Fashion Frenzy and Fuzzy

“But … I’m so short!”

This, unfortunately, will always be the first phrase out of my mouth after my good friends, Tori and Kelly, asked me to be their sperm donor over a pizza dinner in Lower Manhattan. Not: “I’m so flattered!” Or a composed: “I’ll need some time to think about it.” Instead, I nearly choked on my pizza, knocked over my wine and uttered something ridiculous about my height.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. It’s not unheard-of for a lesbian couple to ask a close male friend to donate; but I’d naively assumed that my height — let’s just say I round up to five-foot-six on my license — would insure me against finding myself in this situation. Of all the men you know, my thinking went, why approach one guaranteed to ruin your child’s N.B.A. chances?

As a gay 29-year-old who has never wanted children, I’d spent about as much time entertaining the possibility of procreating as I had to purchasing an annual subscription to Maxim magazine; it had never crossed my mind, and I spent weeks stunned by the novelty of the idea. Me? A biological father? To a baby? A human baby?

Once the shock wore off, though, I started to appreciate the opportunity I had to help my friends. The two were having trouble conceiving with frozen sperm they obtained from an anonymous donor. Though not guaranteed, using “fresh” sperm might improve their chances. At the very least I’d be reducing their financial burden, with monthly trips to the sperm bank costing my friends hundreds each time.

So they just needed some free, fresh sperm. Beyond that sounding like some twisted promotion at a farmer’s market, why not help?

Plenty of reasons, it turns out.

A bit of Internet research uncovered frightening examples of known donor arrangements gone horribly sour: nasty lawsuits and ruined friendships, with children stuck in the middle. There’s the Kansas donor whom a judge recently ordered to pay child support, despite having signed an agreement relieving him of responsibility; and the Miami donor who successfully sued his friends for paternity rights after helping them conceive. It’s hard to imagine these nightmares becoming our reality, but why risk it?

Beyond legal entanglements, I grew anxious wondering about the practical consequences of a known-donor arrangement. Tori and Kelly don’t want a co-parent, and I’m not looking to be a father. Still, our biological connection wouldn’t be a secret; shouldn’t I be prepared to maintain a relationship with a child I helped bring into the world? What does that look like? No one was asking me to change diapers on the daily, but should I plan on attending all birthday parties and piano recitals?

Then there were the implications for my family. “Who’d have thought,” my father joked excitedly when I broached the subject, “my gay son might be the first to give me a grandkid!” I reminded him, guiltily, that he wouldn’t be a grandfather to this child. Not really. No more than I’d be a father. Tori and Kelly are open to my family’s involvement, but it’d be less than if I were raising a child myself. This means no holidays spent together in Salt Lake; no sleepovers at Grandma or Grandpa Dodge’s. My parents understand this and have consented — possibly figuring it’s the closest they’ll come to getting a grandchild out of me — but is this fair to them?

And if I’m not “father” to this child, who am I? Tori and Kelly suggested “Uncle David” to hint at a biological connection, but I worry that might lead to an unfortunate Maury Povich moment. (Wait, my uncle is my father?!) Maybe just “David,” or is that too impersonal? I half-seriously offered “Bio-Dad” as a solution. It would, after all, be an accurate description of our relationship, with the bonus of making me sound like a superhero. Jokes aside, it left me uneasy that something as simple as naming our relationship could prove so complicated.

What if Tori and Kelly want me to become more involved? Or less? Or they move? Or divorce? Or we have a falling out? Or they die in a plane crash? There were so many more questions than answers no one could blame me for refusing.

What I know for certain, though, ultimately proved more important to my decision. I know Tori and Kelly deserve to be parents, and they’ll make wonderful mothers. I know they’ll provide a loving home for their child. And I know I’m honored to have been asked to help make this family-to-be a reality.

Now, with Kelly four months pregnant with a baby girl, I’m hoping to at least take “height resentment” off my list of concerns. Even with my genes, the women’s basketball team might be within reach.

David Dodge is a writer living in New York City. You can read more of his work at www.bydaviddodge.com.

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