“It was the end of a sixteen-year marriage. I’d just turned 50. I wasn’t young anymore. And I knew what it was like to be single in New York; I didn’t feel equipped to do it again. We started the divorce process a week before the pandemic hit. None of my usual coping mechanisms were available. I couldn’t get a drink with friends, or go to the gym, or go for a run. I was just doing my best to white knuckle through. I’m part of a Facebook Group called ‘Hoo’s Getting Fit,’ for Black UVA Alumni. Normally we post our fitness goals and achievements. But during COVID it became much more about emotional support. It was Bryon that had the idea to do a zoom happy hour after work. I knew him a little. We’d met once during college, at a frat party. We actually still have the photos from that night. His happy hour was well attended. And since we all had this shared college experience, things got intimate pretty quickly. People were sharing personal things: my parents are ill, my child is immunocompromised, my marriage is falling apart. Bryon sent me a personal message after I shared my story. He said: ‘I also know what that’s like, when you think you can love enough for the two of you.’ He was much further along in his divorce process, so our first few phone calls were a lot of me dumping my shit on him. He started checking in on me. We spoke every day, then multiple times a day. He was pretty open from the beginning: ‘I can’t believe anyone would ever leave you. I really want to take you to dinner.’ After nine months he drove up from DC. He’d always had a full beard in our video calls. But he showed up clean shaven. It was a warm summer night. The restaurants had just begun to reopen, so we ate outside at an Italian restaurant. I took a photo of the way he was looking at me. After dinner we took a walk through the West Village. It was a warm summer night. I was wearing a sun dress. He made me feel so feminine. He held my hand. He got me flowers. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk, which I hadn’t seen since my father. It all made me feel so beautiful, and desired, and young again. I felt courted. That’s it. I’d forgotten how that felt: to be courted.”

“One lesbian couple drove up from Philly and I handed it off to them in the car. Not my favorite way to do it, but it works. That baby was born yesterday. And I’ve got another one being induced in six hours. That’ll be my twelfth in two years. Then there’s three more on the way. I’m what they call a ‘known donor.’ It’s a whole community, a whole thing: there’s forums, websites, apps. It’s like a parallel economy. A viable sperm sample is $700, just for a little bit. And the fertility treatments can be thousands. Not everyone can afford it; that’s where I come in. Everything is kinda handshake. I don’t charge the mothers. And they don’t expect any financial support. As for the insemination, there’s different ways of going about it. Some use IVF. But it’s like fish. Fresh is better than frozen. Menstrual cups work well. I’d say 25 to 35 percent of the women I’ve actually had sex with. There wasn’t romance, exactly. A couple times they’d never been with a male before. The last one said: ‘Let’s soldier up, and get it done.’ But not everyone meets my criteria. Some women want it to be anonymous; I don’t want that. I want to be involved. I explain to each one: ‘This child will be born into a larger family. I have eighteen other children.’ I’d like as many as God will give me. Why put your entire bloodline into one child when you can spread it out? Eighteen is a holy number in Judaism. And the next one is thirty-six, so I’ll reassess then. My ultimate goal is to find two or three of the mothers who will be sister wives, because I’m gonna need help with all this. But I know one thing: it will never be boring. It will be fun. I play in a softball league. And I’m hoping twenty years from now, I’ll be able to field an entire team of my kids.”

… This is a podcast series discussing online sperm donor networks. This episode specifically discusses how donors often take advantage of their power within this system to solicit sex.

Just disturbing. ugh.

“To be honest I didn’t think I’d make it past twenty-one. I was living day-to-day. Thinking I knew everything, thinking I was an adult. And I was angry. About a lot, like a lot. I was fifteen when I had my daughter. And she was four when I went to prison for the first time. I came out for a little while. My girlfriend and I had another child, then I went in again. But this time my daughter was grown enough to understand where I was going. And that hurt. That’s one of the reasons I never went back. That, and the conversations I had with older men. A lot of them made one mistake and were never getting out. I ‘d messed up twice, and I was getting one more chance. I served 4.5 years. The mother of my children never left my side. She’s a great woman. We met in foster care; we have similar stories. And I came home to a stable home. For a little while I didn’t have to worry about bills. I could just focus on being a father: taking the kids to school every day, making dinner some nights, cooking breakfast on Sunday. I ended up getting a job at a homeless shelter; and that’s what I’ve been doing ever since. I fell in love with it. The people, mainly. Their stories align with mine. When my mother brought us to the shelter, it was the first time I ever felt poor. I was only eight or nine, but I said: ‘I’m always going to have money of my own.’ And that’s what led me to the streets. My daughters are on a different path. The oldest is a junior in high school now. Her grades are excellent, better than mine ever were. She’s got a little baby sister, so we’ve got three girls now. And I’m just a great dad, honestly. A really great dad. Just, I love my kids. And they love me. I can see it. And that’s what I’m proudest of. Because growing up I never had a father; he did 27 years in prison. I never even knew him. So for me to be a great father, that’s a thing.”

