Let’s face it, when I do eventually find a man who loves me back he’s not going to be hot like a Danish sperm donor. Have you seen them? All dreamy, creamy skin and fair hair and blue eyes that pierce you like a Californian sky. The descendants of Vikings. They’re wiry and muscular, or else built and outdoorsy; men who look like they could withstand a storm and erect a shelter from the debris after. And they’re so considerate as well; considered and considerate, articulate and kind. I think kindness is the main thing I want in a sperm donor, which is why no one I’ve slept with up until now has been in the running for father of my children.
Danish sperm donors, according to a programme I caught the tail-end of last week, are the last word in artificial insemination. Not only are they hotter than your average date, but the sperm comes cut-price, on ice and ready for insertion. It was all I could do to stop myself ordering several vials for immediate fertilisation purposes. Yes, there is every possibility I might end up with a child who has a few hundred siblings, and thus – what with the world getting smaller – a distinct possibility of one day having sex with his or her own brother. But that’s a small price to pay, and anyway I could warn my children of the dangers, or bring them up in a religion that advocates celibacy. Or one of those cults where they’re only permitted to shag the charismatic, elderly leader, who would at least have the advantage of definitely not being related to them by blood. I’ve thought it all through.
Not that I’m ethically down with sperm donation. We’re falling into the seas as it is. You can hardly move for bodies on the DLR in the morning. I watched a programme last night about the crowds at Victoria Coach Station and it was clear that we’re all fucked unless a lot of us die and even more of us stop breeding. But, like everyone, I don’t want to forfeit my life or my gene pool to save the world. I’m not going to top myself for ecological reasons. I’ll leave that to other suckers. And I’m not going to adopt an orphan either. The thought of a brand new baby that looks like me and hot bloke I’ll never meet is more appealing than the thought of a malnourished toddler who someone else has already fucked up. I want to damage my own children, ta very much, no matter the consequences for society, or, indeed, my children themselves.
So it looked like it was going to be Danish sperm, for a couple of days, until I thought about it properly and changed my mind. I know I have the outward appearance of a sensible, stable adult; a serious job, crows’ feet, shoes I can run for the bus in. I drink Martinis with a twist. I can cook a banging kleftiko lamb and I occasionally attend dinner parties hosted by enigmatic homosexuals in renovated townhouses. But that’s all an illusion. Behind closed doors I’m a mess. I live in my parent’s spare bedroom amongst wet towels and mouldering crockery. I still eat quavers. My phone bill is regularly more than £150, despite the fact I have unlimited minutes and a dwindling circle of friends. Last Friday I passed out drunk on the pavement outside Soho House. I may very well be unemployed come the end of the summer. Now is not the time to bring a child into the mix.
And that’s always the problem with life. Now is just never really the time to do anything that requires commitment to another person who might make you deal with your shit, or clean up theirs. Which is why I’m avoiding babies, and, of course, men. Unless you can find me a Danish one. They’re well fit.
*Image is “Sperm Attack” by jscreationzs at freedigitalphotos.net.