My Prostitute Girlfriend is Hosting my Unborn
Yes, she really is. And I really do love her. I have never met anyone like her. If this experimental blog matures, more will be written about the specific qualities I see in her that make me crazy (in a good way).
Earlier this year, I was sleeping soundly after a night of poker. This was the first time I’ve actually won in Texas Hold ‘Em. Not only did I win close to $100, but also close to an 8-ball of yak. It took 4mg of Xanax to finally knock me out.
My phone’s intermittent beeping woke me up. It took a few minutes of dazed wandering around my apartment before I heard the phone beeping again, reminding me why it was I was even out of bed.
When I checked the message, here is what I found:
Text: “uh… holy shit. lol”
Pic: 
This had to be a dream, right? RIGHT?? As I choked on fumes from the filtered end of an improperly lit cigarette, I realized that this was not a dream. Holy shit is right! Not only was this early in our relationship, but she was sending it from a brothel. I imagined trying to tell this story to my future son or daughter. “Well, CK jr., back in Momma’s days as a top earner in a legendary whorehouse, we hadn’t a care in the world–other than where our next trip should be and whether or not we should bring the dogs along. Then you came about…”
Ok. I am still not sure how we are going to discuss this in an honest way without fucking his/her head up, but I am sure we will come up with something. At this time, suggestions are welcome.
I’m sure, Dear Reader, you are thinking “CheshireKhat, how do you know this baby is yours?” The funny thing about that question is that someone actually asked me before I really considered the possibility that it was not mine. You see, My Love is actually a lesbian. I think she dates me because I am a man who is very much in touch with his feminine self–a “lesbro,” if you will (and I will). She does not generally like the male portion of our species. She does interact with them, making a good living that is heavily reliant upon bringing to life thier fantasies revolving around female adoration of thier sweaty, hairy, raw machismo that in actual, physical reality is often presented as fat, bald, and trigger-happy. At this point in time, My Love was working between 7 and 18 days “on” and several weeks “off.” I was pretty sure the child was concieved during her time off, as we had recently taken a 3 week long trip and she was sending me this message the morning of her second day at work. Several weeks later, this was confirmed via the Sonogram, which estimated that conception occured in the middle of our three week trip – with a margin of error of about a week. Further, she was home for about a week before we left town.
I am 99.99999999999999% sure the baby is mine. My Love and I both have fair skin and blue eyes, so if the baby is born and appears to be Black or Latino, color me wrong. If this is the case, the world can breathe a half sigh of relief because my DNA is not spreading.
As the reality of this picturemail set in, I realized it was sent about 4 hours earlier. My Love was most likely freaking the fuck out and a decent human would call her. So I did. Our conversation was rather one-sided. As the Mayor of Hangover City, I was struggling to string sentences together that contained more that 5 or 6 syllables. I was also trying to understand why I already knew what I wanted to do, given this new development in life. I did not say much. A few “umm … ah’s” and “are you okay’s.” For once, she was doing most of the talking (usually my role). The next several weeks allowed us to carefully examine our feelings and life plans. I needed the motivation to finish a stupid degree–a degree I promised my funders I would have by now. I think she needed a better reason to not go to law school yet. Maybe that’s pushing it. All along, I thought “there is no one else that I have met who I would want to do this with.” Back then, I questioned my own sanity (which happens a lot–I know, shocker) because we had not known each other very long, but I was falling helplessly in love. I know this feeling is mutual–I dont think I could feel this way if my love was not reciprocated. Now, my feelings from then have become increasingly validated because I am still falling deeper into the Black Hole of Love and with even more reckless abandon. If this doesnt work out, I am completely and totally fucked.
In the time since this happened, much has changed in the CheshireKhat’s world. No drinking, snorting coke, eating disco biscuits and staying out all night. It doesn’t seem fair in this case that one of us has to stay sober and health-consicious, while the other is out getting fucked up and living like nothing is different. A secondary reason for this new-found sobriety is an experiment in self-discipline. Historically, this person has been the exact antithesis of self-restraint.
It’s high time for change. At this age, my own parents were chasing after a seven year-old, a four year-old, and a one year-old. And I am most certainly not getting any younger.
I tack toward the eye of the storm bracing myself for real and unforgiving adulthood.
