So here is another Sad Tale of the Sisterhood Spinsterhood. I happened to be on a flight into JFK yesterday and read it in the NYTimes, which was the only paper available in the languages in which I am conversant. On the one hand, I do feel a bit sorry for her. OTOH, she's likely exactly the type of "I Don't NEED No MAN!!!" liberal-feminist-protester-twat who I dislike.

I will try to keep the Schadenfreude to a minimum...and I will fail.

17 Million Frozen Sperm Await the Perfect Moment

Every other month I receive two vials of frozen sperm in a nitrogen tank, which is then emptied, the vials labeled and kept frozen until the exact time of month I’m ready for them. This window of readiness is brief: 12 to 24 hours. When I detect that ovulation is imminent, the vial is defrosted. Ninety minutes later, 17 million sperm are inserted into my uterus via a catheter.

Sounds romantic, doesn't it? /s

I do this because I am 39 and single and my craving for a child eclipses everything else, including my secret fear that this process will be successful.

So, not sure what she was doing between 21 and 39 - but she was definitely putting off marriage and family because babies are such a drag - they cut into fun time and they poop a lot - but her prime time baby-having years are in the rear-view mirror. This is a problem for young women who decide that they are "Too Cool For The Universe" and somehow they can put off until later what nature intended for them in the blossom of their their 20s.

The donor I have chosen is tall, well educated, lean, laconic, a chemical engineer who researches renewables. He’s a cyclist, they tell me, who clicks down the halls of the center in his special cycling shoes. Affable but not warm. His mother’s people are Tatars, Muslim nomads from the Central Asian Steppe. I like all that he seems to represent: intellect, precision, hardiness, planetary repair.

Her imagined Chad is a Tatar! Ok, time out for Russian guys to laugh at this. Meanwhile, note that her hypergamy is in full (imaginary) bloom...about a guy who walks down a hallway in his clicky cycling shoes to jack off so old maids can let his sperm ooze into them from catheters.

At a bachelorette dinner for a friend in late July, I met Sadie. She was loud, brash, a presence. From across the table, I overheard her describing plans to drive south for the coming eclipse, and a deep longing welled up inside me. “If you have space —— ” I said. “We may.”

There were four of us going: Sadie; her husband, Steve; and, from what I could deduce, an elderly relation named Eli. “Eli doesn’t text or use email,” Sadie wrote. “So I will call him.” They arrived early Saturday morning with a fiddle, a ukulele and Eli, who stood quietly to the side, a guitar case slung across his back. He was my height, and younger, his sandy hair thinning on top. He had a soccer player’s build, side burns, a square jaw: pleasant looking but not my type.

Not her type...yet.

Every day for me is an exercise in letting go. I have to let go of rage. I have to let go of fear. I have to let go of everything I thought my life would be and isn’t.

Reread that last sentence again: I have to let go of everything I thought my life would be and isn’t. If only she'd adjusted those expectations back in her 20s, but she no doubt deserved only the best, etc.

Sadie said, “The people in the back have to give back rubs to the people in the front.” And then, before I let myself think, I reached over and squeezed Eli’s shoulders. Through his T-shirt, I could feel the musculature of his back, his spine, its finger holds. It had been a long time since I had touched a man. Doing so now felt decadent and exhilarating. There was a hunger in my hands, an urgency.

The plight of the post-Wall^SPLAT! woman.

Anyway, she winds up in a queen bed with Eli, and the guy who wasn't her type...was suddenly her type.

Crawling under the sheets later that night, Eli was looking at me. For the first time, I noticed his eyes, bright blue.

Or maybe she's desperate for a baby daddy. Nah, gotta be the blue eyes. That Hamster is Hamming away....

We lay in the bed, he on his side, me on mine. In the dark I thought: “Where are you? Come closer!”

Is that love in the air? Or desperation? I think we know. At the beginning of the trip, recall that he "wasn't her type." Now, her type is "has a functioning penis", evidently.

It was a blind progression of intrepid searching, inch by inch. I bumped into him and he did not pull away. And that’s how it happens, how we find each other.*

Translation: there was a seduction of the moist and clutching sort, kind of like the kind that happens in the freshman dorms, and Eli probably fucked her in self-defense.

On Monday at dawn we drove a final hour south on empty roads meandering through mist-filled forests. The light filtered down, dim and soft.

The Literary Woman^TM dresses up her getting boned by a rando with some flowery language.

Eli followed me down into the water, which was oddly warm, and I wondered, despondently, “What have we done here?” We huddled together in the shallow waters where a snapping turtle was sunning itself on a log.

A little morning-after N+1 regret.

After, I went to the restroom and peed in a cup. The circle that appeared was perfectly empty, a blank white sun.

And Eli dodges a bullet.

When I went back outside, the light had begun to change, growing dimmer. Eli was lying on his back. I lay down beside him.

Translation: "Saddle up again, Tiger!"

From the back seat, Eli reached up to touch the back of my neck.

Or maybe it was her imagination.

I wanted to live in that moment forever, to tether myself to that particular point in time. I wanted to take the moment and bend it like a ray of light, extract its color and orbit it endlessly like a sun. But our planet moves through space at the rate of 18 miles per second — 18 miles per second!

Lots of flowery words, but....

I did not hear from Eli again.

Pumped...and dumped.

This isn’t the ending I wanted

Do tell?

So we see laid bare the consequences of the "You GO GURRRRRL!" feminism of the modern West. Maybe it's a good thing, because it would act as a check on the militant Feministas if they don't breed. Beyond that, I doubt she'd have looked at Eli twice back when she was 1 and 20 and had the whole world in front of her - first, move to NYC and live the who Sex Sluts and the City" lifestyle, win a Puliltzer, third meet "Mr. Big" three days after her 30th birthday and then conceive, naturally, because everyone knows that shit is easy right? Instead she's dripping the preserved splooge of some bicycle messenger into her twat each month.

The Wall^SPLAT! sure depreciated the fuck (literally) out of her "golden ticket".....