Back when I was in college, I figured out a plan to avoid getting a summer job. Simply by harvesting my own body secretions, I could avoid the polyester uniformed, “May I help you?” nonsense that accompanies summer employment. The financial reimbursement from donating sperm once a week would almost equal that of a part-time job and have little impact on my frequency of partnerless sex.
I first had to work out the moral dilemma involved with donating sperm: I am selling my seed...My DNA...My genetic blueprint...to complete strangers. Eventually I decided that I am such a spectacular person in so many aspects that it is practically my duty as a resident of this planet to share my gene pool.
So I set off to the sperm bank to become a a human dandelion on a windy day--spreading my seed amongst the fields of the infertile. A call to my local branch--whose number is available in the yellow pages--provided me with a recording that told me to come down to their office. I would have to fill out some paperwork, answer some questions and leave a sample.
Of course its not a real bank, which was a shock to me, its more of a doctors office.
Few experiences can compare to walking in the door of a sperm bank. How do you dress for a date with a test tube? “Hi I’m here to...well, ahem, yes...I called and your recording said to.... Actually I just need directions. How do I get back on I-5 south?” Its hard to make your mouth form the words, “I’m here to masturbate.” And you thought buying condoms was embarrassing--at least then you’re announcing that you’re having sex with a partner!
Eventually they gave me a clipboard and some forms for potential donors. “Yes, I’d like to open an account. Do you offer free checking?” Most of the questions were to determine what sort of genetic mishaps you have the potential for passing on. There was no photograph required, no I.Q. test, no math, no multiple choice. There was no opportunity to dazzle them with the worth of my seed. I guess if you’re desperate enough to go to a sperm bank, you just want a kid with working limbs.
When I finished the paperwork, they gave me a finger-sized test tube and directed me to a bathroom. Don’t get me wrong, sitting on a toilet seat does have quite an erotic thrill to it, unfortunately the sanitized white tile floors and walls were not exactly a part of any fantasy I could think up. Next to the toilet was a magazine rack with a few ruffled copies of Playboy. I’m sorry, but in order to counteract the non-arousing presence of a test tube, I need something a little more erotic than a Playboy. I practically need a naked, buxom nurse in the room with me...just begging for my sample.
Well, with that vision in mind, I soon fulfilled my obligation.
I exited the bathroom hesitantly. Holding the test tube in front of me was like holding a sign, “Look what I just did! I just played with myself!” I gave my condemning evidence to the lab tech. What a job this lady has--handling warm test tubes filled with masturbatory offerings all day. She thanked me and had me sit in the doctors office. The doctor entered with the paperwork I filled out earlier.
“You wrote that you’re a student. Do you go to school in town?”
“Uh...No, I go to the University of Redlands.”
“Will you be moving back there in the fall?”
“I’m sorry, but to be a donor we require a minimum one-year commitment of once a week visits. That simply wouldn’t be possible if you were away at school, now would it? Thanks anyway.”
What!? Couldn’t they have told me that before I bared my most intimate fluids and so unceremoniously spilled my seed? How humiliating. What can you say in that situation? “Well, thanks for letting me use your restroom”?
I felt so vulnerable and used.
I walked quickly out of the office and drove home.
I should have asked for my sample back.

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