I could ball for fun, or wack off for wages.
Confessions Of a Teenage Sperm Donor
At the carefree age of eighteen, I wasn’t carefree. Basically, I had three problems. One, I was still a virgin; two, I was priapismic (self-termed sperm-forward); and three, I was unemployed.
Now, I didn’t have all three problems on my mind at precisely the same time. Obviously, if you’ve got a hard-on, then getting a job isn’t exactly uppermost in your thoughts. And if you’re at a job interview, then getting a hard-on isn’t very likely. Actually, I suppose it depends on who’s doing the interviewing. Maybe I’d better start again.
I’ll start with being unemployed, because solving that problem actually solved the other two as well.
For me, being unemployed was a very serious thing, because, as square as it may sound, I very much wanted to get enough bread together so that I could go back to college. At that time a good job wasn’t easy to find, but with some connections I nailed down a decent job as a chemical lab assistant in a pharmaceutical company that manufactured contraceptives.
Specifically, they made diaphragms. Naturally they also made the jellies and creams without which a diaphragm is about as reliable as an old sock. They’re spermicides, you see …. They kill sperm. And, in order to make sure that each batch of jelly or cream was effective, it had to be tested. That’s where I came in.
I was the errand boy who collected samples and took them to a technician who tested them. I did suggest using methods other than a microscope for testing, but nobody went for it.
Anyway, each time that I collected the spermicides, my boss, Larry, would give me some instructions about picking up a “sample” from some locker in the men’s dressing room. And each time, dutifully, I would deliver my collection of samples — including this brown paper bag from the locker.
Okay. So what was in the bag? Actually, I didn’t look the first few times. And that’s not because I was uncurious or stupid. But you see, on my way back from those rounds, carrying a stack of diaphragms and some jars of spermicides, I would pass a row of beautiful and available secretaries. So, my mind was on problems one and two (see above), and not on what was in the bag.
Now, strategically, I thought that chatting with a chick while sitting on the corner of her desk and mesmerizing her with this waving pyramid of contraceptives was a pretty good gambit. It avoided direct conversation without blurring my intentions. Sooner or later, I figured, this technique would pay off.
One day when I made my delivery to the technician, I hung around to watch. That’s when I first saw the contents of the bag. It was a short, wide-mouthed jar with a black screw-top. And inside, what do you know? … You guessed it … a semen sample. I rushed back to Larry, my brain racing.
As usual he was hunched over a racing form.
“Uhh, Larry?”
“Yeah?” He didn’t look up.
“You know that Roy uses real sperm over there to test the jellies.”
“Yeah.” He turned a page.
“Well … where does the stuff come from?”
“Roy’s mother,” he muttered.
“Larry, I don’t think you’re listening to me.” “Huh? What? Oh. Where does it come from? We have donors.”
“Donors?” I asked with growing interest.
“Donors,” he answered, and went back to his charts.
“What d’ya mean donors?”
“Leggo my arm and I’ll tell you.”
“Sorry.”
“Well, in answer to your question, they’re not exactly donors. We pay them.”
“P-p-pay?” I was stunned. “H-how m-much? Who are these guys?”
“We pay ten bucks a shot, and we use unmarried guys who work here.”
Well, ten bucks then translates into about twenty-five nowadays; so this was not peanuts. And in my situation, I’d have been interested if it had been only ten cents.
“Ten bucks!” I shouted, rattling the reagent bottles on the lab benches. “Do you realize that I’m jacking off a fortune without even knowing it?”
“I gather,” he said with amused nonchalance, “that you would be willing to donate.”
“The word willing is an understatement,” I pleaded.
“Okay, you’re on. Tuesdays and Fridays deliver a sample to Roy at three o’clock.” And that’s how my career began.
‘“That’s not the point,” she said, testily, “I’m not selling my orgasms, you’re selling yours.”’
Coincidentally, I lucked into another good deal that same afternoon. The serology lab needed some blood … not very much, about ten cc.’s … for which they offered three bucks. I sold them mine. They then put me on the permanent schedule for Mondays and Thursdays. At this rate I would have the bread to go back to school — and I’d go back in style.
As I lay in bed that night, though not ungrateful, I wondered if there was anything I could sell the company on my free Wednesdays. In the dream that followed, they expanded their line of products which, in turn, opened up new markets for me. They made shampoos …. I sold them my dandruff. They started on antiperspirants …. I sold them my sweat. And when they branched out into mouthwash … I even sold them my breath. I became so mercenary in that dream, that at one point, while taking a physical, I refused to give the doctor a urine sample unless he slipped me five bucks. Then it all concluded with a blaze of national glory with my stumping the experts on “What’s My Line?”
The next day was donation day. On my way to lunch I popped a specimen jar in with my sandwiches. Then, after lunch, I stopped in at the men’s john and found an empty cubicle. There, for the first time, I jacked off for fun and profit. I cleaned up, put the jar into my empty lunch bag, and delivered it. A few minutes later I left the petty-cash office with a tax-free ten-dollar bill clutched in my profit-making right hand. Was life terrific? Or was life terrific? Well, about a half hour later my silver cloud turned out to have a lead lining.
