NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

“We’ve been trying to get pregnant for two years,” I told my best friend, Rita. “Turns out, Harry’s swimmers aren’t so good at swimming. His specialist says we need to do artificial insemination. I don’t want that.”

“You go to Doc Hartley, don’t you?”

“No, I didn’t get his humor, and the way he touched me was a bit ... let’s call it, weird.”

“Look, Doc will have you pregnant in a matter of months. Sam and I have used him for all three of our kids. Now granted, his method is unconventional. But it is a lot more enjoyable than the turkey baster approach,” Rita said, then added. “Just stay calm, open your mind, and enjoy the trip.”

I made an appointment. When the day came, I headed to his clinic with a little trepidation. The things Rita told me were quite odd. Once I parked, my eyes glanced over the small jar of my husband’s semen. If we use this sperm, how is it different from the other way?

I pushed open the heavy glass door to Dr. Hartley’s office, a breeze blowing in with me that ruffled the corners of old magazines scattered on the coffee table. The familiar smell of antiseptic and latex gloves filled my nostrils, a clinical scent that always set my nerves on edge.

The receptionist told me that Dr. Hartley had prepared and waited for me. Adding that he would do a thorough examination prior to insemination. I entered his office, and he looked up at me. With his usual cheer, Dr. Hartley grinned at me like we were old pals meeting at a bar.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite patient!” he exclaimed, standing and stretching out his arms. Before I could react, he enveloped me in a warm, slightly suffocating hug. He was always like this—jovial, bordering on inappropriate, but somehow comforting.

His overfamiliarity was off putting.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said, pulling back but keeping his hands on my shoulders.

I furrowed my brow, genuinely confused. “In what manner?”

He laughed, a deep belly laugh that shook his round frame.

“You’re a hoot, you know that? Never get the punch line.” He waved his hand towards the exam room. “Meeting here, just you and me in my office with an exam table ready for use!”

I forced a smile, trying to play along. Truth was, I never got his jokes, but his laughter was infectious, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit more at ease.

He laughed again, a twinkle in his eye as he invited me into the back exam room. “So, I already know what brings you in today. But you should put it into words,” he said, holding open the door adorned with anatomical charts.

I hesitated, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. “I ... I ... think ... I mean, something’s wrong with my husband. His baby bullets have low mobility.” I looked down at my hands, twisting my wedding ring around my finger.

“We’ve been trying, but we just can’t ... get pregnant. When I talked to your nurse about this on the phone, she told me to bring this.” I held out the sperm.

Dr. Hartley’s expression softened, instantly shifting from jovial friend to concerned physician.

“Well,” he said, taking the tiny jar and setting it on the desk. “I think we’ll do better than that. let’s see if we can get this job done, shall we?” He patted the exam table, the crinkle of paper underneath his hand filling the room. “I’ll need to do a complete exam before I can diagnose you.”

I nodded, though I had a sinking in my gut. The main reason I stopped coming to him was his weird way of examining me. But it’s fine, I told myself. He’s a doctor. And not just any doctor—a friend, too. Sort of.

He must have seen my hesitation because he added, “It’s alright. You know me. You know my wife. We’re all friends here.” He handed me a neatly folded paper gown, the kind that always made me feel more exposed than if I were just naked. “Put this on and hop on up here,” he said, patting the table again.

I took the gown, the paper crinkling loudly in my hands. As Dr. Hartley turned to prepare his instruments, I undressed, the cool air of the office raising goosebumps on my skin. I couldn’t shake the feeling of vulnerability but pushed it aside, reminding myself that this was all part of the process. If this was how we’d finally get our baby, I was game for whatever.