The Liar
This was a while ago. Their daughters were five and eight. He told her he’d like to have another child. How does she feel about it? That when they were first married they talked about having three kids. She said she’d like to, the girls have been great and she’d love to please him with a new baby, but she wouldn’t have the strength to take care of it. And with all the medications she’s taking, and there’s no way she could get off them, she probably couldn’t breast-feed the baby either. “You don’t have to,” he said. “And for the rest of it, leave it to me. My teaching schedule’s flexible. Both kids are now in school. I’ll do most of the work from day one, even the cooking.” “No, and for all we know, just getting pregnant could make my condition worse. I don’t want to chance it. It’s progressing fast enough on its own. Two children are enough, and I hope you’ll come to think so too. You’ve been wonderful about taking on more than your share of the work with them. I couldn’t ask you to do more.” “I really want a third one,” he said, “but we’ll do what’s good for you. So okay, whatever you say.”
He already knew what he’d do if she said she didn’t want another child. By this time, because she was having trouble using her hands, he was putting in the diaphragm for her. Most of the times when she was ovulating and they were going to make love, she told him to be extra careful in inserting the diaphragm, and he said he would or “I know,” but intentionally put it in loose. “It doesn’t quite feel secure,” she sometimes said. “Are you sure it’s in right?” “It’s in perfectly, just the way you taught me,” he always said, or something like it, “but I’ll double-check if you want me to,” and put his hand in her vagina, knew the diaphragm wasn’t in straight, took his hand out and said “As I said, a perfect fit. Now what do you say?” and she nodded and he got on the bed next to her and they made love. He came and hoped some of his semen got through the opening and made it to the egg. Hoped the egg was receptive to one of the sperm.
Several other times he said when they were about to make love during her most fertile period “What do you say; this time, no diaphragm or messy cream? I’ll pull out when I’m about to come. Don’t worry. I’ll be very careful.” “It won’t be as exciting for you, though it could be a bit more so for me. But the good thing is you won’t have to deal with the diaphragm and cream. But pull out long before you come. Ten seconds at least. You’ll know when that is. Maybe more than ten seconds, if you don’t think you can hold it back till then, just to make sure not a drop goes in me.” He ejaculated a little inside her those times — sort of let it dribble out — but made no sounds or gave any physical sign he was coming. Then he said “I’m coming,” or said it a couple of times, and pulled out and pretended to groan a few seconds while he did the rest of it on her stomach, if that was the position they were making love in, or, if he was behind her, in a handkerchief or on the bottom sheet or a towel. “You didn’t come in me,” she usually said, “—even a small amount, did you? Because then I want to get up and clean it out fast.” “No, I told you. I planned to go on your belly, and that’s where it went.” Or “on the towel” or “in my handkerchief” or “I came on the sheet. Unfortunately, now we’ll have to change it.” “It’s worth the effort,” she said. “Though next time, if we do it like this again without a diaphragm, spread out a thick towel under us first. Then, after you do what you do on it, just toss it into the washer.”