Larry came up to me and said, “Roy wants to see you about that sperm sample. It’s no good.”
“Why? Is something the matter with it?” I panicked.
“He didn’t say. Look, you don’t have VD or something?”
“Why … er … no, I don’t think so,” I answered cagily not wanting my virginity to become public knowledge. I alone knew that a disease was out of the question unless I had an infected hand. I gave it a surreptitious inspection — healthy, if calloused.
The disappointing information I got from Roy was this: Sperm donors were not allowed to have orgasms prior to donating for about two and a half, maybe three, days. It seems that the sperm count drops after ejaculation. Since a full and potent sample is needed for test purposes, donors must lay off until the sperm count rises again.
My options were clear. I could either pursue my sex life at leisure and thus forfeit twenty bucks a week, or I could whack off at work for wages. It took my cash-oriented brain a full ten seconds to decide in favor of sex for science.
Understandably, the restriction to twice a week at age eighteen was not easy to cope with. On Tuesdays and Fridays I was so ready to donate that I barely had time to whip out the specimen jar. In fact, I became so conditioned to that thing as a love object, that even today if I happen to see a short, wide-mouthed jar with a black screw-top, I get raunchy … Pavlov was dead right.
A few weeks later while on my way to lunch, daydreaming about my bank balance, I collided with a secretary I’d been trying to hustle. After a few “excuse me’s” and a few pleasantries she suggested that we drive down to the river and have lunch there. There was no mistaking her meaning.
“I don’t have a car,” I moaned.
“We’ll take mine.”
“Great,” I said as casually as I could while envisioning the loss of my virginity.
“Wonder what’s with her?” I thought on the short drive. Maybe that hypnotic waving around of those diaphragms and jellies at her desk had done the trick after all.
Well, a few minutes later, lying in the grass under a weeping willow with the river sloshing by, we got down to basics. We locked into a passionate embrace and began swapping tongues. Granted, my first big sexual experience was taking place in the all outdoors where any pervert could be watching, but I felt it would be appropriate to unfasten a few articles of clothing from my loins. But this girl had some kind of clothes fetish, and allowed me no more freedom of expression than a good yank at my zipper. Now she obviously had been around, because she was working my joint like a human vibrator. As for me, being a yokel from the hinterlands, I was totally inexperienced through lack of opportunity. So I just copied her. Fortunately, she granted herself fewer restrictions of clothing. I just put my hand between her legs and vibrated. It must have been pretty effective because in about two minutes … wham! … she was finished. And I hadn’t even got in yet!
Then she sat up, still playing with my joint, and said, “You’ll have to come this way. I don’t have my diaphragm.”
“Okay,” I said hoarsely, not really minding as my orgasm was on its way. And then suddenly it occurred to me that this was a Friday! I had to deliver a sample at three o’clock. This hand job was about to cost me ten bucks and it was too late to stop. Talk about mixed emotions … what the hell could I do?
Then, eureka! I had it! I grabbed my lunch bag and pulled out my old friend the specimen jar. With trembling hands I unscrewed the lid and stuck the jar at the end of my joystick just in time to catch my ten bucks worth. I then screwed the lid back on, put the jar back into the bag, and lay back to catch my breath.
“Fantastic,” I moaned with pleasure.
“Fantastic, hell,” she said. “Weird … just plain weird. What is all this catching it in a jar and saving it? Are you nuts, or perverted, or what?”
I agreed she was entitled to an answer, and for lack of anything better the truth would have to do. So, not without a certain amount of pride, I told her everything.
“Now that’s fantastic,” she said. “Ten bucks! When do I get my share?”
“What d’ya mean your share?” I asked. “My five bucks for making you come.” “Look,” I said, “you don’t really want me to pay you, do you? It would make you no better than a whore.”
“You’re getting paid, aren’t you?” she said, not without logic.
“I know, but I’m not asking you to pay me five bucks for making you come.”
“That’s not the point,” she said, testily, “I’m not selling my orgasms, you’re selling yours.”
“Maybe so, but I’m trying to save my dough to go back to college,” I retorted, feebly.
“Now listen, you cheapskate,” she said, hotly, “I don’t care if you’re saving up to buy your grandmother a new dildo!”
“What’s a dildo?”
“Never mind! Now either you cough up five bucks or you can go screw yourself.”
“I wish I could …. I’d save myself a hell of a lot of trouble.”
And with that, she jumped into her car and drove off.
“Cheapskate hell,” I thought. If it had been shelling out for dinner and drinks, I wouldn’t have minded at all. But paying out cold hard cash, or forfeiting it, for sex …. Well that was strictly against all of my principles … whatever they were.
