My Seed Could Find No Purchase In the Rocky Soil Of Her Loins

When my wife and I decided to have a second kid, it took a while. I was willing to keep trying, but even I was starting to get concerned. If we were teenagers in the backseat of a car, it would have taken one time. If you’re a relatively responsible married couple, it can take a while. We were a little older than average, but we became concerned there was an issue.

OK, My wife was convinced there was an issue with my “seed.”

She did her part; she went to her GYN to see if there were any issues on her end. Her GYN looks JUST LIKE Dr. Juliet from LOST, you know, the fertility doctor on the island. Creepy. Not as creepy as asking her why all the babies die on the island in a waiting room full of expectant mothers.

SO, Dr. Lost asks my wife how often we’re…“trying.” My wife told her “3 to 5 times a week.” I think even her doctor laughed. We didn’t “try” that much on our honeymoon. I didn’t masturbate 3 to 5 times a week when I was 15…all right maybe it’s accurate in that case, but c’mon. I could tell you the last date, time, and day of the week and what we had for dinner the last time we “tried.” My wife couldn’t tell you if we did it this afternoon, but probably thinks we did.

Ultimately, Dr. Lost told her to relax and keep trying, everything was normal. And that maybe her husband or partner or lover should get checked.

My wife suggested I go get my sperm counted. That sounded OK to me, I’d seen it in the movies. You go into a swanky office, all the nurses are super hot and cool, and offer to “help with anything you need,” porno mags and videos, high fives all around. Cigars, beer, barbeque, lounging around in comfy robes after you submit your “sample.” Some place you think you’d want to hang out on a regular basis. Like a Gentleman’s Club.

Of course then there’s reality.

Jerking off into a plastic cup in the shower, while your wife laughs at you and refuses to “help.” An unrealistic timeline for delivery, an irritated nurse, and an old bitter doctor who tells you your count is “OK” but the sample had “low volume.” I told him it was low because we’d had sex “3 to 5 times” that week. I’d like to see his “volume” after jerking off into a cup in the shower.

But back to delivering the sample…

After “collection” there was a 30-minute window to get the sample to the lab. Now, you’re in the shower so you have to finish that, dry off, and get dressed. We lived a good 15 minutes from the lab. If I hit traffic or couldn’t find parking it might mess up the sample, and I could be…screwed…and have to relive the whole process again. Then someone could say, “He can’t even get masturbation right.”

I thought about “collecting the sample” in the office parking lot or restroom, but that’s not something you want to go to jail for, and have the other boys find out.

So, I get there barely in time, and run into the office of the lab. There’s a line of grandmas getting their regular tests and drug addicts probably getting their regular tests. I get to the window and the receptionist asks me what I’m there for.

“Dropping of sperm sample,” I whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“Dropping of sperm sample,” I whisper again.

“Dropping of what?

“Sperm sample!” I say louder as the needle rips off the record, the music stops, no one is talking, and I sound like I’m screaming. All the grandmas knew I’d rubbed one out in the last half hour. Even the drug addicts were shaking their heads. Security was called, babies started crying.

Of course, we did get pregnant again, after we decided to relax.

We had a son. Already had a daughter, had our bookends.

After number two was born, we decided we were done. Or I was done. A friend of my wife’s said she shouldn’t get her tubes tied, in case it “doesn’t work out” with me, and she still wants to have kids.

So it was decided I would get the tubes snipped.

It’s odd to lie on a table in a very non-operating looking room office, get local anesthesia needled into your penis, and then have a man tugging and cutting into your testicles while he tries to have an everyday conversation with you. I assure you he was a legitimate doctor, not “vasectomies to go,” but it WAS coupon day. PennySaver.

After the lovely burning smell of my tubes getting cauterized, he told me to “wait a week before ejaculating.” He didn’t say, “before having sex,” he said, “before ejaculating.” I said, “we either know each other, or you know I’m married.”

He said in 4 weeks, or 20 ejaculations, whichever comes first, to go get a fertility test. He actually said, “so in a week have sex, or just masturbate a bunch.” Now THAT’S a prescription I’ll TAKE refills on please.

So of course, I got to 10,000 miles before the scheduled tune-up. One way or another. It was tough to wait that first week. I wanted to make sure everything was still working, besides the ability to impregnate. Everything seemed to work ok.

So, of course I had to do another fertility test. Or I guess an infertility test. This one was a little more important. Instead of checking to SEE if you’re shooting blanks, it’s to CONFIRM you’re shooting blanks so it’s OK to shoot your gun off in non-combat situations.

I’d done this before, I was an old pro. Plus I’d just had a couple of weeks of “collection” practice. I do my collection, race to the lab, and the receptionist it flirting it up with some Dad who’d just dropped off HIS sample. I wonder if she helped him COLLECT it. I wonder how his volume was.

They must have noticed me jumping up and down or heard me clearing my throat. They finished up and I approached. She distractedly told me to put mine in the bin “with all the others” and that she’d “get to it.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I reluctantly left my sample in the bin and waited for the go/nogo call.

In a few days I got the call from the doctor’s office, and the nurse told me I “was good to go.” I was back in the game, coach.

Turns out in the end it was all OK, I WAS good to go and shooting blanks, 3 to 5 times a week, just like my wife suspected all along.