(1/15) “It’s a magic trick, a dupe. Nothing but an illusion. And it starts the moment you walk in the door. Biggest store in the world. Eight full floors of shopping. And Santaland is at the very top. You can take the elevators. Or you can do what I did when I was a kid, and what I still do today: you take the escalators. Up, up, up. Through make-up. Through linens. Through housewares. Around the third floor, something happens. The escalators change to wood. They’re over one hundred years old, these escalators. From the original Macy’s. When you see them, you know: very soon. You’re about to see Santa. Your heart starts racing. Up, up, up. Until finally you see it: the back of the line. A line like you wouldn’t believe. Real life is happening in that line. Somebody pooped their diaper. Somebody needs to be breastfed. If anyone tries to smuggle in a pet, a white flower will step in. White flowers are managers. But nothing in Santaland is called by its actual name. The line goes past windows featuring scenes from Miracle on 34th Street. Then it spits you out at The North Pole. There’s a little kiosk with an elf. Full-grown adult, but the floor is dug out. So it looks like an elf. They’ll ask you Christmas questions: How many reindeer? How many lords a leaping? Doesn’t matter if you know the answer, because it’s all a mind game. To make you forget how long you’ve been waiting. In the business we call it ‘resetting the clock.’ After the elf you’re into the final maze. Everything covered in snow. Everything lit to the nines: the rainbow bridge, the animatronic penguins, the Lionel train. All of it setting up the final trick. You’ll come to a giant toy soldier made of candy. And that’s when you know you’ve arrived. A final elf will whisper those magic words: ‘Follow me.’ They’re walking backwards. They’re waving their hands. Keep looking at the hands. Don’t look at the other children, following other elves, to other doors. Just follow your elf to your door. Then walk right in. Turn that final corner, and poof. Real life disappears. All the waiting, all the crying, all the pooping, just melts away. And you’re face-to-face with the grandest illusion of all: Me.”

(2/15) “Christmas, 1983. The year I learned it was all a dupe. I was twelve years old. And the holiday season began like any other. With my mother sitting me in front of the TV to watch the Thanksgiving Day parade. Every five minutes I’d run into the kitchen with updates: Mickey Mouse! Yogi Bear! But she just kept on cooking. ‘Tell me when he comes,’ she’d say. Then after what seemed like eternity, after the Pink Panther, after the Giant Turkey, after the mayor, the marching bands, the baton twirlers, after everything that wasn’t Christmas. Poof! There he’d be. Waving down from his plastic sleigh. I’d yell into the kitchen: ‘Here he comes! Here he comes!’ And my mother would come running in, wearing her schmock, her ‘schmata,’ a wooden spoon in one hand. And her eyes would fill with tears. Santa! The real Santa. This wasn’t the Bloomingdale’s Santa. This wasn’t the Santa from King’s Plaza Mall. Those were Santa’s helpers. Santa needs helpers, he can’t be everywhere at once. Because after the parade he goes to the eighth floor of the 34th Street Macy’s. Where for five glorious weeks he collects the wishes of children. After Thanksgiving dinner we’d gather around the calendar and choose a night to go. Every single year; since I was a newborn. When the night arrived we’d pile onto the N-Train, the Brooklyn Polar Express. Drops you right across the street from Macy’s. Then it’s onto the escalators: up, up, up, until the stairs turn wooden. Santa looked a little different back then. They weren’t exactly going for authenticity. But that made no difference to my mother. She’d speak to this man like he was real: ‘Oh Santa, you look so nice. Oh Santa, we come every year.’ My two younger brothers went next. Steve asked for a baseball glove. Anthony asked for his first ever bicycle, with a basket on the front. Then it was my turn. That year I knew exactly what I wanted. I’d been seeing the commercials on TV for weeks. A full set of Tannen’s magic tricks: color-changing rabbits, disappearing coke bottles. These weren’t close-up kiddie tricks. These were real parlor tricks. Stuff that you could do on a stage. This was the year I’d finally become a real magician.”

(3/15) “We lived in a house that my great grandfather bought in the 1930’s. My mother was in charge of decorating. Every room she’d fill with little tchotchkes: santa on a ladder, santa on the beach, santa on skis. There was a banner in the living room with every photo we’d taken at Macy’s. And below that we’d lean my grandfather’s cane against the wall. It was our own little homage to Miracle on 34th Street. We’d watch it every year on Channel 11. My mother cried through the whole thing. But the final scene we loved most of all. When the little girl, the one who never believed, finally gets her house. And Kris Kringle’s cane is leaning against the fireplace. The movie ends with a question: Was he real? Or was he not? We didn’t have a fireplace in our house. So we set our milk and cookies by a pipe in the kitchen. Christmas Eve in an Italian family. It’s very big. We call it The Feast of The Seven Fishes. We never had exactly seven, but we’d cook Scungilli, Whiting, Calamari. After dinner my mother would set aside time for me to do my magic. Back then it was simple stuff: card tricks, silk scarves, sponge rabbits. But not for long, not for long. That night I was too excited to sleep. I could see myself on the stage of my school’s auditorium. I could picture the faces of my classmates: everyone cheering, everyone amazed. Look at Johnny! Real parlor tricks! A professional magician! All of a sudden I’m snapped back to real life by a ruckus in the hallway. It’s coming from the front door. Very strange, because we only use the side door. I crawl out of bed and peek into the hallway. Could it be? The Big Man himself? With a bulging sack of magic tricks? No, no. It’s my mother and father. With Mary and Joe from next door, and they’re carrying bags. Big bags, full of stuff. And it begins to click. The whole thing is a dupe! A parlor trick! Just then my youngest brother Anthony wakes up. He says: ‘Johnny, Johnny, is it Santa?’ I’m about to tell him. But that’s when I see it. This little blue and white bike, with training wheels, and a six on the front. I pull the door shut, and say: ‘Not yet, Anthony. It’s just Mary and Joe, coming to visit. Let’s go back to sleep.’”