Our Epiphany, Our Mission

"Look, I know this is a shock to you, but think about everything I've said. I know you will worry about the morality thing, but listen, it's my idea, not yours. And I can live with the knowledge that you ..." he paused before continuing ... "that you and Carl will have to mate. It would just be the necessary act to produce our child, nothing more. I'll be the father in spirit."

Intellectually, Barbara understood the logic behind his words. Yes, it was a rational solution but emotionally she was in turmoil. Could she willingly allow Carl or any man other than her husband enter her? Could she accept his thrusting? Could she permit his sperm to flood into her? And Owen, what about him? He says he can live with this now, but what about later? She asked him to leave the house for an hour. She needed time to think, think deeply, and to be alone. Maybe it's time for a short prayer, she mused.

By the time Owen returned, Barbara had reached her own epiphany.

"This is killing me," she said softly, "but I want a baby so much that I will do it ... with one condition. Dr. Bradburn told you that under certain ideal circumstances it's possible for you to conceive a child even with a low sperm count, isn't that right?" Accepting his nod as a confirmation, she continued. "Then here's the condition and it's not negotiable." Owen waited silently. "I will accept Carl as the donor. But each time that he and I ..." she hesitated before finding a neutral word "... meet, I will also do it with you, either immediately before or immediately after, that doesn't matter. The point is that if I conceive, we won't really know if you or he is the father. Remember, youcould be fertile under certain circumstances and I will always be convinced that you are the father." Pushing her dark hair behind her ears, she sadly smiled at her husband and said "And I definitely think this qualifies as a certain circumstance, don't you agree?"

So it was decided.

The next step was to bring Carl into their plans and Owen did this over several beers in a quiet neighborhood pub. For two hours, Carl demurred, repeating every objection that Owen and Barbara had already resolved between themselves. Finally, to summarize the conversation, he breathed deeply and said, "Owen, I hope you will believe me when I say that I would do nothing in this world or the next to hurt you or Barb. I love you both you know that. And I would do anything I can for either of you at any time. But I'm having trouble with this, big trouble with the morals of the whole thing. Whatever you say now, your attitude could change after ... well, just after. I don't want to do anything to hurt our friendship. I'm afraid this could hurt all of us in a lot of ways. Let me sleep on it overnight. I'll consider all of your arguments and I'll call you tomorrow with my decision. But no promises, right?" Owen nodded, "Right."

The next day Carl called. With a deep breath, he simply said, "OK Owen, should the three of us meet to settle details or will you just let me know?" Hanging up, Owen stared at the phone. A long-forgotten phrase came to him ...We are all actors on the stage of life and God is the audience. How would God judge their drama?

That night, minutiae arose that neither Barbara nor Owen had thought of before. Where should they meet? Should dinner be planned or should it be nothing more than an hour in the afternoon? How many times should they meet? Should Carl or Owen be the "first" each time? Obviously, it had to be during Barb's peak of fertility so the calendar came into play. "Christ," he snorted, "this is like planning the Normandy invasion." He scheduled a short consultation with Dr. Bradburn to explain the plan and get his medical advice on any special protocol that might improve the chance of pregnancy.

Next, they discussed the child that Carl was likely to produce. Compared to Owen's tall lanky frame, Carl was shorter and stouter. Not fat, just a bit on the burly side. His black hair was thick and probably would be curly if fashioned longer than the short cut he preferred. While clean-shaven, he suffered from a heavy five o'clock shadow on his rough-hewn face. His complexion was darker than Owen's and in this he mirrored Barbara. His teeth were impeccable as every dentist's should be. Owen begrudgingly faced the fact that the child would probably resemble Carl since his dark complexion and brown eyes were genetically more dominant than his fair appearance and blue eyes. He rationalized this by hoping people would simply think that the child favored its mother's olive complexion more than his. He wasn't totally satisfied with that rationalization but it was the best he could think of.

They both categorically refused to consider using their own bed for the meetings and agreed that the familiarity of Carl's Lake Forest apartment would be less stressful than a hotel room. Carl wasn't happy with this demand but he finally acquiesced and that settled the matter of location.

