Turkey Basting With a Married Man

In today’s post, I want to share the recipe for making a turkey baster baby with a married man.

Step One: take two lesbians who want to have a baby. Make sure one of the lesbians is possibly foolish and willing to bleed in her pursuit of securing the turkey baster full of sperm.

Step Two: have the foolish lesbian ask her coworker if she could have his sperm. For a little extra excitement to the process, make sure the lesbian barely knows the coworker, he has at least one kid, and is married to a woman who can come unhinged if provoked.

Step Three: abandon the whole recipe cause the wife will kill the lesbian and possibly the husband if any of his sperm makes it to a turkey baster.

Now, I have no moral or religious convictions that cause me to judge a same sex couple from trying to produce a child with a blood line tied to one of the parents. With that said, I have many judgments about my husband’s coworker asking for his sperm.

Now, my husband said no of course, but not before considering his mother’s feelings about the situation. The fact that his mother somehow played any primary factor in his decision making only fueled my annoyance with the the sperm request.  But I’ve decided to (finally) let that go and focus my judgement on his coworker and not his incorrect priorities..

Women get knocked up by one night stands from all walks of life, so maybe his coworker figured she didn’t have to know anything about her sperm donor in order to get pregnant.

Maybe she thought negative stereotypes of black men abandoning their children would allow for her to have a child with a man and him be okay with not being involved.

Or maybe she must have thought that her working at the same job as him would somehow provoke the idea that she could somehow afford the sperm of a married man (trust she is not even close).

But all of that is irrelevant, because at the end of the day what it is comes down to is simple: that sperm is mine. Mine to disappointment my mother in law with when I tell her I don’t want to have more kids. Mine to fear when I forget to take my birth control. Mine to spit up, gag on, or fuck up my good sheets.

In conclusion…

This recipe pairs well with slashed tires, hostile side eye, possible assault charges, and crushed dreams. Wash it down with some hot tea and enjoy!