Spankin’ It at the Doctor’s Office
Fair warning: If the title wasn’t enough to clue you in, this is a post about jackin’ it while getting your insurance company to pay for it. If you have zero desire to find out what it’s really like to provide a sperm sample, it’s completely understandable. If, however, you’ve always wondered if it’s like how they portray it in the movies, or you’re curious to discover what materials are provided for the purpose, read on. I promise to try to make it more funny than gross. Also, the pics may feature adult themes. Not like my junk or anything, but, ya know, fair warning and all that. You might see part of a heavily photoshopped woman’s butt.
Also, a hearty welcome to the new followers I picked up this week! You deserve better, but hey, you didn’t know what you were getting into.
As many of you, or some of you, or none of you, might know, my wife and I are going through the IVF process in order to have children. There are a million tests – actually that’s not true. Interestingly, the person who is tested most in this process, including psychologically, is the egg donor. Seriously, an egg donor needs to take a 500 question psych profile to donate eggs. The prospective parents have to take exactly none at all. They don’t care if the parents are crazy, which is less a surprise the more I think about it.
Anyway, one of the tests I had to go through is an analysis of my li’l swimmers. Which is a polite – well, actually cutesy – way of saying ejaculate. The doctor needs to know if they are a) healthy and capable of impregnating an egg, and b) enough of them are produced to make the process workable. To measure this, I was sent to a doctor’s office to provide the sample. This was, in fact, the second time I’d done this. I did it in January of last year when the process kicked off, but since it was over a year ago I needed to give a fresh sample (don’t think about that in the context, don’t do it – aww, damn, sorry. I’m too late, aren’t I?).
So yesterday I got a call from my wife, who was at the doctor’s office where she found out that my sample was past the expiration date. So she calls me at work and tells me that I need to do this again, and asks if I could do it right then. Now, I don’t need to be wined and dined or anything, but being asked to go to a doctor’s office and… you know… in a cup right away is a little jarring to me, especially when I’m in the middle of working on sales tax returns. Flowers first would at least have been nice. So I pushed it back a day to mentally prepare myself for the exercise.
Now in the movies, the process looks a little different than in reality. I looked to provide sample images from movies, but I googled “movies sperm sample” without having safe search enabled and now regret it. Don’t google that. Unless that’s your thing, no judgement, whatever works for you. Interestingly, with safe search enabled, a picture of Paris Hilton came up in the first twenty or so images. No idea why. Also, it seems like only comedies have scenes where someone has to provide a semen sample. I guess ‘cause it’s a laff riot.
In reality, where I had to go was just a regular-looking doctor’s office. In fact, it was two different offices, one for andrology (where I was heading) and one that was decidedly not for andrology. I don’t remember what it was, but my wife and I were in a waiting room with old women and one creepy-looking hippie dude who talked way too loud who was accompanying an old woman. I signed in, talked to a woman who knew I’d be masturbating just a few yards from her in a few minutes, providing my ID and insurance card. Notably, the very nice woman used the hand sanitizers approximately every eight seconds.
I filled out my forms and brought them back, and the very nice woman told me she’d call me back in a couple minutes. After a couple more minutes of listening to the hippie dude say really weird shit to the person he was with – I think at some point he recited either a poem or song lyrics to her, which she then critiqued – the very nice woman came out to the waiting room, made eye contact, and let me know that it was Go Time. It is weird to stand up in a group of strangers and wonder how many of them know what you’re about to do. Having my wife say “have fun” to me as I went back didn’t help. This is also the last time the very nice woman would make eye contact with me.
I got led back through a door into a hall and presented with my choice of two identical rooms. Rooms whose sole purpose was for dudes to walk in and jack it. Since it was my second time there, I chose the same room. I thought a bit of familiarity would help my mental state. Just before I went in, the very nice woman let me know my wife was welcome to join me. Considering the circumstances, I elected to undertake the mission solo. Some things are best left to be experienced alone, followed by exhaustively recounting them on the internet for the world to see.
The first time I’d done this, I tried to describe what it was like to my wife. I didn’t do a great job and I couldn’t remember the porn titles, but I really wanted to convey the totality of the experience. OK, not the totality. Just the environment.
So I took pictures!
No, not that kind. Perv.
My temporary Self-Love Palace looked like this:
On the left, you can see the couch where untold numbers of men have pleasured themselves. It is imperative to not think about this while engaging in your business. It is also impossible not to not think of it. Also try not to wonder about what cleaning products they use on it, or how thoroughly it is cleaned, or how often, or how much the person who has to do it gets paid or if they check the cushions for change. You will also fail at this task.
To the right of the Couch That Should Not Be Examined Under a Blacklight, there are instructions taped to the wall. They are surprisingly helpful, because few people have, prior to this, been asked to do anything similar to this process. Anyway, a paraphrased version goes like this:
- Fill out your paperwork, except for two entries: the exact time the sample was gathered (mine was 11:11, so if you know where you were at that time on March 8, 2017, International Women’s Day, you now also know exactly what I was doing at that moment. And yes, I did make a wish) and if there was any spillage during the process (I assume this is done to assure Catholics that God will not smite them if they confess to spilling it). Those are to be filled out after you are done.
- Wash your hands. Do not use any creams or lotions afterwards, so you will be doing a dry run for this one.
- Do your business in the cup. Try very hard not to put your fingers or, uh, anything else, into the cup during sample collection. Yes, it says that, except they say “tip of the penis” instead of “anything else”.
- Record the time and spillage results (yes/no, they don’t ask for the size of the puddle or anything) on your paperwork.
- Write your name and date of birth on the side of the cup in Sharpie. (Note: I did this first. For some reason I didn’t think I’d want to “sign my Pollock”, as it were, afterwards)
- Put the cup in the sterile bag and drop it off at the collection window.
