My Adventures at the Sperm Bank – Part 2

In case you missed the first part, you can read it here.

According to the sperm bank, my splooge was worth money.

To think I’d just been throwing it away – in my fiancée’s hair, on her boobs, in my navel. I was just flushing away cold, hard, sticky cash.

It was time to pocket some of that coin.

I’d already passed round one, and the sperm bank invited me to their main branch in Culver City. The building was fairly high-tech. The security guard buzzed me in and they had me create a passcode, which I had to punch in before I placed my hand on a black box. The guard said it would encode my handprint. He said only certified donors were allowed access.

I asked if this meant I was now certified.

He said no.

He introduced me to a pretty nurse, who had another binder of porn. This time I got to select my own DVD. I started flipping through when I felt the two of them staring at me. I just picked a random disc and took my cup. The nurse pointed me down the hall.

“Second door on the right.”

It was the same setup as the other office whack room: TV, folding chair, table, DVD player, paper towels, and nudie mag wallpaper.

I wrapped the paper towel around the remote and got to work. I felt an immediate stirring. It was surprising. The first time seemed to take forever. Here I finished before the porn previews, but I didn’t want to just walk out and look like a quick trigger so I stood there for a while looking over the node mag pictures. It’s fascinating how many boob-shapes there are.

I was lucky to have met Jess. She has fantastic boobs. And – holy shit – I can’t believe I forgot to mention this in Part 1, but Jess is the one who suggested I do this in the first place. She’d found the ad on Craigslist, not me. I’d completely forgotten until she just reminded me this morning.

“Remember? I sent you the link and said, ‘Here’s something you’re good at.’”

So yes, this was all my fiancée’s (now wife’s) idea.

Anyway, after a few minutes, I walked out of the little room and dropped off my sample. The nurse told me to wait there for the results.

“You’re doing them right now?”

“Yes.”

The nerves took hold. It was one thing to be informed my sperm count failed over the phone, but now I’d have to do it face-to-face.

I began to sweat, fidget. Time practically stopped. Why did I finish so soon? If I’d lasted longer, maybe I could’ve added a few puppies to the batch.

Damn you, penis!

Almost an hour went by before a shy Asian doctor came out. She had glasses. She offered her hand, which was brave and gross considering what I’d just done. We shook, but she wouldn’t look me in the eye.

Oh God, I’m low.

“MrSiz-pack?”

“It’s pronounced Spock. Like Doctor or Mister…”

“Oh…” A little giggle.

Goddamn it, just tell me what my sperm count is, lady!

“We have received your results.”

“Uh-huh…”

“Very high.”

Oh sweet Jesus! Thank you.

“Now, this is a long process. There are a lot of forms you have to fill out. Are you interested in being a donor?”

I honestly hadn’t thought about it. I was just coming back for some quick cash, but she told me I didn’t need to decide right now, that I would have to take home the forms anyway. Plus, there was still a third test.

That night I took Jess out to dinner at a fancy restaurant.

“These steaks are good, huh?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“You know, my sperm bought them.”

“You passed?!”

“Oh yeah. Big time.”

I’d actually strutted out of the office. In fact, I’d been strutting all day.

I told my fiancée to be careful. She could get pregnant just by looking at me.

Jess and I had decided before I ever proposed that we were never going to have kids. We’re writers and we figured we were going to be poor for a long time. But at this time, it seemed like a way to make some money. Why should my sperm go to waste?

“So how much do you think you’ll get?”

“I don’t know, depends on my numbers on the next test, but the doctor said some people can make $750 a week.”

“For jerking off?”

“Yeah. But I think those are super testicles. The doctor did say I would probably be ‘high interest’ because of my stats though. Blonde hair, blue eyes, I’m over six feet tall.”

“You’re saying women have the same taste as Hitler?”

“Pretty much.”

Now, I don’t know if was all the talk of masturbation and sperm or if my new confidence was making me more attractive, but Jess and I couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Problem was, I wasn’t allowed to finish. I needed my soldiers for the third test, which wasn’t for a few days.

I’d gone days without doing it before, but never for a purpose.

It made me a little crazed. I couldn’t think straight. I was amped up. I tried to find distractions. I filled out all the forms. And in case you’re curious about purchasing baby batter, you’ll be pleased to know most of these banks are really thorough. I filled out answers about myself (medical history, education, personality questions) and gave a full background on my family. I knew most things, like both of my grandfather’s having heart attacks, but I didn’t know if they’d ever had allergies, and I didn’t want to call up my dad.

