Chapter One: Attempt Number One is Disappointing to say the least

I awoke with a start. Someone was lying on top of me. Someone who was breathing heavy. Someone who smelt like a mixture of stale sweat, Davidoff Cool Water and cigarettes. A man smell. And as I ran my fingers across his back I felt fur. I gently pushed the top of his torso to one side. He was heavy and furry and grunted as I moved out from underneath him. I needed to pee. How long had I been asleep? As I stood at the foot of the bed, I studied the bear man. He seemed to have an equal amount of hair on his front as on his back. It grew down his shoulders and covered his buttocks. Perhaps it kept him warm enough not to need the duvet which he’d kicked off to one side so it was just covering the two parts of his body that were hairless - the soles of his feet. I shuddered, grabbed a T-shirt from the floor.
Attempt Number One.
In a few weeks I’d know whether I’d been successful or not.
Already I was hoping it wasn’t.

As part of my initial survey into this man, I’d failed to measure the exact amount of body hair he had growing out of every pore, between each pore, on top of each pore. Already I was willing Attempt Number One to fail. From the fug in the room I could tell that not only was this a bear, not a man, it was also one whose smell I didn’t warm to. And it was a relief to get inside the bathroom and breathe in the fresh, pine fragrance that emanated from the toilet. At least this hairy man knew how to keep his toilet smelling nice. Perhaps Attempt Number one would work. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if it did. I tried to pee gently. I let it trickle out making a lovely, delicate, watery sound rather than pushing like I usually did. I’d always had a sense that I was missing something when I was on the loo. That if I spent a moment too long I’d miss an important opportunity. Miss meeting someone great. Miss a conversation that would change my life. Time spent on the toilet was simply wasted time. If I could have peed standing up, into a glass, or a sink or just in a cup whilst I was speaking I would have. Instead I’d always run to the toilet, hovered over the seat and after a quick wipe, my knickers would be up, a quick wash of the hands, no drying, no time for that and I’d be out the door still fiddling with my belt or my skirt. But now I was Miss Gentle Wee. If Attempt Number One was going to work then I needed to be careful that I didn’t potentially dislodge the bear man’s gift. The gift he hopefully didn’t remember leaving behind. He’d been drunk enough not to notice that there was a hole in the end of the condom that I’d engineered with my mouth when I’d torn the packet open and pushed it on. A tiny hole but big enough that his hairy, potential offspring could escape out of and start work on my dream. Hairy offspring.
Perhaps Attempt Number One wouldn’t work.
Perhaps this was for the best.

When I got back to the room the air still smelt terrible. This man was made of cheese and hair. I needed to be more selective. I needed to road test these men first- I needed to measure there hair, their sex smells. And as I bent down to study the bear’s face, I saw hair migrating out of his nostrils. There was a ball of hair fighting to get out of this man’s body. I went back into the bathroom and jumped into the shower. I’d made a mistake. Hopefully it wasn’t too late. Hopefully if I washed myself vigorously enough I could dislodge the potential hair- ball. This was a steep learning curve.
‘Hey!’ a deep voice said from behind the shower curtain
I could just see his outline as I squeezed shower gel into my palm and lathered my arms, my legs, then…as the curtain opened the hairy bear stood in all his glory. Who’s been sleeping in my bed! He was just about to climb into the shower and go for a repeat performance. And he was hung-over enough that he wasn’t even thinking about condoms. But it was too late and I had already worked myself into a panic. It wasn’t just the hair. I didn’t know enough about this man. What music did he like? What if Phil Collins was his favourite artist of all time? What if he thought Wet Wet Wet were better than The Pixies? I’d been a fool. And if I could have turned myself inside out like a flannel and run myself under the shower I would have. I didn’t want this man’s baby.
In fact I would have rather eaten the bar of hairy soap that was nestled next to the hairy shower gel. Or stuck my tongue into the plughole and stayed there.
‘I’m feeling queasy, do you mind?’ I said half smiling, bending over trying to cover my body and be highly un-erotic. To be honest I don’t have to try to be un-erotic. I’m usually highly un-erotic by nature. But the bear was up and ready to go. It was biology. Nothing to do with a frazzle-haired girl lathering herself up in his shower. A girl who was frantically trying to rub the remnants of him out of herself so she could get on with Attempt Number Two. And this one would be much more thoroughly researched. And wouldn’t resemble a Yeti. I crossed my fingers. Luckily the bear was looking ill, as if the six pints of beer, three Southern Comforts and Tequila shots were troubling him somewhat. He looked distinctly un-erotic. Like he’d changed his mind and now he wanted the soapy girl out of his shower so he could get rid of her. Perhaps he was contemplating the condom. Had he worn one? Was this girl on the pill? I say girl but I’m no girl. I’m no teenager either, not even in my twenties. Or early thirties.
I’m at the stage where a different kind of biology starts to take over.

I struggled to remember this fella’s name. It would have to be Attempt Number One. He grunted and let go of the shower curtain. I heard him peeing, a long steady stream which suggested a healthy, strong bladder. But a strong bladder was no good if you resembled a Gorilla. I took the showerhead and aimed it down below. Goodbye spawn of Attempt Number One. Goodbye. I watched the foam spin down the plughole. I crossed and uncrossed my fingers.
I would eat soap.
I would suck foam.
Anything to undo last night.

Next time I’d be much more thorough. I owed it to my future. I wouldn’t just pick up some random in a pub at closing time and drag him back to his place. As I grabbed a towel from the rack and dried myself I seriously hoped I hadn’t screwed up. I quickly retrieved my clothes from around the bed where they were festooned on various lamps, bedside tables, pot plants like Christmas decorations. Except it wasn’t Christmassy. And there was a hairy, smelly, un-erotic sitting up in bed looking grumpy. Reality was no doubt kicking in. Men can change very quickly in these situations (not that I’ve done this many times, I haven’t, in fact this was the first – not the first ever but the first as part of this particular plan). In the future, I’d get out more quickly - before they could start thinking about what had happened or asking questions.
In fact once the thing was done, there really was no reason to hang about.

After a quick glass of water, I escaped into the fresh air. I breathed it in like it was pure oxygen. It smelt like leaves, like clean, like skin without fur. He hadn’t offered me his phone number. I wasn’t about to offer mine. If the hairy child was born, I would love it, of course I would love it. But it would be a secret.

As he pulled away from a quick, dry peck on the cheek I noticed his eyes. As green as ivy (and framed by generous, brown eyebrows as thick as a squirrels tail).
Perhaps Attempt Number One was not so bad after all.
He had a clean toilet. He had a big, robust bladder.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so quick to jump to conclusions. I tried to remember his name again. I waved as I turned down the path. I could feel something leaking out. I hoped I’d undone the bad work.
Goodbye Attempt Number One.
If I have your baby I promise to shave it every morning.
I promise to carry on the family tradition of keeping a clean toilet.
And I hope it has your lovely green eyes.