? You ought to know better, Maureen.’
Maureen threw the baby clothes in her face.
‘It’s like living with a big baby already, the way she carries on.’ Karen rested her head on Jack’s big hairy chest. Her fingers gently stroked one of his nipples. It was pierced and Karen traced the silver ring with her forefinger.
‘It’s been hard work,’ said Jack, softly. He held some of her rich, auburn hair in his fingers.
‘I think it’s going to happen soon,’ Karen said dreamily. Later, when Karen had gone and Jack was in the bath, Fred came into the room and closed the door behind him. He smothered his face in the rumpled sheets, his heart thumping.
The day Karen learned she was pregnant her heart was filled with conflicting emotions. She was jubilant, but also scared. She suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable, as if someone so much as brushing against her would knock her over. Then she felt an incredible strength, as if she were now invincible, immortal. She wanted to work through these feelings privately before telling anyone. A day’s grace would help her regain her composure. Then she would tell them. She would tell Maureen first, then Jack, who would tell Fred.
It was a long day with the lonely secret of life in her. At the end of it, she lay in bed and thought of how she felt grown-up, on the edge of something momentous, something astonishing. She slept peacefully. But Maureen was restless. She knew that Karen was pregnant now. There had been a look in her eyes that night she had never seen before. When Karen had sat with her hands in her lap and looked with a flicker of a smile at her, Maureen had thought of the Mona Lisa, the Virgin Mary.
In the living-room, Maureen cradled a cup of camomile tea, now that it had cooled enough to drink. She sipped at the tea and set it down on the table in front of her. She didn’t feel angry with Karen. She knew now why she had been such a bastard about all this. It wasn’t the baby. She didn’t really mind children and thought that maybe sometimes they would be nice to have around. No, it was something else entirely. The thought of forward planning. The thought of a long-term future with Karen. This was what had bothered her and broken any peace of mind for her. She couldn’t see a future together for herself and Karen. Her face twisted with sudden tears and her hand shook as she reached for the cup. That was the thing. She didn’t love her any longer.
Play Dusty for Me
Delilah’s was having a drag night. It wasn’t Joanie’s idea; it was a management notion. They thought they needed something to break up the karaoke nights and quiz nights and endless drinks promotions nights.
‘What’re you wearing?’ Bobbie had asked Joanie, the week it was announced.
‘Maybe I’ll dress as a man,’ replied Joanie. He wasn’t too hot on the idea. It wasn’t something that made him run to his dressing-up box.
‘You’re scared somebody’ll rain on yer parade,’ said Bobbie, who wouldn’t be drawn on what she had up her sleeve, or down her trousers.
Joanie was ambivalent about the plan. The feeling reminded him of an event in his schooldays. By the time he reached the age of fifteen he’d got used to being slagged for a being a ‘bentshot’. In fact he sort of prided himself on being the class poof. He’d come to view himself as some kind of mascot. Then a new boy had started at the school and had joined his class. He wore preposterous flared trousers, skin-tight tee shirts and had shoulder-length hair loaded with three tons of hairspray. His voice was higher than a hippie at a hash party and he could mince for Britain. When he swanned along the school corridors ten boys snaked behind him trying to get the walk right. They never could. Joanie got so jealous he started wearing lipstick to school.
It wasn’t until the day before the drag extravaganza that Joanie really became excited. Then it dawned on him he had to be Dusty. The hair, the eyes, the voice, it could only be Dusty. Joanie had a brassy backcombed wig that he hadn’t worn for ages, false lashes and plenty of pale pink lipstick. The dress was harder to do. He’d seen Dusty in an old TV show wearing a dress with long sleeves, doing all her traffic policeman hand moves. That was the look.
He’d gone to a wee second-hand clothes shop off Byres Road that specialised in retro gear. It was called Backlash and was a favourite haunt of Joanie’s. He’d got some gems there – a pair of pink thigh-length boots that Bobbie called his Penelope Pitstop’s; a velvet trouser suit; cocktail dresses so fabulous that whenever he wore them he ended up with a cock on his tail; ridiculous hats – from pillbox to panama; hot pants and some cool shoes. He didn’t have time to browse through the Briggait. If there was a Dusty dress to be discovered, Backlash was the place to start looking.
It took an hour to find what he wanted. He had tried on three outfits. There was a beautiful pink safari suit that he would have loved to wear but when he donned it in the pokey wee changing room it just didn’t fit. The trousers were flying at half-mast and the jacket pinched him under the arms. The next thing he tried on was a magnificent red evening dress. The Goth-chick shop assistant nearly swooned when she saw Joanie in it. ‘You look like Liz Hurley,’ she sighed. But Joanie didn’t let flattery go to his head. Red wasn’t his colour and nor was it Dusty’s. Besides, the dress was too conventional, too classy. They finally found the groovy number they were looking for, third time lucky. Joanie thought it had a fantastic cut, the shoulders were slightly puffy, the sleeves swelled out like bells and it reached to his ankles. It was lemon-coloured cotton and was an impressive
fit. To the amusement of the Goth chick, Joanie tried out a few Dusty moves to test the sleeve action. Then he gave the assistant a satisfied smile. ‘I’ll take it,’ he commanded.
It wasn’t till he got home that Joanie could really appreciate the dress. It was always tricky trying on things in shops. There was never enough time to check the fit and how it moved. Joanie had bought a few things that looked great on him when he was standing still but as soon as he took a step in them he felt like a sack of potatoes. The Dusty dress was like a dream on him. Joanie found himself taking quick wee steps in the dress, speeding down the hall, spinning around the living-room with his arms outstretched as he and the dress got to know each other.
Finding shoes to match was the next step. Joanie wasn’t a fan of high heels. They were fine if all you were doing was walking from your front door to a waiting limo but they were no use for bar work. He did have a pair of vivid yellow high heels with glittery straps but he felt like a wee lassie in her big sister’s shoes when he tried to walk in them. He settled for a sturdy pair of flat-heeled pale green shoes. The dress was so long that he could have got away with DMs.
Joanie had a good collection of wigs but some wore better than others. His backcombed wig was just right for Dusty and was light enough to groove around in. When Joanie clocked the full ensemble in his mirror he felt increasingly enthused about the drag night. He hoped that this enthusiasm would be infectious and the night would be a success.
It started slow, as these things often do. It was a Friday night gig so people were having to get home from work and get into costume. There were no prizes for best outfit, it was simply an event night. But they had a great DJ who played all the diva disco stuff and lots of promos for homos at the bar; all bottled beers were a pound.
Gradually, the punters began to arrive. Not everybody dressed up but it worked out at about 60/40: six dragsters for every four stick-in-the-muds. Two dykes were the first to arrive. Caroline and Denise were dressed as Boy George and Pete Burns and were half-pissed. Their friends, the Marx sisters – Karl and Groucho, quickly joined them. Karl had a big bushy beard and kept asking people if they wanted to feel it. The first of three Madonnas arrived. He was an early Madonna, with bleached blonde wig and black lacy gloves, sporting a big crucifix. The guy actually looked quite like her. He jumped about yelling ‘Holiday! Celebrate!’ and wouldn’t let up the whole night. There was a Marilyn Monroe who sashayed around like he owned the fucking place; two Shirley Basseys who swore that diamonds were forever; a glitzy, showbizzy chap who declared she was Liberace but who kept being mistaken for a glam rocker; a Liza Minnelli aka Sally Bowles, and two more Madonnas, one with a conical bra and fishnet stockings, the other dressed as a geisha. One of the star turns for Joanie came in the form of five young girls who passed themselves off as Westlife. They kept putting on phoney Irish accents but were pretty good singers.