Twenty-Six

Hunter looped his arm through a mountain bike frame and picked up a box of handlebars, clearing Ben’s path to the corner kitchen, open to the one-bedroom’s living room. “Sorry, man. I promise this crap will be outta here tomorrow.”

“Bike courier biz, eh?” Ben snatched a glass from the drying rack on the counter and stuck it under the tap, filling it with cold water. “It’s really happening?”

“Yup. Can’t afford to live here without a second job. I’ve been an English-as-a-second-language tutor, dog walker, even worked a dosa cart in Washington Square Park, but I’ve always wanted to be my own boss.”

Ben slipped past a tower of fat tires and several fully built bikes then sat on the sofa, his knees inches away from Hunter’s laptop on the coffee table. He flicked the trackpad, scrolling through a song lyrics website. “It’s been ages since I rode a bike.”

“It’s like sex, man—you never forget.” Hunter looked around his cramped apartment. “And what better way to make money, work out, and be outdoors? The guys I’ve got on board have experience, know the city inside out, and brought me clients—it’s all good.” He dumped his supplies on top of two boxes of pedals. “I’m desperate for cash. I’m still waiting for my next donor check to roll in.”

“Donor?” Ben raised the glass to his lips. “Blood—”

“Sperm.”

Ben choked on his water. “Wha—you’re kidding?”

“Nope! My swimmers make me an easy fifteen hundred a month.”

“Seriously? How often do you…”

“Twice a week. Hey, if I’m going to rub one out, I might as well get paid for it! I’ve been doing it for over a year, but checks don’t arrive until you’re six months in. FDA rules. Your jizz has to be frozen and tested for diseases before it’s added to their catalogue. Hey, you interested?”

Ben set down his glass. “Erm, me? Donating my…uh…?” A text lit up his phone. Spotting the sender’s name, he greeted it with a smile.

Hey! In a lecture break. Love that a-ha song. The mission WAS accomplished!

Ben sent her the wink emoji.

A second text nudged Riley’s first message up the screen. My turn! was typed above a link to a playlist titled ‘4 Benjamin’. With one swipe, Sting’s “An Englishman in New York” stared back. Classic! He looked up at Hunter. “I feel for the kids, though, having a sperm donor for a dad, never knowing him…”

“You don’t miss what you’ve never had,” said Hunter.

A third text bounced onto Ben’s screen. I didn’t insult you, did I? Couldn’t find any Scots in NYC songs. And you do sound English.

He typed carefully, chuckling under his breath as he hit send.

Insult me? Impossible!!!

Hunter dug through a ripped box of seat posts. “Not all donations are anonymous. You can be an open donor if you want to know your kid. It gives them the option of contacting you when they turn eighteen.”

That’s more than I got from my father. “You doing that?”

“No way. I value my privacy too much.”

“Privacy? You dance bollock-naked on stage!” Ben laughed and returned to his phone. “I would hate to have a kid somewhere wondering who I was, why I wasn’t in touch.”

“Well, bud, if you change your mind, I’m sure lots of New York ladies would love to have a British baby daddy.”

“I can’t even commit to a girlfriend, let alone a kid.”

“Just think of the easy money,” said Hunter. “You could be ‘wanking’ all the way to the bank.”

“Who knew philanthropy could feel so good?!” Ben chuckled and hit play on the song Riley had sent him.