A Rollicking Conception

POLYAMORY IN PARADISE: A ROLLICKING CONCEPTION

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This story relates my partners' & my experiences on the day when we conceived my first child... within the context of several interwoven, long-term, polyamorous relationships.

Even before that day, I've always liked stories showing clear communication between well-meaning people. Sex feels sexier for me when I know that everyone's physical, emotional, and spiritual needs are being cared for. It can sometimes feel thrilling to walk down a street and feel a stranger's eyes on me - to feel desired preciselybecauseI'm being objectified - but it's often way hotter when I feel desired for my whole self. To engage with the world as a whole person - complicated and messy and strange though I may be - while responding to the whole personhood of others.

Don't get me wrong, I like the occasional kinky, casual tryst. Strangers' bodies can be fun. But Ilovethe people in this story. They are mine, and I am theirs.

Everyone who participated in the activities described here-in was fully aware of everyone else's roles. My long-term partners were also my first readers, each helping to ensure that I'd described our time together accurately. Although this definitely took a while... clothes were often shed while we were editing ;)

But I'm aware that polyamorous emotional entanglements aren't everyone's cup of tea. That's why I wanted to tell you what this story is about before you invest any more of your time reading. Also, you're more likely to enjoy spending time with me if you're onboard with my whole queer, inclusive, sex-positive agenda - not that this story is overtly about politics or whatever, but some measure of those beliefs probably seeps into everything that I write.

Because I'm bringing my whole self to this story, there will be a bit of build-up before you reach the really risque bits. If you're already feeling riled up and would like a quick blitz of erotica that's all "Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am" to tip you over the edge, you should probably seek elsewhere.

But if you've got the time to linger here a while, well, why don't you join me on this very special day...

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As I walked out from the fertility clinic, I was already unlocking my phone with one hand while using the other to hook earbuds into my ears. I stepped off the curb toward my car, calling my husband.

When he picked up, I didn't even say hello.

"Today's the day," I told him.

"Really?" he asked. From the slight hitch in his voice, he sounded almost startled, but I think it was excitement.

"Can you meet me home in twenty? If you email Llondel, I'll call the rest of the team."

"Yeah, I can let him know" my husband said, and I heard the sound of shuffling papers in the background, "let me just..."

I got in the car and turned the key in the ignition.

My husband went on: "... yeah, I can leave all this, come back to it later. Twenty minutes, you think?"

"Fifteen?" I asked. "Five? Right now, maybe? I want you."

I was already driving.

"Gotcha," he said. "Love you, and see you soon."

After he hung up, I moved on to the next call. We'd already worked out a plan, all of us, but we hadn't been sure exactlywhenwe'd need to put our plan into motion. I said, "Hey Siri, can you please call Sandall?"

"Calling Evan Sandall," my phone replied, using the delightful British accent that I'd selected for the device.

After Sandall picked up, I told him, too: "Today's the day."

"Oh, wow, that's awesome! Anything I can do to make things easier for you and the hubby?"

"Just, be ready for me? Maybe... ninety minutes?"

"Aye aye, captain!" he said. I could hear the smile in his voice. "And, seriously. Anything else I can do to help?"

"Nope!" I said, and "Talk soon. I've got a few more calls to make."

"Of course. I love you."

"Love you, too," I said, and "bye!"

Then I moved on to the next call.

Look at me! A model of efficiency!

I managed to finish all my phone calls before I'd even made it home... plus a call to my boss to let her know what was up and ask if she could have the rest of my team cover for me at work. My boss had known this might be coming - everyone at the office was super supportive when I'd said that I was going in for fertility treatments - and she actuallysquealedwith glee when I relayed what the doctor had told me, more effusive than any of my partners.

Of course, that phone call was going to be my boss's only opportunity to show off her enthusiasm. Whereas I'd be meeting up with each of my lovers; in person, I expected their excitement would be pretty clear.

Indeed, they had some awesome plans for me.