The next issue was far more difficult ... the question of how active a role Barbara should play in the process. While agonizing for them to ponder, it was clear that adequate moisture would be needed for her to comfortably receive Carl. With a dry mouth, Owen realized that meant either artificial lubrication or Carl's foreplay. A sensual person, should Barbara try to fight off any feelings of enjoyment or just let herself go? All of these painful questions begged for an answer. Up to now, they had concentrated on the logistic aspects of the plan and neither had thought deeply about the emotions Barbara would have to face when the moment came. Yes, of course she must be physically able to accept Carl. But enjoy it? The question defied them and they cowardly retreated from discussing it further.

Finally, each pledged never to discuss the details of the act with each other. Owen reminded his wife that there would have to be a plural number of "acts" since several meetings would enhance the probability of pregnancy. She nodded glumly.

"The devil is in the details." Neither Barbara nor Owen nor Carl had ever realized just how terribly apt that old phrase was.

Barbara's menstrual calendar dictated that she and Carl be together on the three days of Thursday, Friday and Saturday two weeks hence. In an uncomfortable phone conversation between the two men, the schedule was finalized. They would arrive at Carl's apartment for dinner on Thursday evening and stay through the following morning. The same sequence would be repeated on Friday and Saturday. During the days, Barb and Owen would leave to lessen their torment of having to be around Carl any more than necessary. The cruelest blow was when it was decided that Owen would be first each night followed by Carl followed by Owen the next morning.

Owen winced as the reality of the coming three days hit him. He remembered how hard he had to argue to convenience Barbara and Carl to accept the plan. Now, scheduling the exact hours for them to be together tortured him. Twice he came close to canceling everything. Once in the office he visualized Carl thrusting himself between her spread legs and raced to his private bathroom to vomit his lunch. He wrestled with the very real possibility that he would loose control and rage into the bedroom to tear Carl from his wife. "God, what have I created?" He was tormented during the day and dreamt terrible dreams at night.

All three grew increasingly fretful as Thursday approached. Carl had a moment of panic when he realized that his tenseness might result in impotency. What a hoot that would be, he thought, and he asked Bob Duncan, a medical colleague down the hall in the professional building, for a sample packet of Viagara as a precaution. With a grin, Dr. Duncan said, "With all of your girlfriends, I knew you'd be needing these sooner or later." Carl snarled back, "They're for a friend, that's all." Barbara went about her daily chores in a demi world of worry about the effect this whole ugly business might have on her husband's love for her.

On Thursday evening, Carl prepared a simple Greek salad for dinner. All three picked over their food, sipped his excellent voignier and avoided any reference to the purpose of the meeting. At nine o'clock, Owen and Barbara mated in the bedroom while Carl watched an inane television program in the den. An hour and a half later, he joined Barbara while Owen aimlessly walked the tree lined Lake Forest streets battling the demons that were consuming him. At seven the next morning, he rejoined Barbara and Carl left on the same walk that Owen had taken the previous evening. The sequence was repeated on Friday.

Pleading exhaustion, on Saturday morning Barbara told her husband that she did not want to return that night as scheduled. They were silent on the drive back to the city and for most of the day. That night they slept together in their own big bed. Neither made a move toward intimacy.

The mission was completed.

The Aftermath

A week passed. Owen did not call Carl and Carl did not call him. Barbara busied herself around the house and, thank goodness, with the diversion of a planning meeting for the Episcopal Charities annual fundraiser scheduled for later in the month. Each evening, she steeled herself to greet her husband with a smile when he returned from the office and he responded as best he could. Not a word was said about the two nights in Lake Forest.

The two nights had been surreal. After dinner on Thursday, the men idly chatted about their college days and the dismal showing of the Chicago Bears in the last NFL season while Barbara added a few comments about her philanthropic work. Carl made no mention of his many girlfriends. The wine they shared did little to relax them and each preferred silence as a defense against the emotions they were wracking with. Barb and Owen showed no affection toward each other. No hugs. No kisses. No smiles. Nothing. Carl looked like he would welcome a hole to crawl into. At nine, Barbara stood up, said it was time and walked to the bedroom.

