Few days later the centre got back to me - come in for a test run, was the invitation, for a chat and a donation. The email contained a scary list of those who can't donate for medical or other reasons, and a comforting paragraph about how much money a donor can make, plus the one key rule repeated several times - three days abstinence. Seventy-two hours - "no more no less", it claimed, but I doubt they need it timed to the minute.
Did the maths and booked in for four days time. They passed, extremely slowly.
Turned up at the building, a rather grand affair. fine pastel colours everywhere, mammoth original stair case leading to a mysterious second floor, and vast waiting room with coffee machines a-go-go. Told the cute girl on reception I had an appointment. She then asked for the name of the doctor I was here to see. I gave it, and was sent OUT and DOWNSTAIRS.
Yes, turns out I went to the women's clinic by mistake. Same address, but the building above the basement housing the sperm donation centre, and so I was sent from the glamourous world of the women above stairs down some rickety old stairs from to where the masturbating men are hidden. How lovely and sleazy.
Sign I'd overlooked reads "Enter in basement". No punchline necessary.
The first visit was a test visit, to make sure frankly that my sperm was up to scratch. After a brief chat and signing a contract with the doctor, they gave me a tiny pot, for obvious reasons, and a plastic bag with a big biohazard sign on it. Delightful to know that something which comes out of me is to be labelled as a biohazard. Hey ladies.
There were two rooms, a blue one and a pink one. I chose pink, if any amateur psychologists would like to know that. This was obviously once some sort of medical clinic as there is an emergency cable on the wall - and god knows the mind reels wondering which farcical emergencies would require me to pull that. I was unimpressed with the lack of facilities in the room. A tiny sink is what passes as the luxury item; there is no lavatory in the room, for whatever reasons I don't wish to think about. There are no mirrors in the room, but there is a shiny metal pedal bin which occasionally reflects back at you things you don't want reflected.
Most worryingly of all if you're as paranoid as I am is all that was hiding my privacy from the world was a weak deadbolt and a sign which manually switches between "Vacant" and "engaged" which I will inevitably forget to manipulate.
There is also a wicker chair, highly unsuitable on which to masturbating, and a strange wooden cushioned seat better used as an examination table than a place to relax. It also wobbled, hitting the ground quite audibly, so I wasn't sat on that for long lest the entire building hear my rhythm.
There was also two plastic magazine holders on the wall, one with straight porno mags, the other with gay porno mags. I'm not a big fan of such items, and plotted for later visits to smuggle in (not that I think they'd disapprove of it) my pornography of choice.
Finishing into the pot was more complicated than expected. One can't be on one's back because, well, gravity, and anyway that wobbly wooden table was far too noisy. All one has to do is wait until one is at the point of no return and aim downwards - not too sexy, not too pleasurable. Also dashing through the mind is how many other people have used this room - and how many missed the pot. Eurgh. No wonder that cleaner I saw going from room to room earlier was so miserable.
Also wondered how much of the pot should be filled - didn't seem more than about a fifteenth of this tiny container. Is that enough? Should I be worried? What if the results were bad? Always a possibility at this early stage.
Felt very uncomfortable throughout the whole endeavour, and unhappy by the end of it. Dropped off the biohazard bag in the correct place, awkwardly nodded at the doctor, and rushed out first moment I could. Had a wank when I got home, just to remind me it could be fun after all.
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