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A Fountain of Youth Pt. 03

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Finished with what we’d been up to, I rested the weight of my body heavily upon her, winded from my exertions. This had been the best sex of my life, which was saying a lot. Aside from the pleasure of a fast subsiding, though spectacular orgasm, I now found myself troubled and confused.

My wife, or at least what used to be my wife, looked like the cat who ate the canary.

I began by appealing to reason, extremely shaken by what I’d just experienced.

“Honey, you know we agreed to not have kids! This can never happen again! I can only hope that we dodged a bullet this time. Talk about playing with fire…”

Exasperated, my voice trailed off.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said, firmly.

“You’ve changed your mind?” I stared, uncomprehending. “This isn’t a decision to take lightly. This is a big deal.”

And then, at once, I understood.

She’d been questioning herself and the life decisions she’d chosen for a long time. Wanting a baby at this exact moment was a product of intense, long-lasting self-critique. My wife was a hypocrite, too, but in a slightly different way.

The lady had protested too much. As much as she’d always insisted she would never bear a child, as often as she denied it to herself and to me, a part of her had always wanted one of her own.

I’d mocked the silly college girls in revealing clothing. She’d mocked the young parents holding onto screaming infants in crowded spaces or on airplanes. Sour grapes, pure and simple. Guilty as charged.

“Now I can start over. Now we can start over.”

Indignant, I registered my protests loudly and vociferously.

“Wait a minute. When did this ‘we’ business enter the picture? I’ve never wanted snot-nosed brats.”

Usually, at every time before the present, she nodded her head up and down in total agreement. I was expecting the same complete validation that had always existed before, but it never came.

Propped up on one shoulder, the impish, adolescent side of her now took dominance. Her voice became playful and coy.

“I’m canlı bahis in charge now. You know you can’t resist me.”

That would have been little more than a flirty dare, except for the fact that it was completely true. I really couldn’t resist her. Forces much more powerful than myself were now in control. If I hadn’t gotten her pregnant this time, there would be plenty of other opportunities to follow.

Though I didn’t dare bring it up, I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been in control of the proceedings the whole time. Maybe I’d been giving far too much credit to the universe, or some divine force that wanted one more bouncing bundle of joy.

I never thought that the power to transform her so completely had somehow been my own invention, but neither did I wager that the whole idea might well have been hers. And yet, I’d always seen this plan as my own somehow, but I must admit that the way it had fallen into my lap was a curious development.

A fully formed system had presented itself with little effort spent on my part. Good fortune had smiled upon us, I had previously thought. Now I suspected willful deception and emotional manipulation.

I had no proof, of course. And right now, blame wasn’t all that important. My number one priority was now going to be finding a way to assert greater control over my actions in the bedroom.

The fifty-year-old version of my wife would have already dashed out the door to buy the morning-after pill, regardless of how implausible the possibility of a pregnancy might be.

This was not the case today, and I knew it wouldn’t be in the foreseeable future. In fairness, the fifty-year-old version of my wife would never have acted like this in the first place.

My wife had turned rebellious, impulsive. I knew she might well dig in her heels, resisting my pleas to get back on the pill immediately.

I knew couldn’t force feed birth control pills down her throat. I couldn’t make her do much of anything. If I tried to speak from authority, she might well defy me out of pure bahis siteleri spite.

This is why I’d never wanted to have children of my own. Each of us were young once, and most of us periodically ignored what our parents told us.

I’d never wanted to be anyone’s parent. I’d never wanted to be anyone’s authority figure and now I was, in a weird way.

She was baby-crazy. I knew she’d start accurately tracking her days of peak fertility like the dutiful honors student that she had been, years ago. Once we started our love making anew, I recognized again to my complete horror that I was thoroughly powerless. The commandments that my brain or some supernatural force demanded of me could not be defied.

The pleasure was too addictive, too infused with righteous purpose. I loved feeling productive, and the task at hand made me feel as though I had accomplished multiple life goals, substantial portions of my bucket list.

I’d agreed to go through with this process for the sexual thrill, but the situation had drastically changed. At first, I thought I might somehow manage to white-knuckle it through strict self-control, staying entirely celibate. But upon further introspection, that was no life.

As I contemplated further, I could see no hope in store for me. We would have sex again. And again after that. It would be too pleasurable to cease. Before long, I knew I’d discover a series of used pregnancy tests in the bathroom garbage can next to the sink, wholly unconcealed from view. She’d dare me to object.

I was not ready to be a father. I’m not even sure if she was ready to be a mother. She’d fallen in love with her own imagined unreality and was too stubborn to admit her share of the blame.

The truth of it was that we were both at fault. We’d opened Pandora’s Box. Easy to open, hard to close. As my mother used to tell me, be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

If I couldn’t keep myself from regularly getting into my wife’s pants, maybe I could discover a new method of contraception besides withdrawal. bahis şirketleri I hadn’t worn a condom in decades.

When my wife was still my girlfriend, we’d started off using rubbers, only to find that I could never achieve enough stimulation to climax. Trying one would be suspect and fairly transparent.

I suppose I could always buy a pack to see what happened, but I wasn’t sure if I’d end up overwhelmed by forces beyond my control and maniacally rip it off halfway through. Some years before I’d contemplated getting a vasectomy and wished I’d followed through on it.

Getting one now could be done, but it would required convincing a doctor. I’d be sore and out of commission for a while, which would at least prolong the inevitable until I could formulate a better strategy.

I’d have to formulate an air-tight excuse. This was my plan. This is what I’d tell her. I had a need for emergency surgery, down there. Faking sincerity, I’d tell her that I’d finally come around to her point of view.

This surgery would make it easier for us to conceive a child. The procedure was not very invasive, the risks not very high. I’d be totally healed within days.

It was quite a brainstorm. I was proud of thinking of it myself.

The problem is that I’m not made of stone. Even if this was entirely her own scheme, it would nevertheless hurt me to see how disappointed she’d be without a child of her own.

I could see her making frantic appointments with a fertility specialist within a year. I might dislike what she’d done, but I couldn’t hate her.

She would start by blaming herself first. Eighteen years old and barren? Fate is cruel. Her aims might have been selfish, but the tears and anguish to come would be very real. I wasn’t cold enough to delight in someone else’s misery, much less that of my life partner.

No matter. It can’t be helped. One of my close friends is a urologist by trade. He’d offered to perform the v-section a while before and I’m pretty sure he could be convinced to do it now.

I’d lie through my teeth and tell him that my wife simply had to come off the pill due to some esoteric hormonal reason and didn’t want to have her tubes tied. After all, who would want to risk a pregnancy at my age?

I hope I can pull this off.

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