“I’m pretty attracted to you,” I told my friend Jack not long ago.
“And I think you’re pretty cute, too,” he replied.
Jack is smart, funny, good looking, talented, thoughtful, and well traveled. He’s into social justice. He takes great photographs, speaks several languages and plays the hell out of a guitar. I had definitely considered sleeping with him.
Unfortunately, my mind had also explored less thrilling scenarios: A torn condom, a missed period, a cluster of cells, a stuffy waiting room—and a one-night stand who was suddenly pressuring me to incubate a human for nine months and then shoot it out of my vaginal canal.
Jack may have reported on human rights in India, but he was raised a Christian in Texas. Over friendly drinks, we had discussed our respective views on abortion—I write and report on feminist issues, so these things come up in conversation when someone asks me about my day—and I knew that he was firmly against the procedure. We hashed out the issue at length that night, and though the discussion was perfectly civil, neither of us had budged an inch by the end. And for me, that meant the conversation would not be transitioning to the bedroom.