The Happy Room aka Making Love To A Cup

Our fertility clinic (the best in San Antonio and probably the world) has special rooms set aside for the male species to provide samples. They affectionately call it “The Happy Room”.

In fact they even have multicolored spermies painted on the floor all leading to the Happy Room. Both cute and humiliating at the same time.

When a man (by himself) is sitting in the waiting room all but the new patients know what he’s there for.

It sounds simple enough. Go to a private room. Masturbate. Ring the bell for the attendant. Done.

Well it should work that way. It’s a little more uncomfortable than that.

I see the nurse’s lips move. But I don’t really hear her the first time. I’m so uncomfortable and just nodding my head so she’ll leave. Then I realize that I might actually need to follow her instructions. Name and birthday on the cup. Got it. Ring the bell when done. Got it.

In the Happy Room there’s a TV monitor pre-loaded with 4-5 adult movies. Touchscreen. I don’t know if that’s good or gross. The touchscreen that is. Also in the room is a cushioned chair with a paper cover on the seat. A little plastic drawer set on rollers. A sink. I found out three of four visits later that there was also a magazine rack full of playboys and maxims.

I decided to turn on a movie and of course it picked up mid-moan and I quickly discovered I had no control over the volume. So moans and “oh yes baby”‘s are blaring loud enough that I’m convinced the entire clinic can hear it. I’m pushing the screen repeatedly, hard and fast (pardon the pun). Now its leaving the movies completely and somehow I’ve gotten to an entirely different screen and the Windows media player is asking me if I want to download music. I’m convinced that somebody in another room is monitoring the computer and will be knocking on the door at any moment to tell me to stop screwing up their computer.

I finally get it shut off. I drop my pants and decide and to get to work. I think of the sexiest thoughts I can. As soon as I come to attention (if you know what I mean) I realize there is a problem with the chair. First, its very low. Secondly, when I’m at attention and sitting in it my soldier is pointing upwards. Usually not a problem but I have to get my delivery downward into a cup.

So it’s hard to think sexy when your ass is half hanging off a chair barely 18” off the ground, with your pants dangling around your ankles, sterile doctor paper under your butt, trying to point your member downwards with it banging the edge of a cup with every stroke. Not exactly sexiness.

Needless to say I get the job done. Awkwardness over? Nope.

I put the lid on the cup. I put the cup on the clipboard on the drawer set. I feel a little more relaxed. I wash my hands and go to pull out a paper towel to dry my hands. Heaven forbid I hand over my specimen with dripping wet hands. As I go to reach for a paper towel my jaw drops in horror as I realize the paper towel dispenser is directly over the clipboard and paperwork. Oh my god! I can’t get a paper towel without risking dripping water onto the paperwork. I’m mortified at the thought of turning paperwork in that has wet spots all over it. But at the same time I can’t have wet spots on my pants or shirt either. What will I do? I could air dry but I’ve already been in the room for what seems like an eternity. Like a fitting room at Target I’m waiting for someone to start knocking on the door “Are you doing OK?”.

So I opt to air dry. Check off the last items on the checklist (No there wasn’t any “spillage”) and ring the bell for the nurse. She comes along and checks the paperwork. She’s getting ready to turn when….oh no….I didn’t put my information on the actual cup. She hands me a sharpie and with my guys swishing around in the clear cup (right at her eye level by the way) I have to write my name and birthday on the cup with a sharpie.

As I leave all the doctors and nurses smile and nod on my way out. I’m convinced those smiles mean “we know what you did” and aren’t actually just remarkably good customer service.

Thus ends the tale of my first visit to the Happy Room.


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