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.
Jesus.  “What?!?”
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.

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ANDREW NONADETTI is a writer of fiction and, until recently, a deceptively charming but manipulative and abusive sonofabitch. To his surprise, though, there seems to be a genuinely good man hiding in there as well. And he's a quick study.... Feel free to email him at [email protected] to discuss his novel, life in general, terminal ballistics.... Pretty much anything, really. He's kind of gregarious and a big geek about a range of topics.

55 responses to “When Masturbation’s Lost Its Fun….”

  1. Oh god, this was funny. Kids really must be a mood-killer. I’m determined not to have any of the little buggers.

    And I was laughing at your trouble finding porn on the internet.

    Great last paragraph, by the way.

  2. Debbie says:

    YAAAAY no survivors!!!!! You definitely don’t need to “gather samples” alone 🙂 But I will argue the “definitely not if the kids are awake” part.

  3. Matt says:


    Next time you have trouble with the porn, give Simon a buzz. He had a job where all he did was review porn websites. He’s the go-to man for that info.

  4. Andrew Nonadetti says:

    @David: Kids are wonderful and a blessing and a joy and… uh…. Yeah. Except when you need a little privacy. Other than that, they’re bundles of awesomeness. 🙂

    @Deb: Heh. We can discuss this tonight. I’ve got meeting from 11:00 until doomsday.

    @Matt: Timing really is everything, isn’t it? If only the “Zaramon Collective” (or “Simonara Bloc”) had come – so to speak – a few months earlier, I could have made this much more efficient. Or at least had someone to distract the kids.

  5. Irene Zion says:


    I laughed through all of this but especially when you said that you didn’t think you had gotten past second base with yourself.
    I almost dropped my phone, and I absolutely cannot afford another one, what with the eBay feather misunderstanding!

    • Andrew Nonadetti says:

      I’m getting horribly sloppy, Irene – my apologies for my lack of response and for the near-phonetastrophe. Happy to provide some levity. I found my hand to be such a poor lover that I gave it the “let’s be friends” speech and am now solely spending my amorous moments with a particularly sexy knife-thrower. She makes great Margaritas, too ;).

  6. Debbie says:

    Yah know I still have the boot…..since it was kinda sexy and all…….just kidding like I ever want to see or wear that again. Sorry about the meetings from now until doomsday. I’ll have a Margarita (or 6) ready for us when you get home. And maybe a babysitter 🙂

  7. Jesus, this was funny. It’s given me all kinds of happy thoughts. Also I plan to file away the phrase “it’s not like this is my first rodeo” for future use. Kids seem to have a keen, subconscious sense for when it’s a bad time to interrupt combined with the compulsion to do so anyway. Thanks for sharing this and making nearly every line of it hilarious.

  8. Gloria says:

    “Ha fucking ha, gimpy.”

    “There will be vengeance and much cock-blockage when they reach puberty.”


    It can be so hard to masturbate when the kids are home.

    “…my jizz jar in a freaking Wal-Mart bag.” (would you have preferred a Bed, Bath and Beyond bag? A Target bag?)

    • Gloria says:

      When I got the final thumbs up from my sterilization, I celebrated too. Take that, five generations of ridiculous, mind-bogglingly inexplicable fertility!

    • Andrew Nonadetti says:

      Well, the BBB bag would’ve made me feel a little more upscale and a Target bag would’ve been more amusing (all sorts of “something to aim for” jokes are bubbling up in my head as I type).

      No kidding re: the kids. It’s like speed dating your hand. By the time I finally realized Plan A wasn’t going to work and got handle (heh – I’m twelve, I swear) on Plan B, you’d have thought I was trying to start a fire in there. And nearly succeeding.

      • Gloria says:

        A bushfire? (heh. I’m twelve, too.)

        • Andrew Nonadetti says:

          Ha! No, I keep the undergrowth pretty thinned out to minimize such risk. The hardwood, however, went up like a Roman candle. 😀

      • Don Mitchell says:

        Very nice. The piece, that is. The situation, no. At least you weren’t in the shower only to have the hot water run out before you got off, I mean, out.

        There was a store in Buffalo called “The Sample.” Too bad you didn’t have one of their bags.

        Notice that the sign includes “wrecking ball,” “liquidation sale,” and “70% off.” I’m not sure what anybody can do with the 70% but the rest are workable for a soft-core porn writer of your talents, Mr. Anon.

        I said to hell with it for my post-cutting sample. Getting back to the urologist’s office seemed like too much trouble. Either it worked or it didn’t. I was single at the time. I figured that if I got anxious I could to go our lab and borrow a microscope and check it myself.

