Babymaking is, on the whole, an instinctive kind of thing. Papa Wildebeest doesn't read little Willy "Where Did I Come From?" before he trots off to the praire for some grazing with the girl wildebeests.
The sheer amount of deliberate fuckage one must do with their mind and body to conceive through IVF is off the damn map of Intuition-ville. IVFers are milling around in the stratosphere.
- Instinct tells us not to poke ourselves in the sensitive belly area with shiny, extremely pointy objects which must thereafer be disposed of in biohazardous waste containers.
- It suggests we not shove little hormone-saturated pellets up our vaginas.
- It encourages us not to spread our legs for strangers with a camera .
And yet, and yet.
We brashly defy our intuition: deliberately shoot ourselves up nightly with drugs that make us miserable and fat, purposefully paste in pantyliners to soak up our melting suppositories.
Seriously, who regularly injects drugs that provide not a modicum of pleasure? Not even the tiniest hint of euphoria, here, people. No wonder it's legal.
I'd like to announce that my instincts, my reflexes, all those handy self-protective resources written onto my genetic code, have surrendered. My IVF cherry was popped 2 months ago, and now I willingly hop into my stirrups. I pop my pills, easily surrender my veins to satanic phlebotomists.
But injecting myself with those anti-pleasure serums? That still really gets my goat.