What makes me cringe isn’tsaying how many men I’ve fuckedor lifting my shirt to revealhairy breasts that she—trans-competent—resolutely only calls “chest.”It’s what slips out whenshe presses powdered-latex fingersinto the flesh over my heart:“I kind of want to try again.”Because I don’t actuallywant to try again. What I want isa pregnancy I didn’t pay for.I want the casualnessof a straight couple who saysif it happens, it happens,or, well, we’re not not trying.I want something wild, likea baby from a sex party,with ten possible fathers, orfrom trying on thrift-store pants,like an urban legend. I want itto just happen without megoing off T. Without hoping.“You could start witha monitored cycle,” she says,neutral as beige paint. It’s justthat infertility stories always endwith a miracle baby—accident,adoption, or IVF—that makes itall okay. I don’t wanta baby as much as I wishit would stop hurting.