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.

Why I Laugh At Boobies

I was exposed to horror movies at a very young age, and it’s had a lasting effect. Seeing the Jaws 2 at 6, Jaws soon after, the Exorcist at 10, and Psycho at 11 changed my life.

I cannot go in the ocean today and not think about Jaws.

I cannot get in the shower and not think about being attacked by a nut job dressed as his mother, with a knife.

My parents took me to see Jaws 2 while we were on summer vacation at the Jersey Shore. This was before Snookie and the Situation were even BORN. In all their wisdom, they thought it would be a fun movie for a little kid to see, in the theater, while staying at the beach. “Have fun in the water tomorrow son!”

Soon after, at my aunt’s house, on something new called “HBO” I saw Jaws. I was warned it was going to be scary and asked if I could handle it. What was I going to say? I was good until fisherman Ben’s head pops out of the bottom of the boat with the eye protruding. Scared the Hell out of me. I was then decided I couldn’t handle the rest of the movie so I was sent to bed. Alone. Show a kid a movie, scare the Hell out of him, and then punish him.

Exorcist was actually part of a movie marathon. One of those all day/all night BBQs where the parents eat and drink and the kids hang out. Our neighbors had this new thing called a VCR. Played movies on tapes. We started with The Howling, then Alien, then King Kong 77. That’s a lot of movies. Then the moms showed up and wanted to know what we were watching. Then suggested we all watch Exorcist. Told us it was scary, asked if we could handle it. What were we going to say? Still the scariest movie ever. That night after we went home was probably the longest night of my life. Everything was the devil or that possessed chick coming to take me away.

The 80s horror movie explosion coupled with movie channels on cable TV was a boon for the corruption of my innocence and my desensitization to sex and violence. Halloween movies, Friday the 13th movies, Nightmare on Elm Street movies, as well as any number of formulaic knock-offs with a killer and teen sex.

My mom held the VCR remote, and controlled the universe. Whenever there was a particularly gory killing, she’d utilize the remote to relive, reexamine, and review. As VCRs and remote functions improved, so did our examination of the slasher killings. Mom was the queen of the remote, and could capture details with pause, rewind, and slow mo, that the best CSI labs couldn’t get.

We would watch every killing in gruesome detail, over and over. However, when the inevitable sex scene or boob shot came along, my mother would frown and make me cover my eyes. Funny thing was, I was cool with the scenes, and it was my Mom with the issues.

My Dad hated horror movies. On movie nights when we were going to watch one, he’d get up, mumble something like “enjoy your crap” and wonder off to bed. Of course, it could be 5 minutes, or 50 minutes later, and he sex or nudity could only last for 5 seconds. That was the time he’d come stumbling out for a glass of water, or to the bathroom. He’d stare at the TV and groan “what the Hell are you watching!?”

To this day when I watch a movie with my Mom, she still tells me to cover my eyes if there’s nudity or sex. I tell her I’ve actually seen real boobies up close. Of course now, I might be more uncomfortable seeing this stuff with my Mom than when I was a kid. I was watching a horror movie with my father-in-law a couple of years ago, and a fairly graphic sex scene came on. I told him “sorry, I had no idea…” He said, “It’s OK, I like boobies!”

So I suppose in some way, all this has desensitized me to violence on TV and in movies. Nothing really fazes me, not even the news. Now that I have kids and dogs, sometimes violence towards kids and animals bothers me. Even if the kids or animals are evil.

I can’t watch breaking bones or dislocating limbs, real or fake. That DOES bother me. I’ve never seen the Joe Theisman broken leg clip all the way through. Probably because I’ve dislocated my knees so many times, so I can empathize a little more.

Nevertheless, I still giggle when I see onscreen boobies. Plus, I still call them “boobies.”

Ike Turner Will Beat You With a Shoe

Some time back, I had multiple Ike Turner experiences within a one-year span. The Ike Turner of Tina Turner, Rocket 88, of the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame, and of “What’s Love Got To Do With It?”

Ike Turner experience one was at a sushi buffet place in the local mall. One of those buffets where you pay $20 for all you can eat. Sure, the sushi’s not that great, but you’re getting sushi for pretty cheap. Come to think of it, there are good sushi places that charge $20. Ok, so infamous music legends apparently eat here too.

I am sitting there with my at the time girlfriend, who is now my wife. There was this guy a table over who looked very familiar to me, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. At first I thought I was Laurence Fishburne, but it wasn’t.

So this guy is talking loudly and looking around like he wants to be seen and heard, and recognized. Basically, stealing my moves. Then he comes out with “So I said to myself, I said to myself, IKE! Don’t you want to get on that bus!?”

I leaned over the table and said to my girlfriend, “That’s Ike Turner over there.” I knew he looked familiar.

My girlfriend didn’t believe me. I informed her he looked familiar, had just called himself, “Ike,” and that I knew Ike Turner lived in the area. Plus I knew he was broke, so the sushi buffet wouldn’t be a stretch.

I knew Ike lived in the area because a guy I worked with rented a house to him. This guys whips it out in conversation one day, “I rent a house to Ike Turner.” And of course I asked him if he beat Ike with a shoe if the rent was late. He didn’t get the joke. Must not have seen the movie.

The Second Ike Turner experience was at the local Albertson’s. It was a couple of months later; I’m shopping along, trying to find stuff. There’s Ike Turner at the meat counter, waving his arms around like Tina Turner doing “Proud Mary.” Once again, he’s talking loudly, seeking that validation. “Don’t you know who I am!? I’m Ike Turner!” I don’t think the butcher knew who he was, but cut his meat thin anyway, “just for you Mr. Turner.”

Ike’s landlord told me Ike carried a bunch of signed photos in the trunk of his car, in hopes of giving them out if a fan recognizes him. Or if anyone recognizes him.

My girlfriend has firsthand knowledge of this. She was sitting at a stoplight near the aforementioned Albertson’s. She got home and said “some brother dressed like a pimp banged on my window at a stoplight and tried to get me to roll down the window.” She told him no, and he tried to slip a signed photo in the small open part of her window. She refused it and shooed him off. I would’ve taken it. When she got home and told me the story, the first thing I asked was if it was Ike. She said, “That’s why he looked familiar!”

Ike had this kind of aura about him, something that a lot of celebrities or musicians have. It’s a kind of confidence in many of them, and “I know you know who I am” kind of thing. With Ike, it was slightly different. More needy, like “I HOPE you know who I am.”

Ike denied Tina’s abuse claims till his death, of a heart attack in that house he rented from the guy I used to work with. He was always planning some kind of comeback, but those allegations, and Tina’s success always dogged him. Despite, he remained at lease a relatively respected musician, in the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame, co-wrote “Rocket 88” which some attribute the first rock n roll song, and of course, helped launch the career of Tina Turner.