Genetic Sexual Attraction

I was stupid as a teenager. I got pregnant as a result of only my second sexual experience a few days after I turned eighteen. The sex wasn’t even that good – more of a slam, bam, thank you ma’am. At least the guy was a good looking smart jock — although not smart enough to ask if I was on birth control when he fucked me when we were both drunk.

It wasn’t in the cards for many, many reasons, including economics, religion, geography, family (I was being raised by a single mom who had three kids younger than me), and accessibility, for me to do anything but have the baby and put it up for adoption. Like all new mothers after carrying a baby for almost nine months (in my case eight months, twenty days, and ten hours), I developed an attachment to my little boy – he was so cute – but the wisdom at the time (and probably still now) was to remove him from me as soon as possible, so I only got to hold him for a day, and never got to nurse him.

The boy’s father and I did not repeat our stupid mistake regarding conception by either getting married or retaining parental rights. We both signed the rights away and stayed single.

That episode was a wake-up call in my life. I had the baby over the summer and when I returned for my senior year of High School I had a new outlook on life, and applied myself diligently in everything. Since I could no more afford college than I could keep my baby, I did extensive research on the types of scholarships available. I had had only decent grades up to that time and was not an outstanding athlete so I had to find some unusual scholarships; I couldn’t rely on conventional academic or athletic ones.

I got a first scholarship of $10,000 just before my High School graduation by winning the national Create-A-Greeting Card Scholarship Contest, something that neither my counselor nor anyone else in the city that I lived in had ever heard of. I submitted a number of entries, including for Valentine’s Day. My non-winning cards (surprise, surprise – ha-ha) V-Day card submissions included “Lay off the feed bag you big hunk of blubber, Those spare tires around your waist aren’t made of rubber,” and “You’ve got more curves that a roller coaster, Your clothes fit like a glove; There’s only one thing wrong glamour-puss, You’ve got a face only a mother could love;” both with cartoonish representations, of a fat guy and ugly girl, respectively. My winning card was a birthday card with a series of drawings, some realistic, others fanciful, of both a guy and a girl doing all sorts of fun things with an interior message “Happy Birthday – this is going to be your best year ever, it’s in the cards,” followed by a depiction of a royal flush in hearts.

The $10,000 was enough to get me through two years of junior college, paying all of my expenses too, with only the need for part-time and summer employment. During junior college I applied for every weird scholarship I could think of. While I didn’t get most, I did get two, both awarded just before I got my associate’s degree in business. One – sponsored by a famous brand peanut butter company was for designing the most creative and appealing sandwich – and was for $25,000. The second for $2,000 was for an essay – based upon my real life experiences – in the Penny Hoarder’s Frugal Student Contest; in my essay I described all of the things that I did to save money.

Also, by the time that I graduated junior college I actually had good grades, so I got a partial academic scholarship to a decent university for my last two years of study, which – combined with my $27,000 of other scholarships and my frugal ways – allowed me to graduate with honors, but without any debt, and a B. S. in business four years after my High School graduation.

Shortly after graduating college I got a good entry-level job with a big company that allowed me to use my degree, parlayed that after only two years into a junior management position with a mid-sized company, and by the time that I was twenty eight I owned my own business with four full-time and six part-time employees offering mailbox, secretarial, office space, and related business services to individual, or collections of a few, professionals like engineers, lawyers, accountants, and architects.

Despite my success, there was something missing in my life. Undoubtedly because of my pregnancy experience I was wary of relationships. I did do my fair share of fucking (with proper birth control at all times) during junior college and college, and actually enhanced my career possibilities by finding and regularly fucking a mentor in the mid-sized company I worked at (I was the aggressor, not him). But I didn’t have a real relationship until I was twenty nine.