Anyway, at Christmastime I blew a wad of money on presents for the family. See, I wasn’t a cheapskate, after all. In fact, I dented the coffers so deeply, that I’d have to budget very carefully if I wanted to get back to school at all. Consequently, when the next chance to lose my virginity came along, I had problems.
It started late afternoon on a Monday. The Christmas office parties were getting under way, and, as was customary, the lab boys all carried a little grain alcohol with them to spike people’s drinks, if they wanted. As I passed an open door to a private office, a good-looking secretary named Millie waved me in to jazz up her first drink — and, as I was to find out later, she wanted me to jazz up her afternoon as well.
“In one afternoon, I graduated from masturbating for money in the men’s room to being a gigolo.”
She was a real looker and, even though she was in her thirties, turned me on. Rumor had it that Millie didn’t have to work. Her old man, who was on the road most of the time, earned plenty. She just worked to keep from being bored.
Anyway, after a couple of stiff drinks we were giving each other a holiday kiss …. Which somehow led to a little more than that. And pretty soon the holidays had nothing to do with it.
“Lock the door,” she said softly while undoing her blouse. And without a thought I did just that.
But when we were on the couch, I realized in a flash that I was about to start screwing away my entire education and that, in effect, I was paying out ten bucks to get laid. There I was again with those damned mixed emotions. Now what the hell was worth what? … Was I ever confused!
“What’s the matter?” she asked, tenderly.
“Look, Millie, it’s like this …. You’re going to think I’m crazy, abnormal, a cheapskate, stupid … or maybe all of those things, but here goes.” And I told her my scene.
Well, fortune was with me, because Millie was very sympathetic and understood completely. And then, without saying a word, she smiled and reached into her handbag and deftly pulled out a ten-dollar bill.
I was so surprised and embarrassed that I lost my erection. That didn’t faze her at all. In a few seconds she had it back and in a few minutes I was no longer a virgin. And in a few hours I was no longer a virgin several times … in several ways. As you can well imagine I was beginning to wonder if my poor, depleted sperm count would ever be normal again.
When the marathon ended and we were sitting around sipping a couple of lab specials, she said, “Is there any reason why we can’t make this a kind of permanent arrangement?”
“You mean Monday afternoons here in the office?”
“No, silly. I mean at my place in the evening. We can have some drinks, a little supper, and … uh … you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Now Tuesdays and Fridays would suit me just fine,” she continued. “How about you? You do anything those nights?”
“I go bowling.”
“Wouldn’t you rather go balling?”
“Damn right I would, Millie. But the trouble is,” I continued, shaking with excitement and frustration at the same time, “I can’t because of the bread I need for school.”
“Well now, we can’t have an ambitious young fellow like you lose out on a good education, can we?”
I shook my head.
“So … why don’t I just give you the money each time?”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that,” I groaned, hoping she wouldn’t agree.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, fully in charge, “I can afford it. Besides my husband is out on the road all the time screwing away a fortune. This’ll give me a chance to get even with him. Make it fair all around.”
“I see,” I said. But I didn’t. Her logic made no sense to me at all, but I wasn’t about to argue with her.
So that became the arrangement. In one afternoon I graduated from masturbating for money in the men’s room to being a gigolo.
Now with a setup like that you’d think I would have been satisfied. But no. My mercenary brain came up with a further wrinkle.
With Tuesday and Friday nights scheduled for Millie’s private use wasn’t it just possible to donate to the lab on those afternoons as well? Wouldn’t my sperm count have just enough time to bounce back to normal before the next donation? There was only one way to find out.
So after my last session in the sack on Tuesday night, I had no sex until my Friday afternoon encounter with the specimen jar. A few minutes later I was hanging over Roy’s shoulder while he studied my sperm sample through the microscope.
I fidgeted about as I waited for the verdict. Finally, he looked up at me with a broad smile and said, “There’s nothing wrong with this juice.”
And there you have it. From then on, until I left the plant for school, I had the busiest Tuesdays and Fridays of anyone I’ve ever heard of — and that went on for quite a while. In fact, it went on for so long that even today I wake up on Tuesday and Friday mornings quivering with anticipation. Mind you, I don’t exactly sneer at the other days of the week, but those two have something very special about them.
Oh yes. I suppose you’re wondering if I ever told Millie about the setup. After all, I was no longer forfeiting twenty bucks a week at work, so why should she have to compensate me with her twenty? Right?
And, believe me, I considered the situation very carefully. Morally there were no two ways about it, and I did what I had to do. Let’s face it, anyone who would keep taking twenty bucks a week under false pretenses from a kind and generous lady like Millie could only be a rotten bastard.
So eventually, when the time finally rolled around for me to go back to college, this rotten bastard drove there in his first, and very own, car.
It should come as no surprise – pun both intended and apologized for – that sperm donation remains a viable income option. Now with the cost of higher education these days it seems unlikely anyone will be paying for school entirely this way, but, hey, having fun while making a little extra money legally cannot be a horrible idea. Beware when you start counting money left on/in the bed/partner, however. That’ll kill the mood.