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One crummy thing about visiting a fertility clinic as a mostly femme-presenting non-binary person - above and beyond the whole ordeal of wanting to raise children but not yet having had the requisite biological processes work out for you and your partner(s), which probably feels equivalently gut-wrenching for every patient who walks through those doors - is that, in my experience, at least, you're going to be routinely mis-gendered by some of the people working there. I have a side-shave, a queer-coded assortment of tattoos, an androgynously low-pitched voice... and Iknowthat there's a note in the system saying, "Patient prefers they / them pronouns" because I've watched three separate P.A.s type that in after exclaiming, "That really should be in your charts!"... and yet, still, most of the time when a doctor walks me to the front desk, it'll be "She'sall set to schedule her next appointment."

Which means that I never feel my sexiest when I leave that place.

I don't think this is just a me thing. I mean, yeah, the pronouns, I get it, linguistically it can feel a little weird at first. It's not how a lot of people grew up speaking. But when someone uses the word "she" for me, it summons all these involuntary memories of the years when that was who I was desperatelytryingto be, always baffled by why it didn't seem to work. Other people made being themselves look so easy! Why couldn't it be easy for me?

Years passed before I realized that I'd felt so awkward because I was constantly pretending to be someone who I'm not. Andthatexperience, at least, is something that many of us share. When we finally accept who we are, life gets better.

Doesn't everyone feel their most alluring when they also feel intensely, actuallyseen?

And yet, as irksome as those moments might be, I don't want to sound ungrateful. The doctorswerehelping. My husband and I had dreamed for so long about raising a family. When we first started trying and I didn't get pregnant, we looked into adoption. We even applied to participate in our state's foster care system, since the social worker we'd met with said that this could (occasionally) be a pathway to adoption, "Although I have to warn you, honey," she told me, "even though everybody goes into it knowing that our top priority is to reunite kids with their birth families, sometimes it breaks a foster parent's heart to see a kiddo they've been raising leave."

This much, I know about myself: I'm the sort of person who develops feelings. Who likes to maintain long-term emotional bonds. I would crya lotif I had to say goodbye, even if that was the ostensible happy ending.

I'm really glad that the foster care system exists, but I don't think I'd be the best person to help the world that way.

Once my husband finished his M.B.A., though, and got a snazzy job with snazzy health insurance, we visited the fertility clinic again and the doctors said there were a few more options for us to try. They put me on hormone therapy to increase the odds that I would ovulate.

"And," they said, "although everything seemed good according to our diagnostics, gametes can be tricky. One thing we sometimes recommend, if you and your husband are amenable, is to purchase a few vials from donors, and to use a mix of those along with your husband. To increase your odds of conception, just in case something's going wrong on that end, while still maintaining that chance of genetic paternity."

The doctor handed me a catalog and I made a show of flipping through it, as though I were carefully considering my options. Some of the donors were pretty cute! But let me tell you: vials from handsome, clever, well-credentialed sperm donors are shockingly expensive.

Luckily, our particular family wouldn't need that option.

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I made it home before my husband - he was coming from his office across town. First things first, I walked in, shucked my shoes, and started pulling off my clothes on the way to the bathroom. I was going to begin today's adventures with a shower.

At the fertility clinic, they'd given me an ultrasound: apparently the image of my fallopian tubes showed that an egg cell had matured and was finally on its way. The ultrasound tech claimed that she wasn't allowed to interpret the image for me, but it wasn't subtle: she'd started smiling the moment she had everything in focus. And then the doctor came in and gave me a big high five, saying, "You did it, you're ovulating, you should try to have lots of sex today. Can your husband take off work?"

That felt great. Go me! My husband and I had been told dire things when we first went in for the fertility exam, so I wasn't sure that my body could even do this.

Apparently, it can!

Also, though, ultrasounds involve weird goop. And, look, there are plenty of circumstances in which "weird goop" could turn out to be something sexy - all manner of massage oils or lubricants or ejaculate might end up on me or my partner(s) while we're having a good time - but the sticky blue gel that they use for ultrasoundsdefinitelydoesn't do it for me.