From the time that I was twenty nine until I was forty two I had two long term relationships – and even got married for eight years. However, for whatever reason, I never really fell head-over-heels in love. I certainly respected and kind-of loved my husband and then my partner after I got divorced, but it wasn’t the mushy tingling in my nether-regions and all-consuming attraction that is related in love stories (or in some of the more sappy anniversary cards that I submitted during the create-a-greeting-card scholarship contest). That concerned me – enough so that I actually went to see Martha Milner, a psychologist who specialized in male-female relationship issues from the female perspective.

My sessions with psychologist Martha weren’t that productive. They did help a little, and got me close to being at peace with my situation. However, they didn’t spark the type of passionate love that I was looking for. When I had my last session with her she – either philosophically or with intense bullshit – said “Maybe it has nothing to do with you, but is just a case of the right person not coming along.” I needn’t have spent $3,000 to get that pearl of wisdom – but hoped that Mr. Right would eventually cross my path.

Shortly before my 43rd birthday I got a call out-of-the-blue, with caller I. D. displaying a number that I wasn’t familiar with. It completely flustered me, but I think that I can accurately recall most of what was initially said. At first I thought that it was a sales solicitation and was about to hang up after the first few seconds, but something caused me to hang on.

“Hi; uh…uh…is this Amy Brighton?”

“Yes…who’s this?”

“Uh… let me ask you first. Did you put a baby boy up for adoption twenty five years ago?”

A cold chill came over me. I hadn’t thought about that for a decade. “Isn’t that a rather personal question from someone unexpectedly calling me?”

“I’m sorry…I don’t mean to upset you but I’ve been anxiously looking for my birth mother for eighteen months and you are the best lead that I have uncovered. I…I…have this intense urge to find her, but all I want is a meeting. I’m not looking for an ongoing relationship if she doesn’t want one. I…I really would like to establish whether or not you’re her.”

“What’s your name?” I asked after a short pause.

“Blake Bronson; I believe that Blake was the first name that my birth mother gave to me, and my adoptive parents retained it.”

I had named my baby boy “Blake.” Now the chill encompassing me was overwhelming – like being pushed naked into a lake with floating chunks of ice. After a delay of enough time so that Blake asked “Are you there?” I finally responded.

“Yes, about twenty five years ago I did give up for adoption a baby boy that I called Blake. To be honest, though, I never expected you – if you are he – to contact me.”

“I hope that this isn’t a terribly anxious situation for you. I just have this zealousness that I can’t adequately describe to find my birth mother – and like I said I only want the type of relationship from you that you are willing to give. I don’t want to push anything on you.”

There was something about his voice, and story, that was intriguing. If he was my son he had a passion about something – a feeling that I lacked in my personal life. I suddenly felt a need to respond.

“Well, if you are my baby boy, tell me about yourself,” I replied in as pleasant a voice as I could conjure.

We talked for ninety minutes, terminated only when he had to go pick up his wife of two years. There was no doubt in my mind that he was my son.

I found out much about him in our first phone call: his adoptive parents were good to him, if not particularly loving; he had an older sister and brother both of whom had been adopted; his adoptive parents died in a car accident three years ago; he was a Division I lacrosse player in college; he was now a solar energy engineer; and lots of information about his goals in life.

When I hung up the phone I was emotionally drained. It was probably the most exciting and provocative phone call of my life. We made a promise to meet sometime in the not too distant future. There was a good possibility that within the next three months that Blake would be getting a new job in a town about ten minutes’ drive from my house; even if he didn’t we would hope to meet within three months anyway. At the time he lived about four hundred miles away.

I barely slept that night, but despite that fact I was a dynamo the next day. My excitement never waned between phone calls, which we had about once every three or four days, in addition to exchanging emails. We agreed to not send photos, but to wait until we actually met. I was the one who lobbied for that scenario since I wanted to look my best when I saw him. While I considered myself in good shape for someone about to turn forty three, I could stand to lose five pounds and tone some body parts.

I hired a personal trainer, watched my diet, got my hair and makeup redone, and in general put more effort into looking nice than at any other time of my life. The effort paid off; within two plus months I honestly thought that I looked ten years younger, and I was getting three times as many appreciative looks from males as a few months earlier.