Babycakes by Armistead Maupin

St. Sebastian’s suggested it, but … well …”
“I thought it would be so perfect,” Connie lamented.
“I know.”
“They have these three cold-storage vats at the sperm bank—one for known donors, one for unknowns, and an extra one in case the freezer craps out. Wally’s stuff goes into the ‘unknown’ vat, but I thought maybe we could get his number or something … or get him moved into the ‘known’ vat … so you’d know what you were getting.”
“It was a sweet thought. Really.” Not so sweet was the vision looming hideously in her brain: a turkey baster brimming with the semen of her former paperboy.
“Plus,” added Connie, still plugging away, “it seems like the perfect solution if you want to get pregnant and you don’t want Brian to know that he’s not the father. There wouldn’t be any strings attached as far as Wally is concerned, and … well, everything would work out for everybody.”
And the blessed event would be Connie’s niece or nephew. It was touching to think that Connie might regard this arrangement—consciously or unconsciously—as a means of cementing a friendship that had never quite worked out. It was downright heartbreaking, in fact.
“Connie … I’d go to Wally in a second, if I thought I could handle artificial insemination.”
“It’s not all that complicated, you know. They send you to this fertility awareness class and teach you how to measure your dooflop, and you just do it. I mean, sperm is sperm, you know?”
“I know, Connie. It also comes with an attractive applicator.”
“What?”
“Don’t you see? I know it’s easy. I know lots of people do it. I can see your point entirely. It’s the artificial part that stops me cold.” She lowered her voice to a vehement whisper. “I can’t help it, Connie. I want to be fucked first.”
Connie’s jaw went slack. “You want Wally to fuck you?”
“No!” She proclaimed it so forcefully that a Chinese woman at the next table looked up from her chili dog. Modulating her voice, she added: “I meant that in a general sense. I want the baby to grow out of an act of love. Or … affection, at least. You can blame my mother for that. That’s what she taught me, and that’s what I’m stuck with.”
“This is amazing,” said Connie.
“What?”
“Well … I’ve seen you on TV. You look so hip.”
“Connie … it’s me, Mary Ann. Remember? Vice-president of the Future Homemakers of America?”
“Yeah, but you’ve changed a lot.”
“Not that much,” said Mary Ann. “Believe me.”
“Mary Ann! She’s doin’ it!” It was her cameraman, bearer of glad tidings.
She sprang to her feet. “That’s my cue.”
Two minutes later, the wet cub plopped onto the concrete floor without so much as a tiny grunt from his mother.
“Animals have it so easy,” said Connie, watching from the sidelines.
Mary Ann spent the rest of the afternoon editing footage at the station. As she headed home at twilight, the security guard in the lobby handed her a manila envelope. “A lady said to give you this.”
“What kind of a lady?”
“A pregnant lady.”
“Great.”
She didn’t open it until she had reached the Le Car, parked in an alleyway off Van Ness. Inside the envelope were two brochures with a note attached:
Mary Ann—Don’t get mad, O.K.? I’m leaving you these cuz I thought they might explain things better than I did. Just between you and I, Wally was a little ticked when he found out I didn’t give you some literature first. Let’s get together real soon. Luff ya. Connie.
She couldn’t decide what annoyed her more—Connie’s chronic breeziness (a style she had picked up years before from inscribing dozens of Central High yearbooks) or the realization that Brian’s sterility was now a topic of major concern to the entire Bradshaw family.
She began to read:
We believe that women have the right to control our own reproduction and in doing so, determine if, when and how to achieve pregnancy. Donor