I was thrilled when he called and said we were on for tomorrow. I jumped on a plane and headed to Queensland’s sunny Gold Coast. My Latin lover was already there waiting and I couldn’t get there fast enough.
He’d scattered crimson rose petals all over the crisp white tiles and silky satin sheets. They sparkled like diamonds on the freshly made bed. The curtains swayed slowly as the warm, salty, sea breeze wafted through the window on that balmy afternoon.
I barely had a moment to breathe it all in before his head was between my legs.
Very softly, he told me to relax, as he propped me up a little.
Then he inserted a clamp.
In that very instant, with a ripping sound effect as loud as a thunderclap, my charming Latin Lover vanished. I was left face taut and legs spread waiting for my 60-year-old IVF doctor.
I was rudely shocked back to reality. At least he was armed with the sperm of a dark-haired, green-eyed, 26-year-old Hungarian hottie, that was about to be squirted deep inside my cervix.
I was 40 years old, single and classed as socially infertile. How did I get myself here?
My thirties were the years of racking up lots of travel-mileage points, Facebook friends, happy hours and hangovers. While these were easy to accrue, marriage proposals were not.
At 37 I found myself in a relationship that I’d hoped would last forever. It was the one that I had all my chips on the table for. It was in the most promising, best of my last ‘fertile window’ days. While I had pinned my hopes on this being the relationship that would take me out of singledom for good, it unravelled over the following two years.