All of them silently feared the mission would end their friendship. Barbara prayed it wouldn't damage her marriage irreparably. Owen rued the day he had thought of the idea. The two nights passed. The mission was to conceive a child and the mission was paramount, regardless of consequences.

The mood in the Anderson home was one of watchful waiting as husband and wife searched for a hint of each other's emotions. Owen drank scotch each night to relax. Barbara couldn't abide scotch but she joined him with a brandy. Uncharacteristically, when she described her day, she babbled over trivialities, smiling unnecessarily in a pathetic attempt to appear tranquil. Owen was no better. He tried and tried hard to put on a good face but failed. One night listening to an old Edith Piaf tape, they looked at each other in irony when Piaf sangNon, je ne regrette rien.

It was not the same as before. Both knew it but neither spoke. Something had to give. Somehow the two nights had to be disinterred and dealt with before the memory could be reburied in peace.

It was Owen who finally broke the silence and he broke it badly.

On Friday evening he quietly sat with his chin on his chest. He looked at his wife and bluntly asked, "How was it?" "Owen, please don't" she responded quietly, instantly knowing his meaning. "No, I want to know how was it?" he pursued. "Tell me. I'm adult enough to hear."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Sooner or later, I'll find out. If you didn't conceive last week, we have to repeat the whole goddamn ritual next month. I can't stand waiting another month to know what you and Carl did. Do I have to ask him?"

"Please don't make me do this." Barbara started to tear.

"Damn it, I said tell me, I've got to know because I've got to know, it's that simple! There you have it woman! Now TELL ME!"

Owen's cruel words slashed at his wife. She winced and dropped her head into her hands. "It was sex. Just sex. It was sex because sex is needed to have a baby in case you've forgotten ... and I want a baby so very much." Her tears flowed. "We both agreed to do this. We both agreed not to talk about it afterwards. I thought I could trust you not to ask what you're asking. Please stop." After a long silence, she raised her head, looked defiantly at her husband and continued, "Yes, we had sex. He fucked me. I fucked him. Are you satisfied now?"

He was breathing heavily. "No, I am not satisfied! Was it good sex? How many times did he fuck you? WAS IT GOOD? DID YOU CUM?" His low voice was harsh and menacing. He was determined to hear an answer. His jealousy had finally surfaced and he groveled in it.

Drawing herself stiffly upright with her hands in her lap, Barbara sadly gazed at her husband and spoke in an unemotional low voice. "The first time I was too nervous to feel much of anything. He had to work to produce any moisture in me at all. Finally, his saliva provided it. Yes, Owen, he kissed me. He kissed me there." She exploded ... "HE LICKED MY CUNT TO GET ME WET AND THEN HE FUCKED ME ... is that want you want to hear, you bastard? Is it?" After her outburst, Barbara leaned back and silently sighed. "I didn't climax. I didn't come close. He finally did but it was almost by rote ... one, two, three, shoot. End of story."

"How many times did he fuck you that night? There sure as hell was nothing wrong with your moisture the next morning! The bedroom smelled like a whorehouse. There were stains on the sheet and I saw his semen in your open cunt before I entered you. I could see it as plain as day! And I could feel it! I felt it squishing around my cock while I was in you. I had to grit my teeth and remember why I was there just to stay hard. When I pulled out, there it was ... his jizz mixed with mine all over my prick. I felt like puking!" He shuddered. "The next day it was the same thing all over again!"

Barbara closed her eyes as she realized just how terribly vulnerable he was. "You're brutalizing yourself, Owen. This isn't you talking. Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Because I'm a goddamn caveman when it comes to my wife and I've got to know if some son-of-a-bitch can fuck her better than I can," he roared. "I don't give a rat's ass if that doesn't make sense to you, or if it's some kind of a guy thing, or if it's any other kind of a fucking thing." He groaned and whispered, "Just tell me, Barb. Please just tell me." While he was far from reveling in what he was hearing, something instinctively told him that a full accounting was needed as a catharsis to cauterize his emotional hemorrhaging and to keep his jealous rage from poisoning his love for this wonderful woman.