        • Andrew Nonadetti says:

          You’re a brave man, Dad. I mean, um, Don.

          I have a similar picture of a building off a major highway. Gigantic sign that reads, “HUGE TOOL sale!!” Don’t know if that bit of mixed case was a deliberate attempt at subtle humor on the writer’s part or not.

        • Cheryl says:

          In Dallas, there is a chain of stores called “Condoms to Go”. That makes me wonder what gave rise to the need to specify “to go”. By the look of the place, I would not want mine to stay!

  9. Zara Potts says:

    Bloody kids.

    Ha. I love the way kids can lay waste to the best laid plans.

    It’s like they have a radar. A little fun-seeking radar, that goes off in their heads when it looks like adults may be about to enjoy themselves!

    Ha ha ha.

    • Debbie says:

      Yah kids can definitely destroy any best “laid” plans. But sometimes you just have to ignore their little laughs and knocking at the door and have fun anyway…..not that I would do that (or admit to doing that).

  10. Judy Prince says:

    Modicum. Nice.

    A great read, Anon. You nailed those kids beautifully. Now I remember why I stopped after one kid.

    I’ll never think of Walmart now without thinking of your “contribution”. 😉

  11. Lenore says:

    if you really want to get them back, tell them this story in front of their friends at their 12th birthday party. that will do the trick. and then, when they grow up, they can write for TNB and tell their side of this story. i say we make it a longitudinal study.

    • Andrew Nonadetti says:

      I’m in for this. Not like my kids won’t end up in one study or another anyway. It’ll be easier for me to mortify my son though, of course. All it takes is an infant bathtub pic and the phrase “such a cute little penis” in front of his friends and/or potential sex partners.

    • Judy Prince says:

      Pookie, a wonderful idea—-and do I detect a subtle pun in this: ” when they grow up, they can write for TNB and tell their side of this story. i say we make it a longitudinal study.”

      • Andrew Nonadetti says:

        I had heard that it’s not necessarily the longitude so much as the latitude. Then again, having a few extra degrees of longitude doesn’t hurt. Or at least it doesn’t have to if you’re careful…. 😀

        • Judy Prince says:


          Damned if I know, Anon. I likes what I likes, and none of the theories I’ve read or heard has altered that simple fact (thank goodness!).

  12. JM Blaine says:

    A book I read awhile back said something like:
    Pity those who think writing is about applause
    rather than humiliation.

    With that
    I curtsy to you brave fellow
    on a piece
    so highly amusing

  13. 1159 says:

    Your red herrings
    don’t fool
    me Freddie Mercury

  14. Andrew Nonadetti says:

    Mercurial though
    I am, I leave no herrings.
    Salmon is my fish.

  15. sheree says:

    “Post-Traumatic Wanking Disorder”.

    Oh mah sweet jebus that made me howl with laughter. Great post. Your coined phrase is right up their with mah personal favorite “Pre-mature word ejeculator” Heh, long story.

    • Andrew Nonadetti says:

      Okay, first off, thanks. Now, I don’t know what the size limit is for this comment box but I think I’d very much like to hear this “long story” of yours!

      • sheree says:

        I took care of a scientist with schizophrenia. For three months I walked beside them in a courtyard for seven hours a day while they spouted babble.

        Then one day out of the blue they said to me, I’ve just realized that you are a real person and not a figment of my illness or imagination.

        I want you to know that I have not always been this way and periodically I do have moments of clarity to speak my mind freely before I am robbed again of my reality.

        A time is going to come soon where these moments of clarity will fade from me. They are already growing shorter and further apart.

        You have to learn to ignore all this “pre-mature word ejaculation” that escapes my mouth between what I want and mean to say. About every four or five sentences my mind is free to say what I want it to, during these moments of clarity. The client then went back to speaking babble and fighting to say the rest of what was on their mind to me.

        I spent the last six months listening to the scientist’s life story. They told me some very amusing stories of their travels and the vain egotistical assholes that they had met within the scientific community of their chosen field and then just as they had said the moments of clarity stopped and they succumb to an infantile state of schizophrenia.

        I still think of their coined phrase “pre-mature word ejaculator” when I hear someone second guessing someone whose talking and pauses to collect their thoughts only to have the person second guessing the speaker blurt out something absurd.

        I tried my best to keep this story as short as possible. I tried to post this comment before. Hopefully this second attempt will go through and post.

        Again cheers on your great post.

        • sheree says:

          Bah… The scientist coined the phrase “Pre-mature word ejaculation” and I in turn changed it to “Pre-mature Word Ejaculator” Also I meant to imply that I spent the last 6 months listening to their stories, before the schizophrenia robbed them completely of reality.
          I’m not allowed to use the scientists name or gender which made it even harder to write the story. Dang it all to heck. I made a real mess of it. Sorry bout that.

