The jizz room
The one ball post a few days ago inspired a few people to talk to me about their own experiences in the testicle-difficulties department. One related to me how years ago he had to go the sperm bank route when Mother Nature alone wasn’t performing her magic. Of course the discussion quickly devolved into a comparison of our respective jizz room experiences, as I too had to ‘bank some as a precaution before radiation therapy.
I actually just learned through Google image search that the technical term is “the collection room”, though that makes it sound way too pleasant and it is anything but. I can’t remember the name of the sperm bank I went to, but it sounded like the corporate lab the bad guy works at in a biological thriller. Innextell? Bionextrix? Something with a lot of x’s for sure. You’d think walking into a place like that the people would be nice, but not Bioxanextal. These workers were saltier than the employees of an airport Starbucks.
Maybe that’s the price of working in a lab constantly steeped in such heavy vibes, as the waiting room of this place was a coven of broken dreams akin to a Hollywood Boulevard dive bar. As a young and single guy, it really gave me insight into the possibilities of future stress. At the very least, there were always two or three couples in there that were comprised of an impotently defeated man, his frustrated un-pregnant wife, and a relationship on the rocks as if a low sperm count puts every single shortcoming on the table for criticism.
After 10 minutes of this, the jizz room was almost a welcome change. Though in my case it was more like a closet that was located uncomfortably close to the reception and aforementioned stress-stuffed waiting area. The interior of the room had a limited few, yet very distinct features. On the wall was a crappy, framed print of the “finger of god” detail from the Sisteen Chapel. It was always hanging with a tilt which made me chuckle as if there was an obvious irony to that, but it wasn’t one that I ever figured out. Also in the room was an old TV and VCR combo with a collection of ratty porno tapes in this cardboard box someone cut a slot in the front so you had to blindly dip your hand in to fetch one. On a small table was the veritable “stack”, as my friend Ronnie would call it. As in: “Yo baby, what you got in your stack these days? Hustler? OUI?”
Not only were the “stack” and tapes disgustingly over-fondeled, but they were also hilariously out of date. I quickly learned to come prepared with my own material, because without it you were faced with the ultimate test of masturbatory skill; the challenge to get off in the world’s unsexiest halogen-bulbed room. Don’t forget the uncomfortable proximity to the waiting area and receptionist meant that everyone was fully aware how long it was taking you and what you were up to.
In the end, I had to make five or six trips, and it was equally as uninviting and awful every time. Of course the surly worker told me the second-to-last visit that I could “procure” at home, and bring it in, as long as I lived no further than 30 minutes away. I said no problem as she handed me the plastic-lidded cup, knowing I’d have to drive 95 to do it, though whatever repercussions I was chancing with the mad sperm-dash were preferable to another minute in that sad wack-closet.
This story has a moral like the lazy-tilt of the Sisteen Chapel painting has ironic meaning, so sadly I can’t explain further than my recognition of its existence. But whatever shitty things you had to do today, just be glad they (hopefully) didn’t involve a trip to the jizz room.