Sperm Banking, Part 1 - The End of Masturbation
My least favorite sexual experience dates back to before I had my first kiss. I was in a playground at night, we were too old for kids stuff, but it was nighttime, so we snuck in. I was standing next to my girlfriend at the time, and she was sitting on the swing set, and something in the conversation indicated that I should kiss her, so I leaned over and brought my lips closer to hers. But she wasn't coming up to meet me halfway, and I was too neurotic to continue the kiss on my own. So what did I do? I fell over. On the ground, into the dirt, under the swing.
I laid there on my back in a self-loathing comatose state, pondering the futility of existance.
After a minute or so, I regained my senses, got up, and pretended like nothing had happened, but if I had to look back on my past and select my single worst sexual experience it would be this. A sexually frustrated kid, lying in the dirt after fucking up his would-be first kiss.
Why am I telling you all this? Because we have a new horse in the race.
Yesterday, I got to experience for the first time, the joy of sperm banking. And what a joy it is.
I'm not sure what I was expecting when I started following the nurse to the back of the fertility clinic. Maybe a shag rug, a water bed with wooden columns and draped velvet curtains, some Barry White playing in the background at a tasteful volume, dimmed lights.
But when the nurse with the large hoop earrings opened the door, I was very disappointed. It was a regular examination room. The same kind of room I was in when I found out I had cancer in the first place. I think I'd be more comfortable jerking off in the middle of a job interview.
After taking in the inherently hostile environment, examination bed and all, the nurse directed my attention to the technology I'd get to use for my visit: Two porno mags. TWO PORNO MAGS. I would now like to deviate from the topic at hand for a moment.
Not too long ago I went to Montreal with some friends. At a strip club, they ended up spending somewhere around 350 dollars to watch two strippers get naked and essentially fuck each other for an hour or so. Here, I'm paying 350 dollars for the opportunity to jerk off into a little plastic cup in the back room of a fertility clinic, and what do I get? Two porno mags. I mean, who jerks off to still images anymore? Is this the 1940s? Get me the fucking Internet!
The nurse left and I gathered my supplies and stepped into the adjacent bathroom to begin the arduous task of masturbating under these harsh conditions, although I wouldn't quite call it masturbation. It felt more like I was milking myself.
(Cows probably have a more erotic experience... I hear they have machines.)
Imagine trying to position the tip of your penis just inside the rim of a plastic cup that's not much wider. Imagine the hard plastic edges of the cup hovering dangerously close to the most sensitive part of your body during your moment of climax. Oh, and as a final insult, whatever bodily fluids you managed to eject while in this precarious position, ends up in a tall measuring cup. The notch at the top reads, "120 ml." I think they want you to take your score and divide it by this number to find out how much of a man you are.
So anyways, after I was finished crying...
Just Kidding!
After I finished up, I stood there, pants around my ankles, with a cup of semen in my hand, and laughed for a good half a minute.
The ridiculousness overwhelmed me. These ivory league PHD geniuses had figured out a way to make masturbation unfun. They had succeeded in taking the one activity that by definition guarantees ones own pleasure, and completely sucked the joy out of it.
For committing this unspeakable crime, I can do nothing else but advocate violent vigilant justice upon those responsible.
Spare no mercy.
I laid there on my back in a self-loathing comatose state, pondering the futility of existance.
After a minute or so, I regained my senses, got up, and pretended like nothing had happened, but if I had to look back on my past and select my single worst sexual experience it would be this. A sexually frustrated kid, lying in the dirt after fucking up his would-be first kiss.
Why am I telling you all this? Because we have a new horse in the race.
Yesterday, I got to experience for the first time, the joy of sperm banking. And what a joy it is.
I'm not sure what I was expecting when I started following the nurse to the back of the fertility clinic. Maybe a shag rug, a water bed with wooden columns and draped velvet curtains, some Barry White playing in the background at a tasteful volume, dimmed lights.
But when the nurse with the large hoop earrings opened the door, I was very disappointed. It was a regular examination room. The same kind of room I was in when I found out I had cancer in the first place. I think I'd be more comfortable jerking off in the middle of a job interview.
After taking in the inherently hostile environment, examination bed and all, the nurse directed my attention to the technology I'd get to use for my visit: Two porno mags. TWO PORNO MAGS. I would now like to deviate from the topic at hand for a moment.
Not too long ago I went to Montreal with some friends. At a strip club, they ended up spending somewhere around 350 dollars to watch two strippers get naked and essentially fuck each other for an hour or so. Here, I'm paying 350 dollars for the opportunity to jerk off into a little plastic cup in the back room of a fertility clinic, and what do I get? Two porno mags. I mean, who jerks off to still images anymore? Is this the 1940s? Get me the fucking Internet!
The nurse left and I gathered my supplies and stepped into the adjacent bathroom to begin the arduous task of masturbating under these harsh conditions, although I wouldn't quite call it masturbation. It felt more like I was milking myself.
(Cows probably have a more erotic experience... I hear they have machines.)
Imagine trying to position the tip of your penis just inside the rim of a plastic cup that's not much wider. Imagine the hard plastic edges of the cup hovering dangerously close to the most sensitive part of your body during your moment of climax. Oh, and as a final insult, whatever bodily fluids you managed to eject while in this precarious position, ends up in a tall measuring cup. The notch at the top reads, "120 ml." I think they want you to take your score and divide it by this number to find out how much of a man you are.
So anyways, after I was finished crying...
Just Kidding!
After I finished up, I stood there, pants around my ankles, with a cup of semen in my hand, and laughed for a good half a minute.
The ridiculousness overwhelmed me. These ivory league PHD geniuses had figured out a way to make masturbation unfun. They had succeeded in taking the one activity that by definition guarantees ones own pleasure, and completely sucked the joy out of it.
For committing this unspeakable crime, I can do nothing else but advocate violent vigilant justice upon those responsible.
Spare no mercy.
posted by sleepwithoutdreams at 8:11 PM
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