You’re a psychologist, right?



So it’s Dr. Quadland?

Michael is fine.


A psychologist who specializes in sexual issues, correct?

That’s right.

I lie under a stack of blankets. Day-old briefs hug my thighs. My fist makes a miniature vibrating tent of the knobby wool. I should get a life!

I’m due at the New York Hospital Fertility Clinic in half an hour. My Raleigh three-speed stands ready to hustle me to Sixty-Eighth Street and York Avenue, about as far across town as you can get from this one-room walkup at the corner of Fifty-Seventh and Tenth. Yes, I donate my semen. Though it isn’t exactly a donation. I get paid thirty bucks a shot, so to speak. I need the money and childless couples need…well, me. A pretty straight-forward transaction, you might say, with the added satisfaction of helping somebody out in a cosmic sort of way. Though I have a bad feeling about it sometimes, like this morning, the vague sense that I’m doing something wrong, and one day it’ll all catch up with me.