You didn’t get much for it in those days; you couldn’t
command vast fees for your sperm then, as you can now. It was before they
changed the law which meant that any resulting offspring could legally seek you
out when they hit eighteen. Back then in the early nineties there was no such
legal right.
Can you imagine that? Your biological kid, or kids plural - who
knows how prolific your sperm became after you were done with it? Imagine they
approached you, got in touch like. You’d most likely be a terrible disappointment
to them for one thing – their expectations would not likely be met by the
reality that you’re a fifty year old civil servant, still on the lowest rung of
the civil service ladder and who eighteen years previously had sought the
avenue of sperm-donoring as a source of beer money.
It would be hugely awkward and embarrassing. You’d be hoping
that they maybe had a few bob.
Anyway, the first day I went along to the sperm-donor place
(it had a more scientific name than that which involved the word fertility but I can’t remember what it
was) and was interviewed by one of the doctor’s there (sperm doctor?). The
thing that struck me as I sat there listening to him explain the function of
the place and the legal position, etc, was how much he’d come to resemble his
product (product? - I mean the substance he was most associated with on a daily
basis).
He looked like a spermatozoa.
He had white hair which spiralled to a sort of peak, a bit
like an ice cream cone. Like Douglas Hurd’s puppet in Spitting Image. And his complexion had a sort of onyx quality to it, making his features
vague and somewhat ill-defined.
I sat looking at him
in amazement, and then he paid me the highest compliment a man can ever
receive, he said – you know, you have an abnormally high sperm count, an abnormally high sperm count. And he’d
seen some sperm in his time, a lot of sperm I’ll bet. God, the sperm that man
had seen....
I went home that day brimming – utterly brimming.
Such an asset was I to become to his organisation that after
a few weeks of committed and successful donoring, he let me bring it to the
laboratory from home; I could do it at home and bring it in on the bus.
I never thought about it at the time, when you’re young and
vibrant you worry less, but...say that bus had been involved in an accident
and, god forbid I had been killed. I would have been found there, dead on the
bus, with a vial of my own sperm in my pocket. Now, nobody wants to be in that
position. What would the police and the ambulance people have made of that?
They probably wouldn’t put two and two together and conclude that ‘He must have been taking a vial of his own
sperm to the sperm-donor-place..!’ Most people wouldn’t know of such places
back then. Invitro fertilisation was,
well... in its infancy, if you’ll excuse the cheap punnery. They’d have no
explanation, no explanation other than ‘Here’s a guy who liked to carry small
containers of his own sperm around the place, how odd..!’
And worse, if it had
been a crash there’s every chance that vial would have broken, and its contents
burst asunder, what would they have made of that? Covered in your own sperm all
around the pocket, groinal area. Maybe
they’d have seen those movies where people are aroused by car crashes and
injuries and thought, ‘this must have
been one of those guys, he realised in a split second that the bus was about to
crash and this is the result, covered in sperm...’
Another thing that I found interesting about the whole
sperm-donoring thing was where they put you to do it was a little
toilety-place, just a plain room with white tiles, but there was no stimulants. You’d have thought that
given the nature of the task ahead, that there would be a little stimulation in
there, some soft porn at least, get you in and out, and not labouring up there
for hours, but no...
In fact, all there was this Home and Gardens magazine. Now, I don’t know how you feel about
garden furniture, but it doesn’t light my candle...no matter how you might
dress it up..!
Which is interesting given what I saw on the internet some
time back, and it’s even worse I think than that bloke in Falkirk who was
reported for masturbating whilst bouncing up and down on a trampoline in his
garden. An intriguing yet perplexing image you have to admit. I think they drink a
lot in Falkirk...
No, this was this guy in America, his neighbour; upset by
his behaviour caught him on film on her mobile, making love, if that’s the
correct term, to a garden table, through the hole in the middle.
Sex, to me, while it should be adventuress and playful, it shouldn’t be arduous; you know not such a chore that you find yourself lugging
garden furniture about the place. And a good sized garden table, well you’d
have to hold it up to achieve centrality. This is to disregard completely the
obvious chafing problem.
Anyway I’m left in
the toilety room in the sperm-donoring place with the copy of Home and Garden,
when I come across...no that’s phrased incorrectly. The only human beings I can
find in it are this family depicted in their back garden having a barbecue.
It’s the wife and husband, son and daughter domestic idyll...so I’m going have
to use that. Problem is, in the picture, they’re sort of bunched, and I can’t
concentrate to the extent I need to because of the proximity of the husband,
and especially the two kids, I mean
they are disconcertingly close. So
what I do is I fold the page so that it’s just the wife.
Now the wife is nothing special, she’s not wearing a Basque
or stockings or anything, she’s actually wearing a pinny (amazing I can
remember vividly after so many years), and I bet this woman, when she got this
little homely photo-shoot job for House and Garden never dreamed that she’d be the subject of such desperate, sensual
attention. Because, I wasn’t the only donor to have been in that toilety place
for that purpose. There could have been dozens, for this was a well-thumbed
magazine, furiously using this woman,
imagining her doing all sorts of things, in and out of that pinny of hers.
Curious business.
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