Today is the day. The ultimate test of my manhood. Am I all man or am I an orange? A Jaffa. Seedless.
I debated whether to bring my own stimulus. My own reading material. Well, not that there would be any reading – looking material would be a more appropriate description. I decided against it. But as I sit here staring at the sexual disease notices pinned up on the wall I think I may have made the wrong call. I can feel my manhood shrinking as my eyes take in another picture of a genital wart.
The longer I wait, the more nervous I get. I can feel the butterflies rising in my stomach. I’m more nervous than my O levels. And the time I decied to ask out Bridgit the foxy but scary Scottish girl when I was 13.
The receptionist catches my eye. She knows why I am here, she has my notes. Maybe she can tell just from looking at me the state of my white fellas, maybe there is some way of knowing.
Eventually my name is called and I approach the desk. She says the room is ready now if I will just follow her. We walk down the corridor.
My own green mile.
She knows and I know what I am about to do, but we avoid talking about it. I am sweating.
She hands me a small plastic bag containing a plastic receptacle. I look at it. It looks quite big. I panic. Am I meant to fill the whole thing? I’m not sure I am up to the task. I’m not a whale. (I saw it once on a natural history documentary – they do loads). I don’t express my concerns to the receptionist. Instead I just look at her with what I imagine are the pleading eyes of a child to his mother when he doesn’t want to go to school. With the pleading eyes of a dog to its owner as it its led away by the vet.
She says there is a buzzer on the wall and I should ring it when I’m done.
She reminds me to lock the door. Too bloody right.
The room is a unique 10 foot square blend of storage cupboard, bathroom and lounge. To my immediate left is a wash basin. To the right is an open metal cupboard full of boxes of surgical gloves. Straight ahead is a green chair, with a lovely plastic wipe down cover.
The room is lit by a fluorescent strip. But to get you in the mood for self-love someone has kindly put a bedside lamp with a revolting purple frilly shade on the formica next to the sink. Was the beside lamp the work of a management consultancy team brought in by the hospital to improve performance and patient care? I imagine some Laurence Llewellylyn character flouncing in and saying that what this place needed was a bit of purple frilly 70s lighting to improve masturbatory output.
I switch off the main light and I turn on the romantic lighting. The room is transformed into an exotic boudoir where I can recline and knock one out in exquisite joy and comfort. Is it fuck. It’s still a wank cupboard.
I look around for the “reading” material. But all I can see are a pile of National Geographic magazines. Twisted. I’m an animal lover but not an animal luurver. And I’m not getting my rocks off over pictures of prehistoric rocks. Curiosity gets the better of me and I lift one up, thinking I might see my old mate the sperm whale, and to my joy discover that the National Geographic magazine with the cover of an erupting volcano was just a clever ruse. An old fashioned polite British way to hide the treasures that lie beneath. For beneath, is a foot high pile of porn mags.
I haven’t felt these frissions of excitement since the age of 12 when me and my mates found the damp mouldy pages of a torn Razzle caught in the hedges of my local park.
I pluck a magazine from the pile and am soon transported back in time.
I drift back to the days of my youth when after collecting the rain soaked Razzle pages we huddled together in the bushes, craning to look at, well, lady bushes. And boy did they have bushes in those days.
I am enjoying my journey back in time when I am brought back to the present by a knock on the door. “Are you OK?” Asks a concerned voice.
“I won’t be long I’m just finishing off …..an article on cars” I splutter.
I return to the porn stash.
I check out the Readers Wives and have a good chuckle.
I wonder how old these mags have been here. This one looks about ten years old. Normally Razzle is a substitute for sex not an aid to it.
I wonder how many couples Paula from Liverpool with her 36DD breasts has helped to procreate?
I am procrastinating (and for you who don’t know long words that’s not a term for something rude).
I need to get down to business.
I start to get organised. I take out the plastic receptacle – do you scoop or do you aim directly? – the notice on the wall gives no hints. It’s meant to be a test of my sperm but it feels like I’m being tested.
I place it next to me. With the magazines, opened on a few choice images, splayed out in front of me, I get the old fella out and get down to the job in hand.
I thought it would be easy. There aren’t many things I am good at but knocking one out is something that I thought I had got down to an art.
But I have to really concentrate to stop my mind wandering.
What if my sperm is useless? What if the little fellas are crippled? What if I can father kids?
Paula with the 36DD’s helps me to get back on track.
I am reaching the point of no return. I reach out to get the plastic cup. Oh no, I have forgotten to take the lid off. Bugger. There is some ambidextrous fumbling. Then finally we have take off. My little fellas, along with all my hopes of fatherhood, come rushing out. Except they don’t. There’s no rush, its more like a nonchalant saunter.
And where are they all ? It seems most of them have stayed indoors. I hardly have enough to cover the bottom of the pot. It’s a pretty poor show.
I clean up. Put the mags back under the National Geographic. Switch off te romantic lighting and press the bell to summon the nurse.
I hand her the cup. She looks at it disdainfully.
“Is that it?”
I mumble an apology.
She shakes her head and wanders off with my hopes, dreams and worries.
An hour later they call me. My pulse quickens.
Please let it be positive news.
“Mr Barden. I’m afraid your sample wasn’t big enough can you come back now and produce another one.”
