WARNING: The following is very personal, and could and probably will offend someone. If you are easily offended, do not read this. Otherwise, continue on :-)
My wife and I have been trying to conceive for the last few years. We've tried various things, from supposed home remedies to doctors and their myriad pills. Finally, we came to the realization that the only reliable method for us to have a kid is in-vitro fertilization. We picked out a well known fertility clinic run by a local medical school, one of the best in the country. And that is where this all began.
My inner Quagmire said "All Right!" as I headed off this morning to the clinic. I needed to come in this morning and provide a specimen. Now don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with my manhood. In fact, we had visited another fertility clinic a couple years ago, and I did the requisite submission and found that my stuff was Grade A. My little boys were strong warrior seed prepped for the beachhead assault. They were ready to invade fertile country and do what they do best. But doctors being doctors, I had to do the same thing over again for this clinic.
The difference this time was that they wanted me to actually come into the office to ... err... cum. The last time, I was allowed to take the specimen cup home, do what I needed to do and drop it off at the lab on my way into work. This one works a little different and insisted that I come in and give a fresh sample. "No sweat," I thought, "I can do this. It'll be fun!"
Now I'm a pretty open guy when it comes to sex and sexuality. I have no problem talking about sex. I am open to just about anything sexually, preferring to explore and find out what I don't like, rather than not explore and never know myself or the limits of my own inhibitions. I am pretty willing to have sex in places most people would blanch at. I have a fairly active imagination and fantasy world. I am not afraid of masturbation in the least. And thus excited at the thought of pleasuring myself in a doctors office, in the name of science, I pulled into the parking lot and prepared to wow the staff.
That lasted until the moment I walked through the door.
"Oh my god! They're all staring at me!" was the first thought in my mind as a waiting room full of women turned to see me and all my male glory walking into a medical office that has "Women's Health" written all over the side of it. And stare they did. I in my sunglasses, longish dark hair, and full lumberjack beard grown for the winter. I in my swaggering confidence. I in my jeans and new sneakers and faded T-shirt. They were indeed staring at me. It was then I started to tremble just a bit, and my nerves started to send off warning signals. I almost couldn't go through with it.
I had expected to see at least a couple guys there. Men like myself. Manly men, who, upon seeing my manly visage would give that subtle male nod. The nod a guy gets when he walks into a gun store to talk about guns. The nod a guy gets when he brings his car into the shop and prepares to explain what malady has befallen his mechanical steed. The kind of nod a guy gives another when he acknowledges the other male's masculinity in a situation that could be tense. It's a signal of understanding. A solidarity among those of use who may be undertaking a prostate screening for the first time, or becoming a first time father, or just walking into a situation that is new and unsure. But that reassurance was not there. Instead, I got "The Stare" as I queued up to see the receptionist.
She was friendly, and smiled at me as I meekly told her my name. I'm not normally a loud or boisterous person anyway, but in this place I found that no matter how hard I tried, I could not turn up the volume and pronounce my manliness here. I tried one time, and in my inner ear it sounded as though I were bellowing my words. "Don't draw attention to yourself!" I thought.
The receptionist checked and verified my appointment and gave me an insurance form to sign, which I quietly did. When I handed it back to me she started tearing off the Pink Sheet of Recognition and said something to the effect of "and this ... ummm ... pink sheet is ... well, it's pink..."
"It's ok," I said in reply. "I have a car that's about faded to the same color. Pink does not frighten me at all." It was a desperate chance to reassert my male vigor and prove that I was NOT here because I was a failure. I was not here because I was less than a man, less than the men these women surely had at home.
"Ok, thank you Mr. Lane. The Andrologist will be up in a few moments to get you."
What? Andrologist? What the fuck is an andrologist? What the fuck is andrology? The only term my mental dictionary could find that was similar was Androgynous. That couldn't be right. Androgyny is when a person's sex can't be easily determined. A person like Pat from Saturday Night Live. A very masculine woman, or a very effeminate man. The kind of person that you can't tell right off. Like the Bob Seger song "Is it a woman or a man?"
Turns out that Andrologists are just the people who do lab work to study male fertility and urological problems. Thanks Wikipedia! But I did not know that at the time. No, at the time, all I knew was that I wasn't even in the door yet and they were already questioning me and my virility.
So I sat in an uncomfortable chair and stared straight ahead, too afraid to make eye contact with the many women who were also waiting to be seen in this, a women's health clinic. Some were fat, some thin. Some attractive, some not so much. All manner of women here: white, black, Asian, Hispanic. And all of them, I was sure, were thinking the same thing. "Oh, he must have ... THOSE problems."
"NO!" my mind screamed in the deafening silence. "I do not have those problems! I swear! My stuff works! Really! YOU GOTTA BELIEVE ME!"
Thankfully, I did not voice those thoughts and my filter continued to keep my big mouth shut.
Very soon, the door opened, and a fairly cute girl in blue scrubs called my name. I rose solemnly, now mentally preparing myself for the task ahead and went to meet this girl with the blond hair and soft blue eyes. Sigh... I walked the walk of the condemned. The walk of the guy headed to The Chair. The walk of a man being banished. The one put into exile for his crimes. For his weakness.
