After months of delays, interruptions and mis-schedulings, I was finally about to drop off my second sample at the urologist’s. This was the big one – the verdict. The “go/no-go” on my sterility. And, praise Jesus, it was a “go”. Or “no-go”, depending on the goal. Regardless, it was confirmed: the baby factory was now defunct.
That, of course, is the short version. The Cliff Notes. Like saying, “World War Two was a bunch of guys fighting. The Italians lost interest, the French lost face, the Brits lost their empire, the Germans and Japanese lost the war and the Americans and Russians lost their minds.” While factually – mostly – correct, it doesn’t really convey the epic struggle that resulted in the ultimate victory. There is more to the tale.
I’ll cut to the chase, in case you’re in a hurry and/or afraid I’ll slip in some surgical details: kids are nature’s own anti-orgasm devices. Anything else you may read below is for entertainment purposes only. At my expense, of course.
At the time of this adventure, my wife was laid up with a broken foot. The soft cast had that sort of sexy, knee-high Goth thing going… kinda… if you squinted… and were already really horny… but you’d be surprised how often the outside edge of your sex partner’s foot bumps into things in just about any position. And while some screaming and dirty-talk can be really hot during sex, shrieks of agony incorporating various conjugations of profanities can be a little bit of a mood killer for all parties involved. I decided to go this one alone.
Sounds easy, right? I mean, I’m a guy, right? And it’s not like this is my first rodeo. And – hey! – my netbook arrived the very weekend prior so I could do some private surfing for – ahem – inspiration.
I decided to be discrete as ever and wait until my wife was in the shower and my kids were safely engrossed in… well, whatever the hell kids do when left to their own devices in a room full of toys and crafts.
“Guys,” I called out, “Daddy has to go, um, potty for a little while. Do you need anything before I go inside?”
“No, Dad,” from my daughter.
“Gabababum,” from my son. It’s okay – he was barely over a year old at the time. He’s a bit more eloquent now.
So I was ready. Let’s do this thing. Into the bathroom the netbook and I went, off to find some – let’s call a spade a spade here – raunchy, hardcore porn.
Failure number one: I am not a porn connoisseur and, while it’s easy to Google porn-related terms, not all sites are created equal. Or are free. It took a little while but I eventually did come across a particularly diverse site with enough variety that, if I couldn’t find something suited to my tastes, I had far bigger issues than sterility.
Failure number two: technology. Fucking technology. I had configured this new netbook for maximum battery life – which meant that both browsing time and video resolution suffer. Especially when streaming movies. Especially large movies. After a few selections that led more to drumming fingers than stroking hands, I tried to only peruse the less-than-three-minute selections. Equally terrible. It was like watching someone make a flip book of stills cut from a Penthouse magazine.
Of course, this soon became irrelevant. Failure number three was on its way. To wit, children.
“Dad!” My daughter, right outside the bathroom door. “He keeps taking my dinosaurs!”
“Sweetie, you have forty different dinosaurs. Let him have one.”
“I diiiiiid,” she whined back, “but he keeps taking whatever one IIIII have!”
Sigh. “That’s because you’re his big sister so he wants to be just like you. Look – give him one, distract him, then play with something else.”
“I don’t want to play – “
“I’M IN THE FREAKING BATHROOM, sweetie. Give me, like, ten minutes, okay?!?” Chafing had become the least of my concerns.
Sulking two-step, twelve seconds of silence, a mumbled, “Okay.”
Alright, where was I beside half-limp? Oh. Right. Strobe-light sex.
“Daddy?” Again, right outside.
Pause. “Please don’t be mad at me.”
Oh, fuck me.
“Sweetie,” doing my best to not sound like I was gritting my teeth, “It’s okay. I’m not mad. I’m just busy. Okay? I’ll be right out. But I’m not mad. Okay? I promise. Now go inside.”
I was hoping to hear her stomping away but instead I heard the zombie shuffle of tinier feet heading towards the door.
Oh, please, no.
“Gah!” a tiny fist pounded on the door and my daughter shouted his name.
“No!” She defended. “Leave Daddy alone! He’s busy. Right, Dad?”
“Yes,” I mumbled, hoping they didn’t actually ask what I was doing that was taking so long. No big loss, though – I don’t think I’d gotten past first base with myself. Yay.
“Gah! Gah!” By now, my son sounded quite happy for having invented such a fun game with Daddy. Fun enough, of course, for my daughter to start giggling. And smacking on the door herself.
I shouted her name and she replied with, “It wasn’t me, it was – ” and she blamed her brother. While giggling.
“No, it was NOT – ” And he then he made a liar out of me by smacking the door gleefully, shrieking, “Gah! Gah! Gah! Gah!”
Out of the shower and alarmed by the racket, my wife then joined in from upstairs, “Honey? Is everything alright?”
I cracked open the bathroom door and bellowed, “YES, SWEETIE! JUST PEACHY! I’M TRYING TO ‘GET A SAMPLE’!”
Snickers from the stairwell. Yeah. Ha fucking ha, gimpy. Did I laugh when you demanded that epidural? By now, my son had wedged his fourteen month old fingers into the door crack while my daughter tried to shove her face through the same space. And then… the dreaded questions: “Why do you have the computer in there? What are those people doing?”
I will remember that moment. There will be vengeance and much cock-blockage when they reach puberty. But, just then, my defenses were limited and I settled for snapping, “GO INSIDE AND TAKE YOUR BROTHER! NOW!!”
This, of course, resulted in my daughter weeping, “Mm. Mmmm…. Mmmwwwaaaahhh!!!! Please don’t yell at mmeeeeee!!!”
As Thomas Jefferson wrote, reproductive freedom is never free and the tree of sexual liberty must from time to time be watered with the tears of nosy children who can’t give their dad just a few goddamned minutes of peace and privacy. Or something like that. Surrounded, beleaguered and cut off from resupply, my only choice was to counterattack. I shoved their tiny, tear-and-booger-painted fingers back out the door and closed it. And locked it. And braced one foot against it.
I suppose it speaks to my inner horn-doggedness that I could even maintain a modicum (if you’ll pardon the term) of focus through this barrage of buzzkill but c’est moi. I killed the browser session, eschewing technology for old-fashioned, low-tech “happy thoughts”, begrudgingly got the goddamned sample and stormed out of the bathroom.
Failure number four: I now had a sample cup with no discrete method of transporting it. Crap. It was too big (the jar, not the sample – stress is counterproductive to, well, production) to stick in my pocket so, obviously, I needed a simple paper bag.
I had no paper bags. I had plastic ones that were all nearly translucent and were actually too big to be discrete. I finally found a fairly smallish, solid white one. And, of course, it had “Wal-Mart” emblazoned on the side.
So… there I stood. Frustrated, mortified, avoiding the gaze of my sniffling children, with my jizz jar in a freaking Wal-Mart bag. I kept thinking of phrases like “discount ejaculation” and “cheap fuck”. The really warped part of my brain thought it would be amusing to see if I was asked for a receipt if I approached the customer service desk but I really wasn’t in much of a mood for such frivolity. Beside, any misuse of the jar might result in my having to do this again.
I left for the interminably slow drive to the doctor’s office and recounted the tale while Nurse Helga searched for signs of life under the microscope. Finally, the verdict.
No survivors. No more kids. No more deferred intimacy. No more condoms. No more gut-wrenching “I thought you were supposed to buy them!” moments. And, most importantly, no more “gathering samples”. Well… not alone, anyway. Or into a jar. And definitely not if the kids are awake.