Turning in pain to look unseeing at the far wall, Barbara's voice was flat and dull. "I already told you the first time was not good. We were both tense and he had to masturbate himself to get hard enough to enter me. I don't think he was ever fully erect. Afterward, he tried to cover up by saying everything was working according to plan but that didn't wash with either of us. No, it wasn't good but at least I had sperm inside me and that was the point of your plan, wasn't it?" She immediately regretted her words because they placed total responsibility on his shoulders and that wasn't fair to him. However reluctantly, she had agreed to the plan too.

"Neither of us slept well," she continued. "Next morning it was just getting light when he started again. He had showered and smelled fresh. And he was erect. Yes, Owen, he was painfully erect. His penis was wet and bobbing as he leaned over me and kissed my breasts. I don't know, maybe he had taken a Viagara pill and can thank Pfizer for the result. Whatever the reason, he was ready. Very ready. And I responded. I do care for Carl as a person, you know that, and maybe that's why I responded. But have no doubt about it, he performed magnificently and I responded as nature intended. He brought me to orgasm that morning ... but so do you every time we're together, so do you! I tried to fight my feelings for a while, I really did, but I failed. You said something once about Mother Nature designing this conception. Well, Mother Nature was working overtime that morning. She seduced me and I surrendered to her design. It felt natural being with him and it was good, maybe very good."

"How was he compared to me?" The bone was in his mouth and he wouldn't let it go.

She sighed deeply. "It was different, just different. I don't know how to describe it any better than that. Remember, you're experienced with me and he isn't. He was rougher than I like but I did climax ... more than once. Maybe you can understand if I tell you it was like our first few times in college while we were still exploring each other and hadn't discovered yet what we like and what we don't like. He and I were exploring each other. We were reaching out to each other.

I think he was very conscious that he was there to complete the mission we had agreed to. And I think he was trying hard to fulfill his role without becoming emotionally involved with me. There, that's the shrink in me coming out."

Growing angry, she continued. "He treated me with total respect. Carl's a gentleman and I insist that you have the same respect for him! He is not a son-of-a-bitch and I don't want to ever hear you call him that again! It's important for you to remember that I was as nervous as hell. He was considerate and did his best to put me at ease. I didn't feel dirty then and I don't feel dirty now. As far as how he felt, well I didn't ask but I very much doubt if I was the best he ever had."

Now livid, she continued the lecture with fury in her eyes. "One more thing, my jealous little boy. I want to put your covetous mind at ease once and for all. You have no reason to worry about your endowment. Carl's penis is no larger than yours. But I really couldn't care less how big or small it is. Here's a flash for all you goddamn Neanderthal men ... women don't go around measuring cocks, despite what you think! Sometimes all of you make me sick!"

She glared daggers at her husband. Suddenly without warning she relaxed and snickered. "There was one thing I just thought of that was different. His is just straight without that cute turned up angle you have. And it's real smooth without all those kinky ridges that drive me nuts every time you're in me." Barbara took a risk saying this but she was trying to boost her husband's ego and her timing was perfect. It broke the tension and the agony of his emotional castration. Their feelings were beginning to mend and they both realized it. In spite of himself, Owen smiled thinly and said, "Cute? Did you say cute? Well, that's a new name for it ... a hell of a lot better than Mr. Ugly!"

Barbara frowned. "One thing that definitely did not turn me on was his hairy chest, ugh! Carl's as hairy as a gorilla. I'm exaggerating but he does have hair all over and it scratched when I was lying on his chest." "Aha!" Owen perked up. "So you couldn't resist getting topside, huh? See, the truth always come out! You can't hide anything from me!"

Barbara reddened with embarrassment. She hadn't intended to describe the details of those nights as much as she already had. Now her off-hand complaint about Carl's chest opened the subject even more. Now he knew she had mounted Carl and that was hurtful because that special form of lovemaking was deeply intimate between the two of them. She hoped he wouldn't feel betrayed that she had shared that intimacy with Carl.

"As always you're very quick on the uptake Owen. You never miss a thing anyone says, do you? I wish I hadn't said anything about his hairy chest. One slip by me and now you know more than I was going to tell you." "And now that I know," Owen replied, "I want to know everything."