The Twenty-Third Century: Nontraditional Love. Rafael Grugman

in a test tube! There have been instances of suicide – after learning about their inferiority, adolescents have slit their veins or poisoned themselves…

      But we have no other choice – when we receive our drivers’ licenses for personal identification, our test tube number and genetic code are printed under our photographs. Those who were conceived differently are outcasts. They cannot raise a family of worthwhile people, genetically pure and devoid of hereditary diseases, and they are doomed to marry only second-class people like themselves.

      Perhaps my testimony should have had a different name: “Confessions of an Unhappy Heterosexual.” One who lost both his beloved woman and his child…

      Chapter 1

      A Heterosexual’s Love

      I was working as a programmer for a small Internet company in the Greenwich Village area, and if I had time, I would stop at Starbucks for a cup of coffee before work. That was where I met Liza, who was sitting at the next table. She was getting ready to leave, and she offered me the latest issue of the New York Post, which she had just finished looking through.

      There was nothing suspicious about this, but in her eyes – there was no mistake about it – I caught a fiery glance and accepted the challenge. It was just the way signals were given in Morse code in ancient times.

      For almost a month, we met at Starbucks. I carefully tested my original sensation, afraid that I might stumble; there were such cases, where a “decoy duck” provokes an attempt at flirtation that ends with handcuffs and jubilation on the television news: another successful operation by our valiant police. Liza was also afraid to take a risk prematurely – until she released her trial balloon.

      “My fiancée Chris has a virus in her home computer. Would you be able to help?”

      It was a risky offer, but I agreed, although I left a means of retreat:

      “My boyfriend Michael goes to his college class in the evening, and I’m free after six.”

      Of course, I was lying about the boyfriend, but if she was from the police, I had given the signal: I was a normal, gay man.

      That evening nothing happened. However, there was one moment that came close: we were sitting innocently at the computer when our knees touched and froze, without giving a twitch. My heartbeat quickened; I was afraid to move. Her reaction was the same. Our knees were stuck together, and it took some effort to detach them. In a voice trembling with agitation, Liza whispered: “That will do for today.” As we said goodbye, I hesitated to extend my hand – it was moist with sweat. But at our very next meeting – another alleged problem with the computer – we found ourselves in a semi-lit room (“the light bulb burned out, and I don’t have a spare,” Liza spoke in a whisper, with aspiration), and after she repeated the trick with her knees, we abandoned all restraint. I was blown away. We rushed into an embrace, into the insane passion of man and woman.

      This continued for about six months, until Liza acknowledged that her friends Daniel and Helen suffered from a secret passion just as we did. She proposed a solution – we would buy a two-family home on Staten Island. For outsiders’ eyes, she would live on the first floor with Helen, and I would live on the second floor with Daniel.

      As far as everyone was concerned, we were exemplary homosexual families. We even went through marriage ceremonies and held receptions. Incidentally, marriages between men and women can only be registered in Holland, which is known for its liberal morals. Moreover, the Dutch parliament had voted to allow heterosexual marriages only five years before, with only a three-vote majority. To this day, the parliamentary opposition is demanding a new vote, and the Dutch church cries out against the ruin of society’s foundations.

      Daniel and I successfully played the role of lovers, as did Liza and Helen. We gave each other flowers, walked along the shore and tenderly held each other’s hand, and when it was time to have children, we maintained our cover by visiting Dr. Hansen’s office regularly and studying the catalogues.

      This was the public side of the coin. In fact, Liza was carrying the fruit of our love in her womb. Helen and Daniel did not lag behind – the time between conceptions was only a couple of weeks.

      In November, both women gave birth: Liza had a girl, and Helen had a boy. Just so we would not have to resort to any contrivances, we decided that the girl would be raised by Liza and Helen, and Daniel and I would take the boy. Both children turned out with dark hair and hazel eyes. No matter, there was an explanation for everything – the parents were old fashioned. They were using an ancient catalogue from the twenty-first century.

      The only problem was that we did not have a certificate from Dr. Hansen indicating the number of the test tube and the genetic code.

      In the old days, we heard that there were a few cases of false certificates being issued, but since the medical offices have been required to submit monthly reports to the Washington Family and Marriage Center, and the information acquired has been entered into a national database, it has become impossible to deceive the authorities. The forgeries were discovered eighteen years later when the children tried to obtain their drivers’ licenses. The court trial received wide publicity, the parents each received three sentences of imprisonment for life, and the innocent children were held in disgrace and contempt by society. Another incident that caused a nationwide sensation about thirty years ago was a court case in Dallas.

      An enterprising doctor was selling medical certificates until he encountered a policeman disguised as a customer inquiring about the required documents. Ten life sentences without the possibility of amnesty for the doctor (in America, unlike Europe, there is no death penalty), and three life sentences for the parents – no one dared take the risk any more.

      Therefore, our children (the girl was named Hanna, the boy Victor) were destined for a cruel fate in eighteen years – to pay for their parents’ sins. For now, we continued our hoax. Hanna was given the last name Conde – in lesbian families, the girl took the mother’s name – and Victor was given Daniel’s last name.

      My daughter and I saw each other every day – she called the women “Mama Liza” and “Mama Helen.” Victor, naturally, called us “Papa Robert” and “Papa Daniel.” Robert is my name – the second-rate man. Girls in lesbian families call both women “Mama”; and, in gay families, boys call both parents Papa.

      In fact, there is currently an investigation being held by the Constitutional Court in Washington to determine whether a child’s rights – in this case a boy’s rights – are being violated because he is tacitly prohibited from using the word Mama. Democratic Senator Gitson from Illinois proposed to give boys the right to call their surrogate nurse Mama. But this has proved to be a stumbling block that will not allow the legislative initiative to reach a Senate vote.

      First of all, would the nurse agree to have roughly twenty boys calling her Mama? (For the record, nurses retire at the age of forty-five, and they usually bring forth no more than twenty boys during their career.) Second, more importantly, lawsuits may be brought against the surrogate mother if the parents divorce, or if one of the spouses dies. This is what the opponents of innovation fear the most. They insist that scheming lawyers in the future will use any loophole to bring material damages against the nurses. Their opinion is shared by the surrogate mothers’ trade union – a powerful organization with which no political party wants to risk a quarrel before the presidential elections.

      Until the case is decided, Victor has no Mama. He has one – Helen – but for his own good, he must not know about this for the time being. In the best-case scenario, when he grows up, they will tell him that Helen is his surrogate mother.

      Victor’s problems began from childhood. The traditional rules of upbringing state that children who have not reached sexual maturity are supposed to sleep in the same bed with their parents at least three times per week. According to textbooks on child psychology, “sleeping in the same bed with their parents subconsciously implants the habits of normal sexual behavior in children.” The physicians’ recommendations allow people to avoid tragedies like the one that occurred with Liza Conde’s family.

      She was born in a normal lesbian family and brought up according to the generally