たまご。
はじめまして。
“Nice to meet you, too”.
Yukiko and I spent a great deal of time talking over the phone. I had no real intentions of avoiding her, but at the last minute I couldn’t follow through with our deal.
Finding work in a new place is always hard. Having all of my seeds sown in Seattle, picking up and moving to New York wasn’t the easiest thing to do. I had no guarantees out here. A shaky internship, a couch to sleep on, and $1500 in my bank (which was quickly siphoned by looming credit card bills and baggage fees at the airport) were all I had as a financial cushion.
Looking for work on Craigslist, I typed in “Photo”.
SALES AGENTS NEEDED ASAP! (Attach “Photo”)
“PHOTO” INTERN NEEDED
HOST/HOSTESS (Females preferred; send “Photo”)
SIN CITY FOR SEXY 40YRM (Nude “Photos” plzkthx; or more like “n00d pr0n pics plz”!)
Nothing came up that seemed legitimate, let alone related to what I was looking for.
That’s when I ran into Yukiko.
ゆきこさま、
Asian Egg Donor Needed
元気ですか？
$20,000
天気はあついね？
(Please attach “Photos” for review)
Yukiko made it too appealing, too easy to apply. Even her posting’s heading - the lack of all caps and unnecessary punctuations eliminated - were enough to sell me.
So did the promise of $20,000.
It was settled: I was going to sell my eggs for quick cash.
Things seemed to go smoothly with my phones calls with Yukiko. She was always apologetic but genuine about it. Soft spoken. Patient with my interruptions. She was just like a nurse.
Then came the night of the exchange.
I fell asleep and missed her call. Half awake, I grabbed my phone and listened to her voicemail.
ジェマさま。こんばんは。すみません。電話してください。バイバイ。
The last time we spoke was probably a few weeks prior. I was at a friend’s house. He had left the place I was interning and I had helped haul a few boxes from the studio back to his place on W 28th.
“It’s time for new beginnings”, and he proceeded to play some auto-tuned pop song about broken hearts, bridges, and getting over the mess of heartache. Far as I was concerned, it could have been garbled dialog about how eagles fuck. It meant nothing to me but a toe tapping -
“I’m sorry; I need to step out for a second.”
It was Yukiko.
She wanted to make arrangements for me to see her and discuss the rest of the process. A couple was interested in me as a donor already. We would go over the drugs, paperwork, payment; everything needed to give them a part of me for the lump sum I was promised.
Then it happened.
“Hello? Yukiko? I’m sorry; it’s poor reception in here - ”
I completely panicked.
“Let me call you back.”
I never did. Something about giving up a piece of me I could never see, hold, and love… It didn’t even matter to me that this couple deserved a chance to have a child. Maybe they would have sucked as parents. I just couldn’t part with that person for the rest of my life. A person, that portion of me that would be pushed in someone else’s stroller, sucking on a bottle’s nipple and not mine, tacking “Mom I love you” paintings on a stranger’s fridge. Selling that chance wasn’t an option to me anymore.
She continued to leave messages afterward for a few more days. Then she would just call, but never a voicemail. After a while, Yukiko’s number didn’t show up on my phone ever again.
My chances of conceiving children are higher than most of the women in my family. I’m younger and in better health. My breasts would be adaptable to swelling with milk. I have a jacket of fat that lines my belly. Depending on the father they could be acne ridden or fair-skinned. Busty or concaved. Big dick or small. Black hair or blonde. Tall or short.
Either way, I wanted to be there to love him/her.
赤ちゃん。
Yukiko’s number still remains on my phone.
Just in case I need a babysitter.
“Nice to meet you, too”.
Yukiko and I spent a great deal of time talking over the phone. I had no real intentions of avoiding her, but at the last minute I couldn’t follow through with our deal.
Finding work in a new place is always hard. Having all of my seeds sown in Seattle, picking up and moving to New York wasn’t the easiest thing to do. I had no guarantees out here. A shaky internship, a couch to sleep on, and $1500 in my bank (which was quickly siphoned by looming credit card bills and baggage fees at the airport) were all I had as a financial cushion.
Looking for work on Craigslist, I typed in “Photo”.
SALES AGENTS NEEDED ASAP! (Attach “Photo”)
“PHOTO” INTERN NEEDED
HOST/HOSTESS (Females preferred; send “Photo”)
SIN CITY FOR SEXY 40YRM (Nude “Photos” plzkthx; or more like “n00d pr0n pics plz”!)
Nothing came up that seemed legitimate, let alone related to what I was looking for.
That’s when I ran into Yukiko.
ゆきこさま、
Asian Egg Donor Needed
元気ですか？
$20,000
天気はあついね？
(Please attach “Photos” for review)
Yukiko made it too appealing, too easy to apply. Even her posting’s heading - the lack of all caps and unnecessary punctuations eliminated - were enough to sell me.
So did the promise of $20,000.
It was settled: I was going to sell my eggs for quick cash.
Things seemed to go smoothly with my phones calls with Yukiko. She was always apologetic but genuine about it. Soft spoken. Patient with my interruptions. She was just like a nurse.
Then came the night of the exchange.
I fell asleep and missed her call. Half awake, I grabbed my phone and listened to her voicemail.
ジェマさま。こんばんは。すみません。電話してください。バイバイ。
The last time we spoke was probably a few weeks prior. I was at a friend’s house. He had left the place I was interning and I had helped haul a few boxes from the studio back to his place on W 28th.
“It’s time for new beginnings”, and he proceeded to play some auto-tuned pop song about broken hearts, bridges, and getting over the mess of heartache. Far as I was concerned, it could have been garbled dialog about how eagles fuck. It meant nothing to me but a toe tapping -
“I’m sorry; I need to step out for a second.”
It was Yukiko.
She wanted to make arrangements for me to see her and discuss the rest of the process. A couple was interested in me as a donor already. We would go over the drugs, paperwork, payment; everything needed to give them a part of me for the lump sum I was promised.
Then it happened.
“Hello? Yukiko? I’m sorry; it’s poor reception in here - ”
I completely panicked.
“Let me call you back.”
I never did. Something about giving up a piece of me I could never see, hold, and love… It didn’t even matter to me that this couple deserved a chance to have a child. Maybe they would have sucked as parents. I just couldn’t part with that person for the rest of my life. A person, that portion of me that would be pushed in someone else’s stroller, sucking on a bottle’s nipple and not mine, tacking “Mom I love you” paintings on a stranger’s fridge. Selling that chance wasn’t an option to me anymore.
She continued to leave messages afterward for a few more days. Then she would just call, but never a voicemail. After a while, Yukiko’s number didn’t show up on my phone ever again.
My chances of conceiving children are higher than most of the women in my family. I’m younger and in better health. My breasts would be adaptable to swelling with milk. I have a jacket of fat that lines my belly. Depending on the father they could be acne ridden or fair-skinned. Busty or concaved. Big dick or small. Black hair or blonde. Tall or short.
Either way, I wanted to be there to love him/her.
赤ちゃん。
Yukiko’s number still remains on my phone.
Just in case I need a babysitter.