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“But … I’m so short!”

This, unfortunately, will always be the first phrase out of my mouth after my good friends, Tori and Kelly, asked me to be their sperm donor over a pizza dinner in Lower Manhattan. Not: “I’m so flattered!” Or a composed: “I’ll need some time to think about it.” Instead, I nearly choked on my pizza, knocked over my wine and uttered something ridiculous about my height.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. It’s not unheard-of for a lesbian couple to ask a close male friend to donate; but I’d naively assumed that my height — let’s just say I round up to five-foot-six on my license — would insure me against finding myself in this situation. Of all the men you know, my thinking went, why approach one guaranteed to ruin your child’s N.B.A. chances?

As a gay 29-year-old who has never wanted children, I’d spent about as much time entertaining the possibility of procreating as I had to purchasing an annual subscription to Maxim magazine; it had never crossed my mind, and I spent...