Another evening tending bar at the safari guesthouse, and I witness our guests discussing the thorny topic of how lesbians should procreate. The women favour the use of sperm banks and mechanical squirting devices, but the men reject this method as unreliable and mean-spirited. The broody lesbian, they argue, should interview potential fathers face-to-face and allow the successful candidate to impregnate her, not necessarily face-to-face.
“Having sex with a man is the only sure way of knowing who the father is,” says one of the men. “You can’t trust a sperm bank. They may say the donor is a Nobel laureate, but he might be some snotty-nosed teenager who walks around with his butt cleavage showing. Letting a man do the business is safer and more natural.”
“You just like the idea of sleeping with a woman who won’t expect anything from you afterwards,” declares one of the women in a somewhat accusatory tone. “What you don’t understand is that being penetrated by a man is unnatural for lesbians. Why would they willingly go through such an ordeal?”
The men seem offended by this question. “If lesbians hate penises so much how come they use strap-ons?” asks one of them.
“Because they’re permanently hard and easier to clean,” replies one of the women tartly. “Lesbians don’t hate penises anyway. They just don’t find them exciting when they’re attached to the body of a man.”
The debate fizzles out without consensus or conclusion. I breathe a sigh of relief that I have avoided involvement, either as mediator, adjudicator or advocate. I know little about lesbians and their mysterious ways and might have exposed myself to derision by making a schoolboy howler. On the reproductive question, I would say that a woman is entitled to put whatever she wants up her cha-cha (within reason). How lesbians reproduce is nobody’s business.
Yet like most things which are nobody’s business, one is very curious to know.
My readers will have heard of Jodie Foster, the Oscar-winning actress. I always thought she had a singularly pretty face for a woman who found the male of her species unappealing. I believe she has given birth to several babies of indeterminate male parentage. The manner of their conception was kept a closely guarded secret.
Now suppose we bribed some random fellow to publicly claim fatherhood of Ms Foster’s children. She would only issue an immediate denial if she were certain of the real father’s identity, and had presumably allowed him to mount her, which is something even a lesbian might endure in a good cause. But a delayed response would imply that she was making frantic enquiries with her sperm bank, which would have to check that our stooge wasn’t a disgruntled former employee who substituted his own man-goo for that of Ms Foster’s preferred donor. These things can happen in the best of sperm banks.
I admit such a ruse would be roguish and unethical, but can anyone think of a better way of winkling it out of her?
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