Thus, the shower. Especially since these next few minutes might be my only chance to rinse off today. Since we wanted to make sure that I'd have time to fit everybody in (look, I briefly considered pretending that I'm above nudging you in the ribs to draw your attention to each of my bad puns, but let's not fool ourselves... I amtotallythe sort of person who laughs at my own jokes,especiallythe corny sex jokes), I'd be zipping from place to place all day and probably wouldn't get to shower between the rest of my encounters.

By the end of the day, I thought,I'll have accumulated such a delightful melange of scents!The sort of thing that, if I could bottle it up and indulge at my leisure, would totally induce me to luxuriate in the middle of the bed and masturbate. Can you imagine, getting yourself off while surrounded by the scent of a full sextet of lovers intermingled on your skin?

Although, I thought, if today goes well, I probably won't have enough energy to evenconsidermasturbating by the time evening rolls around.

In the bathroom, I opened the tub faucet, turned it to full hot, and pulled up the little doodad to re-route water to the showerhead. While waiting for warm water to reach the bathroom, I brushed my teeth. By the time I'd finished, steam was rising from the shower, so I pulled aside the curtain and stepped in. I rinsed off quickly, lathered myself with a vanilla-scented body wash, then rinsed again. I was mostly trying to keep my head clear of the water - the ultrasound technician hadn't put any of that weird blue goop in my hair, thankfully! - but it felt lovely to be surrounded by a steamy cloud of mist while the shower's warm spray cascaded over me.

In under two minutes, I was nice and clean again.

But also, given my plans for the day, I wanted to make sure my pubic hair would be silky soft and tangle-free. So I turned my back to the water, took a bottle of conditioner off the shelf, and squeezed a big dollop into my hand.

Cupped in the palm of my hand, my mind could clearly parse that creamy white liquid as "conditioner," especially since I was still holding the bottle that it had come from. But once I'd set the bottle back and dragged my hand along my body, between my breasts, down the curve of my belly, and into my little patch of hair, the streaks of white looked a lot like cum. Like so much semen smeared over my body and clinging to my dark wet coils of hair. I mean, some part of my mind obviously knew the difference - my conditioner smells like coconut, not cum! And even though I was standing in a steamy shower, I'd shivered when I first trawled my hand over myself - the conditioner was chilly to the touch, having come from a room-temperature bottle rather than the warm interior of a lover's body. But theappearance, at least, was striking. A nice sight to set me fantasizing, given what my lovers and I were planning to do that day.

I stood with my back to the shower's spray, gazing down at the trails of white. I let my fingertips play between my legs as I wondered how many people would have had to come on me for my body to look like this.

Before long, though, the water spilling over my shoulders had washed it all away.

I picked up the bottle of conditioner again. This time, I slid my hand over the curve of my right breast. The stuff is so slick; my fingertips slipped frictionlessly over my skin. A smear of white obscured my nipple. Then I gave the bottle a little shake and squeezed out more; this time, I spread it over my ribcage and my belly. A bit of translucent white pooled in the recess of my belly button.

One last squeeze and I combed another dollop through my pubic hair.

White strands clung in clumps. I looked a torrid mess. I lightly bit my lower lip.

I was going to besowell conditioned down there!

Also, my heart was racing.

Indeed, after I'd stepped out of the shower and patted myself off with a big fluffy towel, coiling a second towel around my head to quickly wick out water, my fantasies were still unspooling. Despite drying off, I was pretty wet. (Nudge, nudge.)

Which was good, because I was still rubbing in moisturizer when I heard the front door close and my husband called through the house, "I'm home!"

"Meet me in the bedroom?" I called back. If I'd been quicker, I would have worn a sexy set of lingerie, but this would be pretty good. My husband would get to walk into the bedroom to find a lover waiting for him: naked, wet, and willing.

That's always been one of my favorite ways to surprise him.

My husband is a big man - six foot two and muscular - and attractive, and, in a charming stroke of luck, also oftenattracted tothe same sorts of people I am. I've really enjoyed, over the years, seducing people and then bringing them home to meet him. Treating him to a lover in his bed.

If our evening guest is up for it, I like to sit cross-legged on the middle of bed and cup our guest's face between my hands while they fold over the mattress and brace themself. I like to watch the way our guest's eyes will invariably go wide as they gasp and try to take him in - like I said, my husband is abigman. (Nudge!) Even with ample lubrication, it can be a lot.

