Fridays in the Trump administration have been defined by an overwhelming amount of umpteenth hour breaking news, and this afternoon was no different. Today’s news cycle was dominated by a story of two lesbian mouse moms who, against all odds, reproduced without a man mouse.
According to The Times, Chinese scientists successfully created two baby mice with two mothers and no father; it was one small step for mice, one giant leap for lesbian mouse moms. The results of the experiment could eventually break barriers in studying same-sex reproduction in humans. As they say in Jurassic Park about gay dinosaurs, life finds a way.
So, naturally, I had to write fanfic for the Lesbian Mouse Moms.
I’m so, so sorry for what you’re about to read.
It was a cold, wintry afternoon in Manhattan, wind lapping against the flushed cheeks of bustling New Yorkers. The year was 1952, and though the streets were packed with the pitter patter of mouse toes and the clunking of tiny suitcases, there was an eerie silence as the season’s first snow began to fall.
Inside, Corky, a young, girlish mouse, found warmth in her place of work, the local Tiny Toy Shop for Mouse Babies. Her boss, a dour woman with pointed glasses, was hard on her, but Corky understood; her supervisor was just doing her job when she asked Corky to wear a tiny Santa hat during work hours. The orders came from corporate, and after all, it was almost Christmastime.
But Corky was only ever half there at the toy store, as this wasn’t her real passion, it was just a day job — she spent most of her time looking longingly out the icy windows, daydreaming of a career in photography. Corky had an eye for the unique and tiny, which was why, on that fateful afternoon, Corky was completely caught off guard by a mouse that was unlike any mouse she had seen before.
An elegant lady mouse scurried from the back of the store wearing the most stunning fur coat, which spilled off her brown, furry shoulders like muddy waterfalls. A red beret sat delicately on her matted hair, and she wore a sharp red lip to complement the candy apple hat. Before Corky could understand what alien, lovestruck feeling had befallen her, or why she was robbed of breath by a woman mouse, and what that could possibly mean for her, as a girl mouse, the woman mouse approached the counter, and in a mature, cavernous voice, asked Corky for a doll — for her daughter, Rindy.
The two mice quickly formed quite the rapport, their long, yellowed, cracked front teeth slamming against their unsightly gums. Corky suggested the woman purchase a train set for her daughter instead of a doll, and as the majestic creature turned to leave, she left her name for Corky. “Carol,” she screeched. “My name is Mouse Carol.”
But that’s not all she left: There, on the counter where her delicate, manicured mouse feet once scuffed, was a single leather glove, no bigger than a Barbie shoe. Though Carol was just a stranger, and a woman quite her senior, Corky knew, right then and there — she had to meet her again. She had to return Mouse Carol’s glove, possibly over a Mouse Glove Lunch, like in that sketch with Kate McKinnon.
Unfortunately, later that night, tragedy struck, and sadness washed over Corky’s once-shimmering inner-light like nightfall: She received a phone call on her Mouse Device that her estranged father had passed away. She wouldn’t be seeing Carol any time soon, for in the morning, she’d have to fly home—somewhere she hadn’t been in a decade.
Corky stepped off the plane into the bitter-cold London haze and hailed a cab to the nearest motel. Tonight, she would rest. Tomorrow, she would mourn.
In the crisp morning air, as Corky exited the cab, tugging her tiny luggage behind her leathery tail, her tiny camera slung over her shoulder, she scratched at a door her mouse toes hadn’t scraped since her teenage years, and the man who opened the door was not who she expected. Or maybe it was, but he was much older than she’d remembered him to be, and his beard was much thicker since their last visit. “Dovid,” she squeaked, overwhelmed with nostalgia as she looked into his kind, beady eyes. She moved in for a hug, but he retreated — she had forgotten the rules of the community she had escaped in her teenage years. After all, Dovid was an Orthodox Jew, as was her late father.
He led her inside, where she stuck out like a sore unopposable thumb: all the female mice were frum, and thus wore tiny wigs to cover their mouse hair. Suddenly, Corky was hyper-aware of her own mane, which was tangled from her long night of international scurrying. She nodded politely at her old neighbors, making her way through the gloomy living room and into a hole in the wall that led to the kitchen. But when she entered the kitchen, she was shocked—so much so, that she audibly squealed—or like, squeaked, or whatever noise a surprised mouse would make. Do rats squeal? Anyway. Corky clutched her underbelly, for she could not believe her eyes: There, in her old friend Dovid’s kitchen, was Mouse Carol.
“I had to find you,” Carol shrieked(?) as she grabbed Corky’s wrists. “I went back to your store, and they gave me your home address, I hope you don’t mind.” The two mouse women embraced, and before Corky could even process the rush of newfound emotion coursing through her veins, she allowed herself to be swept up in the passion of the moment, and slammed her whiskered snout against Carol’s, their four front teeth grinding together in a cacophony of love.
As the gnashing of teeth actually began to grate against Corky’s own ears, as well as the ears of mourners around her, she took in her surroundings: In this house, where Corky had felt stifled for the duration of her youth—so much that it nearly killed her—she had finally found love. Unfortunately, Corky and Carol were promptly kicked out by their religious oppressors—same-sex mousing was forbidden in the community. Luckily, Carol owned a flat in France. There was so much Corky didn’t know about her, but she needed to find out — so they boarded the next train to France.
Back at Carol’s flat, she showed Corky her paintings. As it turned out, the already-enigmatic mouse was an artist, and her paintings were magnificent — it looked as if she’d stepped in paint, then writhed around on a canvas. There were still clumps of hair protruding from the dried muck.
Carol removed her red beret and whisked out her luscious mouse bob. Until now, Corky hadn’t realized her lover’s hair was blue. She didn’t mind. In fact, she adored it. The two mice embraced, and though Corky had never been with a female mouse before, it felt natural. Carol led the way, and the mice had sex for what felt like hours.
They tried every position. They tried every position twice. They had so much sex that it actually started to feel icky—like almost male gazey, or predatory—like it started off as beautiful and impassioned but quickly became gratuitous and lengthy. So, so lengthy. Almost pornographic. Like a seven-minute sex scene that felt as if it was directed by a man—This is Blue is the Warmest Color.
But when all was said and done, Corky knew, because she could feel it inside her, that against all odds — she had become pregnant with Carol’s mouse baby. Soon, the two mice would be mothers to two beautiful baby mice, and Chinese scientists would laud them and study them for years to come. For they had created the impossible — but was it really? Life always finds a gay.
Carol smiled up at Corky. “We’ll call them…”
“Train?” Corky asked, cocking her head, kind of unsure.
“Train,” Carol nodded, squinting at her lover, trying to gauge if they were on the same page that this was weird.
“And… Doll,” Corky added.
This time, Carol stared at her, totally lost.
“Like at my store, you almost bought a do—”
“Ah yes,” Carol beamed. “Train and… Train and Doll. Is surely. The best. We can do. I guess?”
“Your other daughter’s name is ‘Rindy.’”
“ok tru lmao,” Carol said.
Illustration by Bronwyn Lundberg