Normal, and not-so-normal
8:31 a.m. -- 2011-02-16
I am a wanker. It�s official.
And before you say, �We knew that,� allow me to elaborate.
I recently had a hospital appointment at which I was required to produce a sample of my semen. Victoria and I are pursuing parenthood, not merely in the usual �fun� way, but with the full weight of modern medical science behind us.
This was the second time I have supplied a sample of my ejaculate, but was the first time I was required to do so in situ. The previous one was much more fun, in that we both took part in its procurement, before rushing off to the hospital as if we were carrying some urgently-needed organ for transplant, or something.
That had the additional advantage that you don�t have to pay for parking, and while the endgame in both situations does see one handing a small plastic pot of jizz to a young, female staff member... I think I preferred the version where the sexy part was left to the imagination a bit more, in our own bedroom.
Results of the first time were: I�m normal. Yes, normal... that famous setting on the washing machine... that�s me. Sperm count, motility, morphology and volume... all in the average range.
I was a little bit surprised. If you�ve read this blog for a while, you�ll know that I consider myself to be far from the most butch specimen among males of the species, and my life includes dabbling in the pleasures and perils of transvestism.
I have never sought the assistance of the medical profession, in relation to whatever unusual �brain gender� or lack of testosterone I may have felt I had... so I really didn�t know what to expect. (Was I firing more blanks than the Territorial Army? Apparently not: I�m Mister Average.) Trouble is, there�s nothing wrong with Victoria either. Her blood test results show that she�s ovulating like clockwork, and doing all the right hormonal things. The only thing that is unusual... is that we haven�t managed to give her a fat belly yet.
Unexplained sub-fertility, they called it. And called me back in to provide this second sample of my sexual effluvium. Which seems kind of weird: I mean, do they think I faked the test results last time, or something? How?
Well, no matter. They�re going to be spending an awful lot of money on us, presently, so I suppose they have a right to know more about what they�re dealing with. Also, my own embarrassment today is surely nothing compared to the discomfort that Vicky will face, once they begin �harvesting� eggs. (And at every stage thereafter.)
Harvesting is normally such a nice word, isn�t it? It conjures up images of freshly mown hay... and doesn�t normally suggest lying on your back with your feet in stirrups while a technician fiddles around with a fiberoptic camera he or she has inserted into your tunnel of love.
The cocktail of drugs that the woman has to take is staggering. I think there were at least seven. To artificially bring on a menopause-like state, and then to kickstart the reproductive organs again. To do something to �stimulate the follicles� � which has nothing to do with hair. To do this to the fallopian tubes, and that to the lining of the womb... all with a massive array of potential side-effects, of course. Headaches, nausea, mood swings, dry vagina, hot flushes and several I�ve forgotten, I�m sure.
It�s going to get nasty. There will be stress, and there will be tears, I�m certain. Which is kind of strange: to go into a hospital with nothing (as far as we know) wrong, and come out in a state.
To be honest, I dislike children anyway. I don�t feel the need to have anybody in my house who is incontinent, who drools, or who has no intention of moving out until at least sixteen years have elapsed.
But I�m going along with it. Victoria has become very sad, at times, at not conceiving. It doesn�t dog her permanently, but it�s at the back of her mind, and although she appears younger and is certainly much fitter than most people of her age, we are told that time is running out. The career girl who responded in the negative when I proposed to her at thirty-two has come to regret that decision. I could muse about the wisdom of trying to have one�s cake and eat it... but I�ll try to be sympathetic.
I have felt something that may be a little similar. Victoria, it seems, needs medical help to become the woman she wants to be - a mother - and I think perhaps I understand because I couldn�t be the woman I might have liked to be. That�s how I imagine the small, almost background-noise pangs must be: that jolt of regret that you get when you see somebody else, and imagine that their life is one you would have liked to lead. For me, that�s when I see a woman that I find attractive, and in an unguarded moment I think �Damn it, why couldn�t my life have been like that?� I�m guessing that the wannabe mother who is failing to conceive will feel something similar.
That both are seeing that other lifestyle through rose-tinted spectacles is obvious, and inevitable. Nobody looks at a snotty child having a tantrum and thinks �I wish he was mine,� do they?
Still. Vicky gets her chance. Even though I have no interest in wiping any arse other than my own, we will pursue parenthood, through several of the tortures they call �cycles of IVF� if necessary.
I have nothing against the artificial nature of this form of conception. In fact, I�m quite amused by the notion of a test-tube baby. I don�t feel ashamed or anything. I�m Mister Average, remember: nothing wrong with me! So what if a child comes about after a brief swim in a petri dish, and a sojourn of a month or two in a freezer? Actually, I quite like the idea of a baby that�s been kept on ice, because that must surely, severely fuck up its zodiac sign. I hope so, because it would be funny to hear a friend of ours spouting her horoscope stuff, and to know that she�s completely off target.
So... I�d better get used to supplying my genetic material. It looks like this won�t be the last time that I have to go to hospital and flog the dolphin. Milk the old love udder. Play a little five-on-one. Fire a one-gun salute, or whatever other euphemism you feel most comfortable with.
Anyway, I wanted to convey to you the polite, compassionate horror of having an appointment at the hospital for the declared purpose of having a wank.
�I have an eleven o�clock appointment,� I said at the counter; unable to name the dirty deed itself. I was given a form to fill in, and a biro. I took a seat, and rested the form on my laptop while I completed the confessional... how often do I exercise, how much to I drink, do I smoke... and so on.
My name was called, and suddenly I was all thumbs, putting the laptop back in my bag. Oh, shit: does the young lady think I have the laptop with me because it�s laden with filthy movies, to facilitate the, ahem, �process�? Not guilty, but I may have blushed.