We got married twice, my husband and I - we did the legal ceremony at city hall with just the two of us, for taxes and insurance, and then we had a religious ceremony a few years later with our friends and families in the audience... andthen, to leaven the religious ceremony, we invited a small subset of those friends to join us in our hotel suite that evening. All five people whom we invited came, and then all seven of us came (nudge, nudge), three of them in my mouth (CJ, Matt, & Erika), my husband between a beautiful woman's legs (Sarah, who, in addition to being gorgeous, is funny, sweet, and clever, and whom I would reallyloveto seduce again someday - when you stumble across this, Sarah, I hope my parenthetical aside has made you blush!).

I love my husband, and by the time we were married, I knew how much he loved me. Hosting some risque festivities on the night of our (second) wedding seemed like a good way to symbolize that marriage wouldn't mark the end of our adventures.

By the time we were starting a family, we'd been together for eleven years. But it has never ceased to feel magical to me, getting to see my husband's face light up when I surprise him with a particularly winsome evening guest. His glee is like someone in a candy shop, glancing from me, to our guest, and back to me again, like,where should I begin?

Today it would be just me, and we'd only planned enough time for a quickie, but I hopped onto the bed and was lounging there with one hip cocked, waiting for him, when he walked into the room. He smiled. I cupped a breast and crooked a finger, smiling back at him.

He walked closer, striding alongside the edge of the bed while unbuttoning his shirt. As soon as he was near enough, I reached out to stroke the front of his slacks, running my fingertips over the outline of his swelling cock. He smiled down at me, shrugging the shirt off of his broad shoulders. Then he leaned in, embraced me, held me close while gracing me with such a lingering, loving kiss... before suddenly hoisting my hips up a few inches into the air, swiveling my body ninety degrees, and planting me down on the bed again with my rear end perched right at the edge of the mattress.

He grinned at my startled "eep!"

He pressed his wide palm firmly upon my chest, just between my breasts - I'd risen some to see him, but I let myself sink into the mattress. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to his whims. I felt him take firm hold of my legs and spread them apart.

And then he must have knelt for me, because I felt him plant a line of kisses slowly up my inner thigh. He started just above my knee - each long, lingering kiss bringing a tingle to my sensitive skin - and steadily worked his way up, one kiss, then another... sometimes his lips brushed over me as gently as a whisper; sometimes he pressed in firmly; sometimes I felt him suck my flesh lightly between his lips, or even scrape me softly with his teeth... all while kissing higher, higher, ever closer to my center... until, then, agonizingly, right when I was ready, heSKIPPED OVERthat hand's breadth of me and began kissing his waydownmy other leg, starting high up on my inner thigh and making his way slowly toward my other knee.

I groaned in protest.

I could feel the little rumble of his chuckle, what with his lips pressed against my skin.

Twice more he kissed merrily along my legs, all the way up and down my inner thighs, twice moreskipping overthat most eager part of me - each time, he exhaled softly as he passed from deliriously high up one inner thigh and then across to the other - and if he weren't holding my parted legs so firmly in his grip, I'm sure that I would have squirmed to one side or the other just to find his mouth.

On the third pass, he finally came closer - trailing his tongue so agonizingly near to where I wanted him - and I couldn't help myself: along with another little groan, I murmured the word "please."

"Please what, love?" he asked, his voice low and husky as he proceeded to kiss his way backdownmy other leg, intentionally teasing me.

Sometimes, he makes me say it. Despite how well-practiced I am atwritingabout sex, andhavingsex, well, actuallytalkingabout sex - out loud, in the moment, with no buffer between me and the immensity of my feelings - can still be quite the challenge!

"Please, god, please, I want you to eat me out," I murmured, with my eyes still closed, my thighs still gripped by his big hands, my legs spread wide apart and welcoming, my own hand clutching my breast. Just after I'd spoken, begging him, he planted another deep, long kiss midway down my inner thigh, and this time he bit down, hard. I gasped, raising a hand to my mouth and biting my own knuckle, it felt so sharp and good.