She led me down the hall and around the corner to a small room. As the door opened, I first saw a sink and my autonomic system kicked in telling me to flee. A SINK! It's a smegging bathroom! They want me to sit on the can and ... oh crap this is humiliating why am I here I can't do this yes I can it's ok it's NOT OK it'll be over soon but not too soon because I don't want them to think that I came to fast or maybe didn't at all or what if they want me to chat afterward is it cold in here what if I can't perform is there a camera in there is the mirror two way is someone watching me on the other side of the wall can people hear me? But as I stepped into the room I noticed a small couch, a small entertainment center. An LCD TV and DVD player.
Giggity. Quagmire again. Coming to save me. I almost missed her spiel, the one she probably rehearsed several times in a mirror. The deadpan deliver that she probably gives to many guys each week who walk in with the same false bravado I had. The guys who puff out their chests, drag their knuckles and fill out all the stereotypes of male ego in an effort to hide the fear that screams out from their eyes.
Put the specimen in the cup. Got it.
Put the label on the cup. OK, I can do this.
Put the cup in the biohazard bag. Sure
Put the biohazard bag in the paper bag. Getting easier!
She talks on and on and my fear starts to melt. "I wonder if she'd be willing to assist me?" "Pipe down you!" "Did I say that out loud?"
"Mr. Lane?" she asks as I finish my inner struggle to choke any improper words from my very throat.
"Oh, yeah" I reply. "In the cup, label cup. Cup in the bag, bag in the paper bag. Fill out and sign highlighted areas. Put bag and form in the lab cubby. Flip switch down. Got it!" I said as cheerily as I could. And with that, she backed out of the room and closed the door.
The first I did was study this strange place. It's just a thing I do. I look for threats, exits, weapons. I look for surveillance. I lock the door. Unlock the door. Lock the door again. Seems safe. But what if someone walks in, I wonder. Screw that... danger! It makes sex in public places fun. I COULD Be caught. Giggity. Go Go Quagmire!
Next was to see what they had in the way of ... assistance materials. TV, check. DVD player, check. Hrmmm... magazines. Meh... Playboy. Cute chicks, but not deranged enough for my taste. Hustler, penthouse, something like that maybe. But really I actually DO read the articles in Playboy. As far as porn goes, it's rather tame; too artistic for my taste. DVDs it is then.
There were only three, a bit disappointed. Some generic big boob video. Asian Ooze. That sounds ... promising. Hey, it's got Asian chicks in it, right? Hrmm, but what's this. This is a DVD-R. Unlabled. Wonder what it is? So that's what I try first.
And there I sat, slowly pulling my clothes off as the move started. No plot. No dialog. Just jumping straight to girl-on-girl fun. YES! Giggity! And there I sat, growing, strengthening, my manliness coming in waves. Energy building as I watched various pairs of girls doing the kinds of things I always wanted to see in real life. Hrmmm...what's on the asian video though?
So I popped that one in and got down to business. My fear was replaced by grim determination. Oh yes, I'm going to enjoy this. I'm going to jerk like I haven't done since I was a boy and first discovered that I could do it. I'm going to enjoy every moment of this and I'm going to bust a nut up in that cup that is so grand that when they open it up they'll say "DAMN! That is a REAL man!"
I watched and flipped through various scenes. All girl on guy stuff, but petite asian girls bouncing, being railed, moaning, screaming... And all the while I watched on, a determined look on my face, my mind focused on the screen, my hand doing what came naturally to it.
The feelings built, and pleasure grew and soon I knew it was going to happen. I was going to open up the motherfucking flood gates in this bitch. I grabbed the cup, took aim, and fired. The 16" guns fired a volley so devastating that the enemy would run shitting in his pants. I dropped the airborne. I breached the beachhead. I pushed through the defensive lines, scores of my soldiers amassing to do battle. And it was over.
I did exactly as instructed. Specimen in cup? Check. Label on cup? Check. Cup in biohazard bag? Check. Biohazard bag in paper bag? Check. Paper filled out? Check. Prepare to flip the switch signaling my success. Fire two! I put the bag and the evidence of my masculinity into the cubby and closed the small, stainless steel door. God Speed little soldiers! I thought. Make me proud! Parade formation! Aten HUT! and I flipped the switch.
.
.
.
On a serious note, though, this is something that many guys go through. No, there really is nothing wrong with my stuff. I know this already, both scientifically and empirically, which is an entire different story all together. The truth is, my wife has a medical condition that causes problems with ovulation, but in the interest of science, and to medically rule out any other possible complications, I found myself in the fertility clinic going through what really wasn't much, but amounted to mentally forcing myself to have sex... with myself.
Even the hint of having to do a semenalysis is enough to send most men running. None of us like to be questioned. But to be honest, I would almost rather it was me, and not my sweetie. She takes it very hard, probably as hard as I would in her position. She feels sometimes as though she's a failure because she can't spit out rug rats like half the crack whores on Jerry Springer. But the truth is, this is a common problem with couples. So common that there is an entire branch, several branches, actually, devoted to solving the problem and helping people like us conceive and give birth.
The people at the clinic, which I won't name, are very professional, honest, and friendly. They seem to go out of their way to make sure you aren't uncomfortable, both mentally and physically, as they try to help you through what can be the most difficult of all things. The thought that you can't get pregnant can be devastating to women and to men. Thus, I say that you are not alone. You are certainly not alone. Even when you fell as though the whole world is there laughing at you, the truth is, the guys are there. Those manly men, nodding silently at you as you pass. They know. They've been there. They bled on Crispin's day. "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers."
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