We performed a swap: she got my paperwork and I got a screw-top plastic pot with my name and address on it. I was shown to a small room, with a �vacant/do not disturb� slidey thing on the door and told (twice) to lock the door behind me. There were hygiene instructions on the wall, I was told, and when I was done, I was to go to out into the corridor and press a buzzer, to summon my medic back for collection of the sample.
Her parting shot to me, that there were �some magazines in the corner�.
Ew.
Now, okay, I�m a tranny. I�m weird. We already knew that. My brain is wired differently, and so on.
I don�t �get� porn. I just don�t. I mean, honestly. I am completely unable to explain to you why so many males find something exciting about looking at magazine photographs in which a succession of flinty-eyed Eastern European scrubbers show off their bodies.
I need a lot more mystery, and romance, before I could find a person sexy. I�d want to talk to them, and so on. This era of immediate gratification (look: tits! Sex!) does nothing for me.
Out of curiosity, once I had locked myself in the room, I examined the magazines. Turning to a random page, using the tiniest fingertip contact right at the corner of the magazine. It seemed kind of icky, to think that a number of unknown males had looked over the magazines before me: lusted over them, in fact.
The magazine had been about what I expected, and wouldn�t be of any use to me. Not sexy! Although disinterested, I have seen such things before. They represent something of a rite of passage for the teenager and young adult male.
I would say also that it was of a very safe, conventional type. The Volvo 940 Estate of the dirty magazine world, perhaps. It amused me to think that the hospital must buy such things: that somebody was responsible for the choice, and that the subscription must show up on a budget somewhere.
As I replaced the magazine, I noted that the one below was the same title, but a �Christmas edition�. Fun! Red outfits with a white fur trim!
God almighty, is there nothing more imbecilic than the horny male human being? It almost makes me glad to be a pervert.
Even when you know that nobody in the IVF unit has AIDS or hepatitis - you get tested, and they won�t treat a couple unless both partners are safe � it still feels weird to be in a room that exists for the purpose of masturbation. The vinyl-covered, two-seat sofa. The toilet and handbasin. The instructions on the wall, to have a pee, and then wash your hands and penis, before producing the sample... it�s kind of weird.
There are less romantic settings, I�m sure. I�m sure that most of them are probably the sites of recent battles or natural disasters, with blood and body parts still splashed everywhere.
But this is what there was. And since I didn�t know what to expect, I have to admit I was simply relieved that I wasn�t expected to go off into the gents toilet, or something.
It�s uncomfortably warm in the hospital, and you can hear people beyond the �do not disturb� door, going about their business. Again, that�s far from ideal. Harsh white hospital lighting, too. I think you get the picture.
I stood in the room � didn�t fancy the sofa � and pulled my trousers down. In both the literal and figurative senses, I felt a plonker.
Nothing. Not interested! Unsurprising.
Still, I was safely locked in the room, so I could get out my �secret weapon�. Lingerie.
When I was on-line, shopping for a Valentine�s day gift for Victoria, I had decided to buy a little something for myself, too. Just a small item from the clearance sale for me; part-time girls don�t warrant full-price clothing, often.
The setting was still incongruous, but now there was a secret within a secret. Yes, I�m in a private room that exists for the sole purpose of masturbation... but I�m not reading your magazines. I�m not sitting on your easy-wipe sofa. I�m not �one of the guys�. I am me. I�m doing the thing that makes me feel sexy. And, granted, it�s a sexual fetish and that means I�m odd: but somehow it feels more like integrity, to be myself.
I don�t imagine myself fucking some young, bored-looking victim with bleach-blonde hair, in a magazine; I simply step into a brand new pair of panties, and pull them up around my hips. They feel nice. Look a bit silly with man-parts to be accommodated, but that�s to be expected.
I still can�t explain exactly why, but in my girlie pants I felt less disgust about the whole thing. And presently, I was able to perform as required. I have to say that orgasm is spoiled a little when you need to grab for a little plastic pot, and aim carefully at the instant of climax.
It is, of course, hugely important that one should not spill a single drop of semen. Not because of how antisocial that would be, or unhygienic. Not because of AIDS and so on, as I have already explained... but because nobody wants to hand over a pathetically small sample of jism.
It�s going to be measured with care, because that�s one of the assessments of its viability. Nobody wants to have something on file that basically says �This guy has small nuts.� Not even a tranny, who at times finds testicles something of an inconvenience.
Even in the small pot provided, the sample looks inadequate. I�ve read up on this, and I�m relieved to know that it�s entirely normal to produce a sample that�s around 5ml (like one of those little spoons you get with cough medicine). So I think I did okay. Passed that part of the test, at least!
I�m sure it�s entirely normal for everybody giving a sample of this kind to try to get every last drop of semen out of the tube, and into the pot. I mean, squeezing to the point of discomfort. I bet everyone does that.
Well, there: I said it. Now I surely hope that everybody does!
After that, I quickly removed the girlie underwear and packed it away, dressed again and washed, washed, washed with great care. Had I taken too long? Not long enough? Was I flushed? Yes. It was damn hot in there.
Oh, sod it anyway. There�s no good way to do this, with dignity intact. Time to go out into the corridor and press the buzzer, to summon the spunk-analyzing lady and then answer more awkward questions, such as how long had it been since my last ejaculation, and whether I had spilled any or if it was a complete sample.
As for the results, we shall see. But since I was taking a test I�ve already passed once, I�m not hugely bothered.
I doubt that that sample will go �on ice� after testing, so I expect I�ll have to return to the dreaded room to provide another, or several more, once the IVF treatment begins. More simulated sex, to offer up the raw material for our baby to be constructed by the technicians. Aldous Huxley, here we come.
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