Not to sound bigheaded but I am proud of my features; shapely with lots of curves for the right set of hands to appreciate. My height comes from my dad. My bronze skin and dark hair comes from my mum. I must confess that I resemble neither facially; getting dad's nose and lips, and mum's high cheekbones and almond eyes.
I first meet Harold when I arrive fresh out of law-school to work in his firm. He is a tall large man going to fat. At fifty, he retains his large build, but his stomach is beginning to sag. A surly man, with a prominent nose and bland lips, he commands the respect of the rich and successful. Once a football player, he now runs a prestigious law firm. I notice from the off that he fancies me, constantly stealing glances at my c-cup breasts and shapely legs that melt into a beautiful butt. But his ugliness is repulsive, although he seems nice. A month later, he introduces me to his son Donald, the V-P of the company. Donald, as tall as his father, resembles his former cheerleader mother being as slender as a pine tree. I am attracted to tall guys being a tall gal myself. After a three-month romance, we tie the knot. The North's are a rich family, I am ambitious girl from a backwater middle-class family so why not?
Harold North gives me a Mercedes CLK on the wedding day and requests only one thing, "Amy, give us an heir."
"Of course I will," I reply after thanking him.
"A male heir."
Me being twenty-two at the time and fertile, it should be no problem. Is it love or more like Tina Turner's most famous song? More like lust as for a year, we fuck like rabbits. I work in the firm for three more years and always think I can easily continue ignoring my father in-law's occasional banter. My life with Donald is great; we live in a three-bed condo; he has a nice dick and is wonderful in bed. But try as I might, my period keeps coming like clockwork. Harold begins to drop hints as innuendo replaces banter. I begin to worry. I remember the pre-nup and know that without a child, I have nothing. After four years of marriage to the day, I go to the family doctor. I am fertile and ready. But for the next three months, getting Donald to come with me to visit the clinic proves impossible. I complain to the Doctor who suggests using a vial to collect his sperm after sex. I get that unethical advice after giving the handsome physician a hand-job. He tries to get frisky, but my virtue remains intact, affirming my vows if not in thought but in deed.
However, sex with my husband drops off; from every other day after we marry to once every one or even two months. I begin to feel a near constant ache between my legs; frustration which my vibrator struggles to douse. I stop seeing that doctor and register with another, whom I present with a specimen of Donald's sperm. A few days later, we go on a month-long trip filled with travel but no sex. When I return, I phone the doctor who informs me that the tests are ready. I walk into the shock of my life.
"Mrs North, am afraid your husband is sterile."
"What?" Am I shouting?
"It seems that an infection during his youth caused..."
"You mean he cannot make me pregnant?"
"Am afraid so."
"What do I do?"
He goes into a monologue of available options while I become lost in thought. I cannot recall how I leave the clinic. All I hear is North Senior's admonishing voice. Donald and I spend the weekend together. When he tells me we are going to Japan for two weeks, I mumble a torrent of replies pregnant with excuses.
"What's wrong?" he asks after moments of silence.
"Nothing," I reply.
"Usually by this time you'd want to make love. Your insurance so to speak."
"I have a headache," I reply.
"That's a new one. We haven't made love in two months."
"Fucked you mean."
"Whatever! I dislike your vulgarity."
"I don't feel like it. When you come back."
He snarls. "In two weeks!"
"We have lasted longer before."
The next morning he leaves without saying goodbye; another first. I call the one person I feel will understand; I call Harold North.
"I don't believe it!"
I sigh. "I can give you the number of the doctor."
"I am coming over, with Thomas."
It is 9am on a Saturday morning and I am sitting alone in living room, pondering on his final words. Thomas is his principal assistant, a thirty-something year old hunk who gives me trembling knees anytime I see him. I scramble to have my bath. I prefer figure hugging clothes and most men stiffen when I roll my hips past them. But after work or in-doors, I love wearing casuals and know I look especially good in tight clothes.
From the closet, I pick out a button blouse and jeans shorts, which cling to my wide hips, accentuating the incredible curves of my behind. Looking into the mirror, I feel good and my mood lifts. The mere sight of these things excites Donald and other red-blooded males, like Thomas. A bit of banter with my father-law shall lift me further. Nothing feels better than having men lust after me, even one that gets my heart pounding. Its harmless fun after all. I start imagining all the little ways I can flirt with him right under Harry's nose.
When the bell rings at 11.30am, I wear slippers and open the door. My mouth falls open. Harold is alone and for the first time I see my employer without a suit. He wears a tracksuit; his belly bulging and sweat marks dots his armpits, changing its sky-blue colour to deep blue patches.
"Where's Thomas?" I ask.
"He had to rush home. His wife's pregnant."
Immediately, my mood descends and without thinking I rush into his arms; another first. My story comes out in mumbles.
"I know you're upset," he says after my gushing mouth falls silent. "But, there must be a solution to this problem."
"He says there are other options."
A long silence follows. "Like what?"
"Artificial insemination." I pull away from him, establishing eye contact, trying to gauge his reaction.
"Injecting sperm into your womb! From where and by whom?"
"A donor bank and I don't have to know the donor."
His eyes burn into mine like hot coals. "Sperm in a syringe from an unknown person to carry on my family name?"
I close the brief space between us, embracing him. "We both want a baby son. It's the best way."
"There will be no test-tube babies in this family!" He holds me lightly. "There are other options."
Gripping him tightly, I start crying on his shoulder. "I am so confused."
After a few moments, I feel something. But my grief is such that I barely notice."It will be okay."
As the tears fall from my eyes onto his left shoulder, the protuberance under the knot of his tracksuit bottoms prods again, scraping my stomach. I try to pull away, but when his hands crawl down from my shoulders to my butt, I freeze. His hands sink into my behind, then his fingers squeeze.
"Wha..t are you doing?"
"Exploring another option."
