Gayby Talk and Safe Words
Posted on April 23, 2012
“Well, when you have a baby, afterwards, the cervix snaps back to normal, but the rest stays rather roomy, right? I mean, you were with that woman once, your first girlfriend, the one with a child?” I asked.
“Yeah, the cervix goes back to the normal, but the vag…well, let’s just say it’s like trying to find an earring on your hands and knees in an empty airplane hanger,” Wifesy answered.
“You were in there on your hands and knees up there?!!”
“I’m speaking figuratively,” she answered. “But, I probably could’ve been,” she added. “It was big.”
“Yuck,” I said.
“So, are you saying you wouldn’t carry my baby?” she asked.
“No, I would, but why the hell wouldn’t you do it? You have the same parts.”
“Well, I just thought it would be nice. My eggs, but yet it would come through you. So, it would be genuinely ours,” she said.
“True, in a sense, but it wouldn’t have any of my DNA and I don’t really consider the baby-having the fun part. I think the true awesomeness is in the raising of the child and when the kid looks like you and acts wonderfully retarded like I often do. That’s the coolest. However, taking a very small opening on my body and ripping it open enough to create a one-car garage where something the size of a remote controlled, Volkswagen with a head can drive through on its way out to the world, not my idea of fantastic. I mean I don’t even like getting a pap smear.”
“So, you’re saying you wouldn’t do it?”
“Not only that, I get my cervix back, sure. But, the garage, no, that’s mine for life. In case you want to crawl in there and meditate. We can just think of my vag as the meditation room instead of adding something on to the house. It’s a quiet space, where you can have a sit down. I mean, wtf, Wifesy, the baby-having is not the fun part!”
Wifesy laughed. “That’s really funny. You should blog about it,” she said. “But, seriously, would you have my kid?”
“Yes, I totally would. But, only if you realize it wouldn’t be a day at Disneyland. Because if you don’t realize that, I’m libel to go crazy and feed myself blue cheese for the entire 9 months as a protest,” I answered.
“That’s really funny. I better read about it in the blog,” she said.
Okay, so, I just wrote about it. It’s in the blog. I do what my girl says. Plain and simple. Now, maybe it’s girly of us, but talking is our thing. I love talking to Wifesy about anything and everything. It’s a blast. Our conversations never get old and if that’s not one of the keys to a relationship, then I don’t know what is. We always have hilarious repartees like this. Almost immediately following the gayby conversation we had another one. I’ve been going on a lot of job interviews lately and Wifesy and I decided that I needed a new, hot, outfit. The conversation, over breakfast, went something like this:
“I need to go with you when you pick out the clothes,” she said.
“What? Why?” I asked.
“Well, because you’re starting to look too Kmart. You don’t need to look Kmart.”
“Okay, I can’t believe you just said I looked Kmart. Are you kidding me? I have 100 something pairs of heels in the closet and when you met me I dressed like Stacy London.”
“Okay, but lately…,” she began.
“Lately, nothing,” I said. “I’m in-between jobs. We don’t have tons of cash and so I’m careful about what we spend. AND it’s not as easy to buy clothes for a bigger girl. You’re a petite. You can buy a dishrag in the 99 cents store when you’re a petite. Strap it across your chest with a few garbage bag ties and everyone will think you look hot. You can still look good as a bigger girl, but it takes more work and usually more cash.”
“Still, I think I should be there to stop you from looking like a soccer mom. I mean, don’t you think I pick out hot stuff for you?”
“Okay, I’m going to murder you. Yes, sometimes you pick out great stuff, but then other times you argue me into dressing like Rosie Perez. It’s not cute and I am not Puerto Rican. I think my J Lo ass confuses you sometimes.”
“It confuses me in the most exciting way,” she said.
I ignored the flirt. This was a serious conversation. I was trying to avoid a future fight in a dressing room.
“I’ve got it,” I said. “We need safe words.”
“What?” said Wifesy.
“Safe words. If I absolutely hate a piece of clothing you’re trying to argue me into, I say SHARK. SHARK means you must drop all arguing and let that article of clothing go because my dislike for it is non-negotiable. In turn, you have a safe word. If you think I’m dangerously close to looking like a suburban mom with juice stains on my shirt, you simply yell – TOFU. And I must drop said piece of clothing. TOFU has taken the item in question off the table. Everything else is up for discussion. Sound good?” I asked.
“Okay, why is your safe word SHARK and my safe word TOFU? I mean TOFU has to be the lamest, weakest word in existence. Can you imagine what an actual shark could do to a piece of tofu? I think you’ve weakened my stance in the argument with my safe word choice alone!”
And at that, I couldn’t stop laughing. “Well, pick whatever word you want,” I said choking back tears.
“Well, I just don’t understand why you’d assign me TOFU. I mean, TOFU? Do I look like a woman who would use TOFU as my safe word? Jesus.”
And then Wifesy fell over into waves of laughter. After breakfast, she sent me shopping alone. I came back with a super hot outfit. I modeled it for Wifesy. I was nervous that she might not like something about it.
“Damn,” she said. “You look hot.”
“You mean, you like it? You don’t even have one negative thing to say about it?” I asked.
“Nope, it’s smokin’. Seriously. And you know me. I would say. And your ass looks great in those pants. Badunka, dunk!”
I fell on to the couch and kissed my girl. It’s obvious, to me, that if we could just fall into each other and make a gayby, it would’ve happened already. Thankfully, we can keep talking about it. After all, I absolutely love talking to her. I want to talk to her for the rest of my life. It’s the best thing ever.
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