Bad Thing: It was with myself.
Last week I went into a Quest Diagnostics Lab for a semen test. (gasp not, dear readers, there is nothing wrong with my spunk – and I have the two children to prove it. Before you roll your eyes, believe me, if you saw their noses and eyebrows, you would have no doubt as to their paternity – this was a different health matter, and I’m fine).
Before going in I received detailed instructions about the semen collection process. The most noteworthy point is that I would have to ejaculate there, on-site, at the lab. It didn’t take two seconds for me to begin to fantasize about nurses in hot Halloween-style nurse costumes who would be “aiding” me in the collection process. At the very least, should the hot nurses be off duty that day, I was certain that a candle lit room with a waterbed, large screen TV with porn on a continual loop, and some tasteful, appropriate music, perhaps Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” or Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby Got Back,” would be piped in to set the mood.
It was not to be.
I entered the drab lab building only to find two employees – both females, at least – who did not look the least bit interested in aiding me in the test. The receptionist at the front desk looked at me over her glasses blankly, perhaps even with a tinge of unwarranted hostility, and brusquely said, “Fill this out.”
I sat down and looked over the form. It asked me two questions:
How long since your last ejaculation? (4 days – I timed this very carefully; more on that later)
Method of collection. I had to circle one of three options: masturbation; massage; or prostate. Hey, hey – massage? That sounded good to me! I looked around for that hot female nurse, but again, saw only the two burly employees.
I wiped away the flop sweat developing on my brow.
Now I’ve heard of the prostate thing, but it is my understanding that to excite one to ejaculation by this means requires a long finger up the butt. This wasn’t for me. A, I’m not a contortionist, I don’t think I could get my finger up there and wiggle it around, and B, call me a prude, but I do regard the anus strictly as an exit, not an entrance.
So, yup, I circled “masturbation.” But it wasn’t an easy decision, as I began to wonder what the hell the difference was between masturbation and massage. Wait! Was I allowed to bring a partner? Would that have been the “massage” option? The instructions I received beforehand mentioned nothing of bringing one’s own helper along. Damnit!
(oh, by the way, as if jerking off in a lab isn’t hard enough under any circumstance, the only time they would schedule the test for was between 8 and 11 in the morning. Now I’m a morning person, and enjoy morning sex, but not on a work day, and not by myself. I pushed it back as far as I could and scheduled my appointment for 10:45). Brunch sex… sorta.
FYI: here are some of the things the instructions did mention:
“Please refrain from ejaculating 2 to 3 days prior to anticipated test date, but no longer than 5 days. Longer abstinence may impair semen quality.” So now I know: spunk can go stale. And it can also be under ripe. So I dialed it right in at four days for super perkiness.
“If any portion of the sample spills, please inform the laboratory of this fact, so they can note it in their test interpretation.” Yet nothing was mentioned about cleaning up your spilled seed. But I took it as a gentleman’s understanding that I would remove any DNA left behind.
“Avoid hot tub use.” Shit, I thought that was just an urban legend!
I was given a plastic bottle, about 2 inches long and 1 inch in diameter, and told to hang two rights and go into the first door I saw. Romantic wank room, here I cum! (sorry, a soft ball, had to swing)
The wank room turned out to be a bathroom about five feet by five feet. There was barely enough room to turn around, never mind lying down and getting comfy. There was not a porn mag in site, the walls were clinical white, and the only musical accompaniment was the buzzing of the fluorescent light overhead. To top it off, I could hear lab workers chatting and walking around on just the other side of the door.
Jesus, this was a nightmare!
How was I supposed to get it up in this broom closet while I could hear the muffled voices of people who were no doubt laughing about me just feet away?
Not only that, how long should I appear to take? Lord knows, horny and in a rush, I can bust one out in one, maybe two minutes. I could also take my time and go ten. I wanted to impress the nurses, of course, but I didn’t want to hold up anyone else who might need to go potty. Shoot, what was I to do? Well, I settled on four minutes, closed my eyes and fantasized:
about me, somehow crawling through an air duct, dropping my plastic bottle into the collection bin from above, and escaping out the building unseen through an air vent.
In any case, I pulled it off – well, that’s a bit much, I tugged at it vigorously, let’s say (sorry, another soft ball), washed my hands, opened the door, squinted my eyes to the point where I couldn’t make out faces, and bumped my way past counters to the collection bin.
From there I tried make a quick getaway, but just as I reached the front door I heard the receptionist’s voice: “Mr. Botello?”
I froze and slowly turned around. What could it be? I hadn’t jizzed on the walls, I shut the zip loc bag into which I dropped the vial perfectly, what, what, what???!!! “Mr. Botello, we need the phone number of your doctor.”
I promised to call her back with it and got the hell out of there.
Once outside, I couldn’t help myself. I cupped my hands and smashed my face up against a side window. I wanted to see if they were laughing about me. No doubt I had done it all too quickly, or too slowly, or had seemed childishly nervous or ashamed. But they played it cool. They were probably just waiting for a call from the garage attendant confirming that I had left the building before the mocking began in earnest.
I went home in an embarassed huff, got on the computer, and typed in “hot semen collection.”
Man, the internet is misleading…