“Was Grandpa allergic to nuts?”

“Why?”

“Oh, I’m just filling out a form so I can make some cash for jerking off.”

“That Ivy League education is really paying off, huh, Anthony?”

So I did the best I could answering questions, showed up for my third test, and turned in my sample.

I was feeling good. I thought about all the couples I was going to help. Lesbians, like my mom, would be able to have a child. I was bringing life into the world!

The doctor called me into her office.

So…we just got your results, and the numbers are a little lower than the first two.”

“How much lower?”

“About twenty million.”

“Jesus… So what does that mean?”

“Well, you’re still eligible, but you’d only be able to donate once every five days.”

“So I could only…?”

“Yeah. And because of your numbers, we’d have to start you at the lower pricing tier.”

“So it’d only be fifty bucks?”

“Correct.”

I went home slightly deflated. I told Jess the news and she asked what I was going to do. I told her it didn’t sound like it was worth it. She agreed and admitted it did feel a little strange to think of hundreds of my children popping up over the world.

This turned out to be one of the best decisions we ever made, because a few years later I’d be diagnosed bipolar II. There’s evidence it’s hereditary, and I don’t know how I would’ve been able to live with myself knowing I’d spread my disorder onto unsuspecting children.

So luckily, I never went back to the bank, and later that night, after a wonderful escapade with Jess, I went back to shooting money all over my chest.

 

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Spartacus or Gay Porn?

My wife knows I purchased the last season of Spartacus on Amazon Prime. I had to ask her for the password. Yet every night I have to explain I’m not watching gay porn. I am watching Spartacus. But when she leaves the room I do sort of feel like I’m watching gay porn. 

Mom Didn’t Throw Away My Best Porno Mag

When I was fifteen, my mom found my Playboys.  Most mothers would’ve tossed them in the trash or left them hidden under the fake Christmas tree where I’d hidden them in the attic, but my mom lined them up and down the stairs, like a prosecutor might lay out 8x10s of a serial killer’s victims in court.  All those pretty faces smiling up at me, each one taunting me with her breasts.  Up until that moment, if you’d suggested there’d come a time when I’d want to burn my Playboys, I’d have punched you in the face.  These weren’t just magazines, you see; they’d seen me masturbate.  I don’t care if it’s crass.  Ask any adult male, and he’ll tell you the first three years of self-gratification aren’t pretty.  I’m not saying it gets better, but those first years of discovery are too violent and ferocious for human consumption.  That’s why my Playboys were so special.  They didn’t judge.  They didn’t look away.

But my mom ruined that.  She told me that touching my pecker was nothing to be ashamed of, even though she’d effectively loaded me with enough shame to fill every confession booth in Kansas City. 

My mom said, “If you want to keep them, you can.  But just know, that’s not what real women look like.”

I told her to throw them away, but a year later, when my mom asked me to go into her room to get her checkbook, I opened her dresser drawer.  And there, buried beneath her socks and pantyhose, were my Playboys.  She’d kept them.

People always ask if I knew my mom was gay, and the truth is, I didn’t, even after the Playboy incident.  I’d just assumed she was planning on giving them back, but was too embarrassed to fork them over.  Also, my mom didn’t…look gay.  She wore lipstick and worked the cosmetics counter at Macy’s.  She was always dyeing her long hair.  She belonged to the P.T.A. and wore skirts.  She baked cookies.

I’m not saying gay people don’t do those things; I’m just saying my mom wasn’t rebuilding a motorcycle engine in our driveway or sanding the deck or sitting an inch from the TV during a WNBA game.  She was feminine.  She drank wine coolers.

Sure, she’d been to every Mellissa Etheridge concert in Kansas City and bought a t-shirt from every show.  She also lifted free weights for a while and went on trips to Bennet Springs, Missouri with a group of women for “art fairs.”  And yes, whenever I brought home a girlfriend, my mom would gush about how pretty she was and sometimes casually massage the girl’s shoulders.  But none of this made me think my mom was a lesbian.  Not just because she was feminine and she was my mom and she’d been married to my dad for twenty-five years, but because we lived in a house with paper-thin walls, meaning I heard my parents having a lot of sex.