by Richard Tyrone Jones

TRY TO IMAGINE the kind of things you would want to know if you had been conceived using donated sperm.

So, happy eighteenth, you've found out you're donated! (Although if your parents are both lesbians, you probably realized this already, unless my seed has sired an imbecile.) And so you're curious to know a little more about me. Well, here we are, all facts are correct at time of going to press, ha ha — just my little joke there. I have a good sense of humor . . . This is like writing a singles ad on a website, except that the ultimate object of that exercise has already been achieved.

I have a degree from Cambridge, which is probably why your parents (and I want you know that some of the best friends I've ever misguidedly tried to pull are lesbians) chose me, despite my minority hair. I want you to know that I have done absolutely nothing with my degree and that they are incredibly overrated. I'd go straight to work if I were you, and if you don’t, no, I'm not contributing to your tuition fees. But since I still need to masturbate for cash, I'm hardly going to be in a position to, am I?

Perhaps you are merely the product of my enthusiasm for recycling. I recycle my food waste, plastic, paper, and metal, I've looked into a system whereby my shit will heat my house, I grow my hair really long then sell it to a wig-maker, and feared only my seed was being wasted; for even Tower Hamlets do not recycle jism.

I am a keen cyclist because I hate public transport.

I hate public transport because I hate the public.

"The public" includes girls, which is why I am here.

This is how curmudgeons breed. Which is why you are here.

So though I wish you all the best, I could have up to nine other children (plus siblings, if requested) so if I do forget your name I apologize in advance. I believe in Darwinism and feared I would never get another girlfriend, which grew into fearing I'd never be a father, that my genome would go unreplicated. Then I saw an evolutionary loophole — and I stuck my pink future in it. I want you to know I lied about absolutely nothing on my medical statement.

So if I haven't utterly disappointed you with my honesty so far, please do get in touch. In fact, please do get in touch anyway, as on second thoughts I am probably by now an incredibly lonely old man. And as we recognize each other’s phenotypes across the lunchtime restaurant, and flinch, then recompose ourselves to embrace, shake hands, or just glower at each other judgmentally over tapas, I don’t mind if you don’t feel like calling me "Dad." Just please don't, however accurate it may be, call out "Wanker!"


Previously published in Germline.

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