After grad school I masturbated into a cup. It wasn’t on a dare. I didn’t have a fetish for plastic containers. I was broke and there was an ad for a sperm bank. I’d found the ad on Craigslist, so there was a little concern I might end up murdered, but it was fifty bucks. Plus, I was curious, and I was planning on doing that that afternoon anyway. Figured why not get paid?
So I drove to the sperm bank’s office, which was next to UCLA’s campus. It seemed like a legitimate medical building, so I walked up to the second floor. A group of college guys sat in school desks filling out forms.
There was a nurse behind a glass partition. She was pretty, which sort of creeped me out. I wanted this to seem more scientific, not just dudes whacking off for cash. I remembered what happened to Mark Wahlberg in Boogie Nights.
At the end of the hallway there were two doors. A guy walked out of one. He looked sweaty. He had a plastic cup and a DVD. He gave both to the nurse. She slipped the DVD into a thick binder. There must have been at least a hundred videos, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the plastic cup. It looked like watery mayonnaise.
The nurse slapped a label on it and stuck it in a mini-fridge. There were dozens of containers and a brown paper sack. I wondered if it was her lunch?
She handed me the forms, told me to bring them back when I was done. I squeezed into one of the school desks and started writing. The questions were fairly basic, stuff like height, weight, hair color, education, history of disease…
I couldn’t decide whether I needed to list my allergy to pollen when a guy passing by bumped me. He apologized.
I was about to say, “No worries,” when I saw his little cup of sauce. He’d almost spilled it on me!
I should have walked out right then. Instead, I wrote faster, turned in my forms.
The nurse asked if I had any preference.
“For the video?”
She pointed to the binder. She wanted me to tell her what I liked. I felt the eyes of every guy in the room.
What was I going to say? “Well, I do have a thing for thigh high stockings.” I simply stammered, “I-I-I don’t care. Whatever.”
Carefully, she flipped through the collection and handed me a disc, along with a cup. “Now, it’s very important not to use any spit or lube. It’ll contaminate the sample, okay?”
I nodded, hurried down the hall and entered a tiny room. There was a TV and DVD player in the corner. The walls were covered with pages ripped out of Playboys and other nudie magazine. I imagined it’s what a serial killer’s bedroom must look like.
I set the plastic cup on a table. There was a folding chair. I thought about all the hairy butts that had touched it.
I’d have to do this standing up.
That’s when I noticed the DVD, Ass Blasters 3. The nurse must of thought I was into anal. I wondered what tipped her off? Do I have a tell?
Worse, she’d given me Part 3, assuming I’d seen 1 and 2.
I used my knuckle to press eject. I popped in the disc and looked around for the remote. It was on the table. I started to pick it up, when I thought about how many thumbs had been used to fast forward and pause. There were paper towels. I tore off a sheet and wrapped the remote, like you might do to a pickle.
Problem was, the paper towel covered the buttons, so I couldn’t see what I was pushing. I ejected the disc, brought up the menu and turned off the player before I finally got things going.
Ass Blasters 3 wasted no time living up to the premise.
This monster dude was pounding away at this tiny lady. They cut to a nasty close-up shot that looked more like torture. I wanted to fast forward, but I didn’t want to risk pushing the power button again so I let it play out. I needed to get this over with. I heard someone enter the next room. I focused on the tiny lady. She seemed to be enjoying herself.
So was the guy next door.
He started grunting. He said, “Yeah…”
This must be what prison is like.
I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t finish. I tried looking at the wallpaper porn. I tried closing my eyes and just listening to the DVD, but all I heard was the dude next door moan. A minute later he turned off his video and left the room.
How long have I been in here?!
I pictured the nurse checking her watch, pissed that I was taking so long. It was embarrassing. Did the other guys think I couldn’t get it up, or worse, that I was trying to make it last?
I closed my eyes and thought of Angelina Jolie, of the Sears catalogue from my youth. If only I had some lube. I was beginning to chafe. But I couldn’t give up now. I couldn’t walk out with nothing.
Finally, I felt a stirring, but just before the one gun salute, I remembered:
It was behind me on the table. I had to spin, reach, bend over, line up the target.
Success, well, mostly.
I zipped, cleaned up, and brought my sample to the nurse. I couldn’t make eye contact. She told me I’d get a call if my sperm count passed the first test.
I’d only done this for the money, but now I was suddenly overwhelmed with a fear I might fail.
For two days I fretted, even though I had no interest in going back to that perverse place. Then my cell phone rang. I was almost too scared to answer.
“We’re pleased to inform you that you’ve passed the first round. We’d like to schedule you for a follow-up. Are you interested?”
“You will receive a hundred dollars.”
To be continued…
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photo credit: <a href=” Tal</a> via <a href=”;photopin</a> <a href=”;