- If for some reason (I can’t think of a single one) you can’t complete your mission, let the front desk know, and they will attempt to accommodate you. I don’t know what they do to accommodate you. My guess is they reschedule your appointment. However, if you don’t turn on Safe Search when you google “Movie Sperm Sample” you will get an idea what popular culture seems to think will happen.
Now, note that they don’t ask you to wash your hands afterwards. I might also recommend that they install the kind of soap dispenser that doesn’t require you to touch the dispenser handle.
Below the instructions is the clock for you to note the time. I suppose you could also turn on the radio in case you need NPR or other noise to handle your business. I didn’t touch it. In fact, I touched nothing in the room I didn’t have to, for either medical or journalistic needs. However, some people may want it, because the conversations of the office staff performing their duties a mere 8 or 10 feet away are clearly audible, a matter to consider when judging how much, ahem, noise you prefer to make or hear when engaging in a cardinal sin.
Below the clock is the disturbingly large container used to house the sample. It is capable of holding, say, close to a cup of liquid matter. This is more than sufficient for most people’s needs. Or so I sincerely hope. Under the cup is the sterile bag it will be placed in after collection.
Under that is a puppy pad. For reals. It’s the light blue thing.
So, now it’s Business Time. In the top drawer of the cabinet is a collection of magazines:
Thankfully, they were fanned out like that already, so I didn’t have to touch them. I was kinda curious about the mole on Putin’s butt that looks like Trump, but I didn’t look. Neither did I check to see if the Playboy was from the time when they stopped including nude photos, which would have been a good joke. I was also too afraid to check what the coverless magazines were. As I said, I had zero desire to touch them.
In the two drawers below that are additional supplies like cups and puppy pads, in case you’re running low on Tupperware and want a way to take salad dressing in your bag lunch (don’t think about blue cheese or ranch… damn, sorry about that) or if random medical supplies are what rev your engines.
In the bottom drawer is the best part, the collection of movies:
I had to touch the right-most four in order to turn them around so the titles were visible. I still feel like I’ve contracted a flesh-eating virus. I justify it for the journalistic need. Now, my first comment is that I applaud their diversity. I wish I could have been in the Procurement Committee meeting while they decided what to include. The debates, the compromises, the wrangling, the heated discussions at the eleventh hour just when everyone thought they’d put the whole watersports issue behind them. Or maybe it was one person, tasked with browsing Adam and Eve and coming up with a good sampling, followed by sending the shopping cart to the boss for a final once-over and approval.
Anyway, if you want to watch a movie, there is a TV on the wall opposite the Couch Who Could Tell a Million Tales If Only It Could Speak. It looks like this:
Sexy, right? You can really see the mole on Putin’s ass.
Anyway, I chose not to accept their offer of samples, since it’s 2017 and I own a smartphone. However, I do want to discuss my favorite video in that sample. With no offense to 18 Legal and Latin #8, the Miami Maidens Vol. 10 (I love that it’s catalogued in volumes, like an encyclopedia), and Black Sexy Bootylicious Moms 3, the video that most intrigues me is Barely MILF. It’s eating me up inside as I ponder what it is about (or it’s the flesh-eating virus). Specifically, what part is the Barely referring to? Are they Barely Moms, and what does that mean? Did they literally just give birth for the first time? Are they moms that I’d Barely love, due to some terrible flaw in their personality, or a crippling unwillingness to commit? Or would I Barely want to Fuck them, in which case… why are they on the video? The questions that are raised by this movie beggar those engendered by philosophy and religion combined. Assuming each of those subjects give rise to one question each.
Anyway, I had now reached the most Romantic portion of my stay. Like any thoughtful lover, I unfolded the puppy pad and placed it on the couch. It’s a good 3’ by 2’ piece. I have no idea what catastrophic disaster prompted them to provide this, but the event was surely scarring to someone, or, more likely, several someones. I sat down on the surprisingly comfy Couch That Is Easily Wipeable For Obvious Reasons and proceeded to attempt to get into the mood. This not easy. Luckily, I was able to avoid the need to consult Step 7 above, which leads us to a delicate matter that bears discussion, especially if you may find yourself in this position someday.
So. The product released by one’s amorous desires are, by necessity, to be deposited into the cup provided. Picture, if you will, a gentleman in this position. He is seated. His instrument is erect, and therefore, pointed towards the standard office drop ceiling. It now becomes a question of physics: how can a gentleman, in this position, place his Issue into a cup that, by necessity, must be upside down at that moment?
The answer is this:
The gentleman, must, at the moment that he understands is the Point of No Return, stand as best he can, in a hunched-over position, angling his erect instrument downwards towards the cup, thus explaining the necessity of his hunch, while carefully ensuring that the cup is correctly positioned, during the orgasm, and simultaneously taking care to not place his fingers or the tip of his penis into the cup, whilst, again, in the throes of the most awkward passion imaginable.
This is why I went back alone.
Also, the second time around was much easier. See, the first time, I was trying to just get myself through the process and hadn’t given much consideration to the last step. So it was a bit of a mad scramble at a difficult time, and this is probably what explains the vast puppy pad. This time I knew what I was in for.
My work completed, I capped the clearly overgenerous cup, put it the bag, washed my hands, died a little inside, and gave the bag to the very nice woman who pointedly was not looking at me, for which I could not blame her. I looked for hand sanitizer and found none until I got back to the waiting room. I approached my wife as I slathered my hands with sanitizer, making her burst out laughing and prompting her to tell me not to do that again under these circumstances. Then we walked over to another building for bloodwork.
She didn’t want to hold my hand.