weak jizz

Don’t tell anyone, right? It’s doubtful you exist, dear human reader, so I’m fairly sure you won’t. But if you do, don’t.

Thing is, we’re trying. To conceive, reproduce. We’re actually doing it. We haven’t really told anyone but we’ve been trying for a couple of months. It’s the first scary hurdle of a virtually infinite challenge, and it’s one which we might fall at.

Attempting to conceive unleashes a strange mental gymnasium of angst and worry and fear and thoughts about biology and science and what might work best and what might not. At 37 and 35 we are not quite hitting the panic button, but we are not too far off. You have a sense that this thing might have been much easier 10 years ago.
As a bloke you can have efforts where you feel strong, where you have that control and confidence in your jizz. Maybe when you reach the big moment you feel like you can spurt and project your jizz a good distance, get it up there in the mixer, where it counts, lump the jizzball up in the box and see if one of your guys can get their heads on it, in it. I don’t know. I am not 100% on all the science and biology.

On other occasions, maybe when you’ve been trying the thing (sex) regularly for a while and you do not feel so fresh, you have occasions where the big moment feels floppier. It is like a juddering staggering over the line. You don’t spurt, you dribble. You are just grateful to have made it and relieved it is over.

Although, when that happens you sort of hope none of the guys make it because that thing you just did, that can’t be great quality jizz, can it?  If any tadpoles from that lame show somehow make it, they might create some substandard, weak fusion. This might produce a being which is slow, lazy, backward, or, or disabled somehow. Is it terrible to think that? Have I doomed myself just by thinking that? No kids for me now. But what if bad stuff happens and problems occur and things are not right? Would it all be down to my tepid casual jizz somehow miraculously making it to the payload?

Is that how science works? That can’t be how it works.
It’s done for another month now anyway, which is sort of a relief. Most of my 20s I furiously bemoaned my intense sexual repression. Now, not all that many years later, I feel grateful for the respite.
——

We had an extended family meet-up at the weekend. Planned around 6 months in advance, it bought together our family with the one discovered 12ish years ago thanks to ancestry digging and my grandfather’s roving eye.

Our three generations mixed in an impressive, newly renovated home in an affluent outer Birmingham town.

Their family have two daughters a little older than me and my brother. This was the stunningly spacious house of the elder daughter, aged around 44, happily married to a partner met at university (as my brother), with two beautiful kids, one boy, one girl (as my brother). Not having children, it’s difficult not to feel an outsider when they are chatting child things with my brother and his wife.  Kids’ clubs, music lessons, schooling: the stuff of which we know nothing. So we stand there and smile, anxiously stroking the knowledge of our secret efforts and weak jizz.

A short while later the younger daughter arrives. Aged around 41, she lives a distance further away with a partner of only a few years. They are unmarried and have no children. She makes a remark about having a smaller house and you sense a tension, the younger sibling underachiever thing which I am highly knowledgeable about. An enormous amount of time, effort and money has been ploughed into this house – a large part from their retired accountant father. You wonder at the parity or inequality of the contributions, which is a hard thing to measure for any parents I suppose. But when one side appears to have so much more in property and children, it’s difficult.

It is all kinds of difficult. There are multiple neuroses and resentments. He / she has / had so much more than me. My time has passed. I will never have that, them, this.
The journey to and from Birmingham presents a strange role reversal. I drive, my wife sits alongside me and my parents sit in the back. Dad fell off a bicycle and badly broke his arm a week earlier; my wife suffers occasional travel sickness so likes to sit up front. On the dark return journey back south the rear view mirror shows outlines of my parents’ slumping snoozing heads. They sway and bob, zombie-like. It’s dangerously hypnotic and slightly spooky. Inoffensive pop music plays from Radio 2 as we hurtle south down the motorway. Glancing left, I see my wife’s eyes shut, restful. I feel alone and responsible in my consciousness.

If we are successful at reproducing a small person, that person is unlikely to have the same relationship with their Grandparents (my parents) as the one my niece and nephew have enjoyed for around a decade. We may not be as able to lean so much on my parents for childcare support. (My wife has no living parents or super close family). It is not inconceivable that we will attempt to raise a child and care for dying parents at the same time.

Such stuff, together with ideas of success and charitable family donations – who has more, who has earned more and been given more – it all feeds resentments, needles down, can ultimately divide family.  It never occurred to me until recently, but above everything else I might end up most envying my brother’s potent jizz.

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