One morning, a while back, Baby Doll called just minutes after I'd gotten home from her place.
“What's up, Good-Lookin'?” says I.
“You really need to come back over,” says she.
So I did.
The reason for this turned out not to be my boyishly handsome looks, despite the fact that they are -- not directly, anyway. Was it the charm I wield, which inspired her to beckon me once again into her presence? Nope, not exactly. Mayhap, then, my prowess in making her feel like the woman she is? Alas, my Interested Party, that wasn't precisely it either.
Turns out, we'd gone and caught an abrupt case of pregnancy. Go on and re-read that if you've got to, but I assure you the sentence won't change. That's right – Yours Truly is going to be someone's ancestor.
During the first exam, the midwife was able to give us the Date Of Conception. When I asked what we'd been doing that night, Baby Doll reminded me of a certain bottle or two that we'd shared, which helped set the stage for one of those tangled evenings where you get so caught up in a moment – or, as it happens, a few dozen moments – that you both wind up making use of whatever furniture is available. Like half of your living-room suit.
It's not a glamorous beginning for your ancestors to provide for you, but hell, got to start somewhere. And while the initial circumstances might be a bit – if you'll pardon the pun – screwy, there are some things that Baby Doll and myself can provide for this kid.
Her cutting wit. My deadly charm. Her killer eyes. My bad-assed nose. Her sharp sense. My occasional wisdom. As for things like creativity, passion, vocabulary, and generally gorgeous looks – the kid can reap these from the both of us.
Life's a trip, Interested Party. It's a fucking trip.