The anonymous (for your both yours and her benefit) voice screeched down my ear, “I have something to tell you.”
“It can’t be that bad, what is it?”
“I had sex last night.”
“Good for you!” Standard response I guess.
“I might be pregnant.” Oh my God! what? Where? When? How? (Stupid question).
It is times like this when I am thankful there is no chance in hell for me to get a phone call saying that I could be the father. I have my eyes on the convertible car and penthouse apartment instead (one can only dream big I suppose). But I never thought I would have this conversation with one of my friends.
It was worse than being a father. I would be Godfather, the one who had to buy the child presents out of principle, not love or choice. Tell funny stories to try and impress the panel of judges and lose the crude banter with my friend who would slowly turn into the mother at the school gates. To make things worse she would be a single mum. I would have to be her knight in shining armour who would step in and save the day. If anyone knows me, they will be quick to mention that I am not the saint-like man to save the day. There would be a lot of flapping involved. I struggle with looking after myself, let alone being responsible for a small child, they would end up scarred from the stories I would have to share. “This is what your mummy and I used to do, the rules are you have to down it in eight seconds. Your mummy always used to beat me at this particular game.”
What if she wanted me to be guardian? If my friend died, that would mean that I would end up being the person I always strived not to be, a father. And a depressed one at that having just lost my close friend, the world would crumble under my feet. The convertible would be a distant regret having no practicality and the penthouse would soon transform into a crèche. The whole situation would be a nightmare!
Children… Kids… “Your egg and his sperm. Why did you not think about all of this before you shagged this stranger?”
“It’s okay, I’m probably not, I’m not at my most fertile, that’s next week.”
I’m sorry what? I know I am not the best person to understand the female anatomy but girls have more or less chance in getting pregnant depending what day of the month it is? My brain works very simply: Woman and man have sex, nine months later and we say hello to little Noah or Bonnie (names don’t matter, either way your life will change forever), along with a lifetime of stress, worry, commitment and potentially an unsexy and stretched body. Men have sex with man, 9 months later and there is no baby, no extra expenses, no stretch marks and no signs of aging. I know which person I would rather be.
My friend has (I hope) learnt her lesson from this rather selfish situation she could have put me in. There is a new rule with being my friend from now on. You may only have a baby if you are in a stable relationship and for heaven sakes, do NOT ask me to be your guardian, I wouldn’t cope and neither will your precious bundle of joy. I will however continue to be your friend and make sure that the little one has plenty of fun adventures in his or her childhood.
So joking aside I do like children; I am looking forward to being the gay uncle that teaches them lots of new and rebellious skills. Like increasing their vocabulary with a dictionary of rude and inappropriate words, how to argue with daddy, and most importantly how to throw a proper tantrum! What a great uncle I am going to be… I hope my brothers are not planning fatherhood anytime soon, although the eldest has just gone an bought a Citoen Picasso (Is this a sign?)
And finally a little advice to my friend who, from this blog will have most certainly understood how I feel about the entire situation. By all means be young and enjoy life. But your safety, youth and morals should not be sacrificed as a consequence to your drunk actions.