I look up at Dr. Madison, quite proud of myself for being such a team player with this whole therapy nonsense.
“That was very nice, Drew. But what I really wanted you to do was talk to Jenny’s vagina,” she explains.
Well alrighty then.
Figuring I might as well be comfortable for this, I curl up on the couch and rest my head on Jenny’s thigh. “I love you too, vagina. I miss you like a hooker misses her virginity. True story. Why have you done me wrong, Boo? Why is there such a distance between us? Remember when we used to hang out every day? Now I barely see you once a month. You’ve changed, vagina. I hate to say this, but you have. You’re a different person now, and it’s like I don’t even know you. I thought maybe you were hanging around with a different crowd of people and they influenced you against me. Maybe we’re just growing apart. I don’t want to lose you, vagina! I need you like I need air to breathe and football on Sundays. I just can’t quit you, vagina!”
I realize when I finish that the room is eerily quiet. I lift my head from Jenny’s leg and see both women staring at me with their mouth’s open. Okay, so I had cried a little. Sue me. This is emotional shit. This doctor is getting to the heart of all of our problems. My penis and Jenny’s vagina.
“Um, that was…uh, unexpected,” Dr. Madison states.
I sit up fully on the couch and grab a Kleenex from the side table and blow my nose.
“Wow, that felt really good,” I say, rolling my shoulders and stretching my neck from side to side. “It feels like a weight has been lifted. My mind is clear and I feel so free. What should we do next?”
Dr. Madison looks down at the notepad in her lap and flips a few pages. “Well, I think you have made some great progress, Drew. We just need to get Jenny where you are. Jenny, when was the last time you hugged your womb?”
“Hugged my room? I don’t get it,” Jenny says, confused.
“No, your womb. The place where you gave life to your two children,” Dr. Madison explains.
“Uh, can I do that here? Shouldn’t that be done in a real doctor’s office with a table and stirrups? I don’t think I can reach it otherwise. Unless you have a mirror and maybe a flashlight.”
“If I can reach your G-spot in the middle of the woods with a tube of watermelon Bonne Belle Chap Stick while it’s raining and there is a homeless guy in a tent four feet away singing the Sesame Street theme song, then you can hug your womb,” I tell her encouragingly.
I probably shouldn’t have brought that up because now I’m distracted and can only think about the one time we went camping and got lost in the woods.
And now I have a hard on.
“Actually, I don’t mean you actually need to…um, reach up and touch your literal womb,” Dr. Madison explains.
“Why is she talking about littering? Is she saying my womb is dirty?” Jenny whispers to me.
“What I need you to do, Jenny, is just cradle your arms around your lower stomach area. Hold your womb in your arms and give it comfort. Let it know you care.”
Okay, now this chick is talking crazy.
“And while you’re at it, try soothing your ovaries and give them some encouragement to open themselves back up and accept the love that is given. I believe the problem here is that your womanhood has closed itself off and no longer recognizes love.”
Bat shit crazy. Talking to my penis and Jenny’s vagina is normal. This is one step away from taking all of our clothes off and dancing and chanting around a sacrificed pig.
My awesome wife does as she’s told though and wraps her arms around her waist. She gently rocks from side to side and begins talking to her “womanhood” like it’s Billy.
“Such good little ovaries. Yes you are!”
I want off this crazy train. Right the fuck now!
Watching my wife rock-a-bye her ovaries makes me wonder what she initially thought we would get out of this counseling session. I had thought it would be a bunch of arguing and pointing fingers about whose fault it is that we aren’t having sex anymore. Maybe she doesn’t think that’s the problem. Shit, maybe that isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s just my problem. She’s not faking a work injury, she’s not cheating on me…what the hell else could it be? A few years ago she cut me off from sex for a week because I gave her a Dutch Oven in bed one night. While hilarious, it’s never a good idea when your wife is naked and getting ready to mount you.
There had been another time when I gave her a Wet Willy when she started coming. I hadn't meant for that to be hilarious. I read about it in Cosmo. When she had locked me out of the bedroom, I grabbed the magazine and realized two of the pages were stuck together - sex tips and practical jokes. Well played, Cosmo. Well played.
We leave the cuckoo doctor’s office with a promise to keep communicating with our reproductive organs. Unfortunately, I still have no fucking clue how that’s supposed to help get me laid.
Chapter 12 – Baby Bullets
Since cuddling our reproductive organs has done nothing to boost our sex life, there’s not much else for me to do except think back to a time when we were having sex. Man, those were the days. We had A LOT of sex. Like, a lot. Pretty sure it was impossible to even count that high. And fuck, was it good sex. Even when we were trying to get pregnant with Veronica it was good sex. You would think that since we pretty much used to have sex every single day, it would have been easy for us to get pregnant. I had always thought that shoving as much sperm up there as you could guaranteed you a baby.
I mean, it makes sense right? If you’ve got this little egg, and you just throw a handful of sperm at it, what are the chances that one will get through? But if you pour gallons and gallons of sperm all over it, that’s got to up your chances, right?
False! Those little white-tailed squirmy devils have serious attitude. It’s like they think they’re too good to fertilize an egg. Little bastards. You’ve got to trick them into submission. A sneak attack when they’re least expecting it.
“What, you say he’s going to put us through the tunnel while he’s on a Tilt-a-Whirl? Impossible!”
“I do declare he just shot us out of his cannon in a golf cart on the highway. Preposterous!”
You see? Listen to those stuck-up fuckers. They even talk like assholes.
After eight months with no success in getting pregnant, instead of letting it get us down, we had just got creative. We had sex in a supply closet on the maternity floor of a hospital because Jenny thought it would bring us luck. It didn’t, but we got two bottles of Windex, three pairs of doctor’s scrubs, and a box of rubber gloves out of the experience. That was almost better than a baby!
Another time, Jenny had made a list of all of the couples we knew who either were currently pregnant or had already had a baby. We went down the list and had sex in their beds. She figured there must be some kind of magical power in their beds that made it so they could have a baby. Having sex in their beds would get some of that magic to rub off on us. Yeah, that didn’t work either. And let me tell you, Carter and Claire were not so agreeable with our magic dust plan. I still didn’t get what the big deal was. It wasn't like we had sex while they were in the house. We made sure to wait until they left for work. Geeze, give us a little credit. I still had a scar on my forehead from when Claire threw a lamp at my head. It wasn't our fault they decided to come home early. They should have just followed their normal schedules and none of that would have happened.
The next one was totally genius and all my idea. What has more sperm than it knows what to do with? Yep. A sperm bank. I made an appointment and then made my deposit. In my wife – booyah! I figured this place was getting people knocked up every single day, so there had to be some luck in that, right? Jenny was a little nervous at first. She said she was certain that little particles of sperm were floating in the air at that place, and she was nervous that a particle from someone else would get all up in her business, and then she’d give birth to a baby that wasn’t mine. Don’t worry though, we took precautions. We kept her lady bits completely covered until I was ready for my deposit, ensuring that my particles were the only ones getting inside. The nurse at that place wasn’t too happy when we came back out and I told her I had made the deposit in the wrong cup. Jenny also wasn’t too happy that I kept referring to her vagina as a cup for the next several months.