        • Andrew Nonadetti says:

          You made a mess of nothing, Sheree, though you’ve certainly changed the tone from the frivolous to the… contemplative, I’ll say. The phrase is still damned funny 😉 but the story is rather poignant. Thanks not only for sharing it but for being a caring and compassionate person, willing and able to help others like that.

        • dwoz says:

          I was confused by your use of pronouns, until I reminded ourselves that you were talking about a schizophrenic.

        • sheree says:

          Thank you Mr Nonadetti. I had three generations of compassionate teachers in my youth. I owe it all to them. The scientist never lost their sense of humor. I am greatful for that. Their humor about their situation made my work so much easier. And you’re right the phrase is hysterical. It was all I could do to contain myself when I heard the phrase float off their tongue and into my ears. Cheers!

  16. Lisa Rae Cunningham says:

    “And it’s not like this is my first rodeo.” Classic.

    And this particular segment of the ending gets a standing ovation:
    “So… there I stood. Frustrated, mortified, avoiding the gaze of my sniffling children, with my jizz jar in a freaking Wal-Mart bag.”

    You’re fucking funny, man. Thanks for the bedtime story.

    • Andrew Nonadetti says:

      I’ll take a “you’re fucking funny, man” over a standing “o” (unless it was, like, “that other kind of ‘o'”) any day. But I appreciate both. You’re very welcome, Lisa Rae.

  17. Richard Cox says:

    Thank you for helping reinforce my belief that not having kids will be the best decision I will ever make.

    Nice Green Day title. Did anyone mention that yet?

    • Andrew Nonadetti says:

      Ha. No, no one’s mentioned it until now, I believe.

      I don’t know, Richard. There are certainly times I revert to “Calgon – or Dalwhinnie – take me away” mode but, as I stand here typing, I’m watching my son play with our new puppy. “Damned cute” doesn’t come close and the offspring have inspired a lot of changes for the better in me…. Maybe I’ll write another piece and see how fickle you are ;).

      • Cheryl says:

        Kids are surprising aren’t they? And dammit, puppies are cute, too. Even when they eat your floor, and your shoe, and the phone books, and…

        • Andrew Nonadetti says:

          Indeed, on both counts. I’m looking at him now – a 10-week-old German Shepherd – and seeing our last dog… who ate linoleum, a leather jacket, drywall, two remotes and a telephone right around this age. I’m big on crate training this time around.

  18. Cheryl says:

    Anon, this had me cracking up! Having Debbie here to chime in only makes it better.

    Congratulations on your successful sample-gathering, and my condolences on the final passing of your pride and dignity. We both know that having children is the beginning of the end of both 🙂

  19. Tawni says:

    I was laughing at this piece the whole way through, Andrew. I could also relate to the sample gathering for the post-vasectomy sterility test. So awkward. We only have the one child, so we waited until he was asleep for a nap, and then I “helped” my husband. It was humiliating for us both. Like some sort of sick and twisted carnival game. Let me just say that those sample cups are small and awkward, and leave it at that.

    The Wal-Mart bag… oh my god. Best part. Awesome visual. (:

    • Andrew Nonadetti says:

      Humiliating. Not a word one would normally think of for such “marital interactions” but it really was. The timing, the artificiality (forgive me if that’s not a real word – I’ve been imbibing… a bit) of the mood. And the cup they gave me was absurdly, intimidatingly huge. I kept thinking, “Is that enough? Should I try again? I mean, I’m not suppose to, like, fill it, am I?!?” Such performance anxiety….

      • Tawni says:

        Totally humiliating. Not really something you really want to be doing together in the name of science.

        Haha. Sample cup performance anxiety… that is cracking me up. We got the ego-boosting test tube-sized sample container. It was maybe two inches in circumference, and four inches long. Oh, the horror. The messy, messy horror. I’m surprisingly good with a gun, but this target was ridiculously small.

        P.S. I’m imbibing too. My husband is away watching football. I am alternating drinking and effing around on the internet with wiping the ass of my four-year-old son every fifteen minutes. He’s supposed to be sleeping, but he has diarrhea. Isn’t parenthood exciting? (:

  20. Simon Smithson says:

    Hey! I thought this was going to be about Green Day!

    The horror…

  21. Doug Bruns says:

    modicum. Brilliant.

    • Andrew Nonadetti says:

      Heh. Thanks, Doug. It isn’t easy restraining my immaturity and I always manage to slip it in whenever I can. Like, um, right there.

  22. Jessica Blau says:

    How did I ever miss this post?! Hilarious!

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