“Ooooh. I want to get in your genes.”

My gay husband is very sexy, yes. But this sort of sexy talk, I was not expecting.

“Oh honey no, these old Seven For All Mankind? I got them on sale.” I say, blushing.

“No babe. I want your genes. The twirly DNA that make you you.”

OK.

I am not nearly drunk enough to be having this conversation.

So I crank up the sound system and we drive in silence, listening to Donna Summer.

My genes? My eggs? My children? Can’t we just share self tan like the good old days?

My GH and I are soulmates. We love each other to the moon and back. We have a marriage with a strong foundation of trust, honesty and a shared passion for sequins and leopard print.

Our relationship is drenched in compassion, understanding, deliriously ridiculous private jokes and dirty humour. We’re both romantic, ambitious, relentless, stubborn, vain, completely OCD and very clear on what we want.

We’re both single (for all intensive purposes). We’re both happy. And it seems one of us wants a baby.

It could be perfect. Separate houses across the street. His penchant for art history and knowledge of musicals. My penchant for philosophy and Film Noir. Successful Double Income With No Family History of Bi-Polar Disorder or Pyromania.

A little human with both of our traits.

That much awesomeness would just be unfair on the human race.

So for now, we’ll stick to puppy shopping, thank you very much.