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2001-11-29 || 10:57 a.m. || serendipitous sex stuff || i was walking around on my break composing a letter to my uterus. 'you have been hurting for two straight days now,' i dictated. 'you leave me high and dry for so long, steeped in the nail biting frenzy of potential mommydom for thirteen days.' it clenches. 'i understand that i should be grateful for the cramping and the bleeding and the twinges of nausea, but you're making it hard for me to walk.' i sat on the sproul steps and thought of last night. we were under covers whispering what ifs and would wes and what thens. 'we will never have sex again,' he said. 'you can not tempt me with the fruit of your loins any longer.' he is not wearing any clothes. neither am i. 'if you were pregnant that means you were pregnant two weeks ago. you would have been walking around with a baby inside you.' 'i know,' i said, thinking of cell division and DNA and morning sickness and the morning after pills stashed in the red case in the bathroom. he was worried about telling his friends and getting scolded for being so stupid. i'm not even his girlfriend. what was he doing? 'you aren't ready to have a baby,' he said. 'you don't have to tell me that. i know that.' that makes him laugh for some reason. i bled all over his sheets. back on the sproul steps a middle-aged man, somewhat dad-like, was standing alone and talking to a trashcan. '...and my body was screaming procreate procreate procreate procreate. and it's so unfair. because women don't get like that until their thirties. and it's like, she's 32 and he's 24' (he claps his hands) 'and there you go.' if i were the trashcan, i would have responded. i would have said, 'i thought i was pregnant for two weeks. your body is screaming words. that's funny.' guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |