Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, September 2, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 3rd September 2010

One year ago.

The instructions reiterate that I wash my hands, like I’m not about to touch my own penis.  They ask me to print my name on the pot and the consent form.  I one-up this by writing my full name, date of birth, ID number, wife’s name, and her ID number.

I’m not taking any chances.

I turn on the TV, and open a web browser.

I Google: ‘Porn’.

I open about ten tabs.

And then I sit there, butt naked, the heater on full, scanning through free porn, in the comfort of my own home, and knob myself.

And I do a very good job.

* * * * *

I head to the bathroom, again slowing as I pass the candle.  It flickers as I go.  The pot sits in the warm palm of my unused hand while I use the other to clean up.  I return to the living room, holding my pot, before re-dressing in the clothes that are strewn across the floor.

The pot goes straight into the jeans pocket.

‘Keep warm after production,’ the instructions warn, ‘but do not heat above body temperature.’

I grab the keys, the consent form and the biological hazard bag, and I jump back in the car.

It’s 10.02am.

As I drive back up the road towards the hospital, the sample jar sticks uncomfortably out of my jeans pocket.  At the lights, I wrestle it out and check the lid one more time.  I hold it up to the light to check the volume, surprised to see a few bubbles.  I guess anything liquid that sits in your jeans pocket is likely to bubble a little.

I feel a creeping over me, as I look to my right and see a woman in her car, staring.

Her jaw wide open.

The lights go green, and I floor it round the bend, pressing the jar against my warm palm.

* * * * *

I sit in the same seat, near the receptionist with the allergy to sperm, like I’m waiting to see the principal.  Occasionally she looks across at me, forcing a smile when I catch her staring at my Biological Hazard Bag.  I keep it on my lap like a loin cloth, ensuring the pot is upright.

My phone rings.

“Hello, is that Mark?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dorothy from Monash IVF.  I believe you were going to provide us with a sample?”

“I’m holding it in my hands as we speak.”

“Oh.  Are you on your way in?”

“I’m here.  I’m waiting for someone to come down and collect it.”

“Where are you?”

“In Day Procedure waiting room.  My wife is getting her eggs collected right now.”

“And where is your sample?”

“In my hands.  I’m holding a jug of sperm in my hands.”  The receptionist looks up like I just swore.

“Right.  Sorry.  I didn’t realise.  Someone will be there in a few minutes.”

I hang up and look around.  The waiting area is filled with seventy-year olds getting their hips screwed and their colostomies hemmed.  Not one other person in the room has a jug of sperm in their hands.  I concentrate very hard on the middle distance, staring carefully like there’s something important for me to see.

Eventually, a woman appears.

“Mark?”

She beckons me to the same corridor, forty-eight eyes following me as I go.

“Is that the sample?” she asks, pointing from hands hinged close to her body.

“Yes.”

She takes out a pair of purple gloves, putting them on theatrically.  “Could you repeat your full name?”

“Mark Edward Nethercote.”

“Date of birth?”

“29th May 1975.”

“ID code.”

I pull out the card from my wallet, repeating the number.

“Great, thank you.”

“It comforts me that you do that,” I say.

“Do what?”

“Check my details.  To make sure you’ve got the right person.”

“It’s not something we want to get wrong.”

With that she turns on her heels, and leaves.

I stand there for a moment, before turning back towards the waiting room.

Everyone is watching.

Everyone.

I wave.

Three of them wave back.

* * * * *

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, September 1, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 3rd September 2010

One year ago.

Suse’s name is called, and we follow an impossibly small nurse wearing oversized Crocs through the doors and into the next section of the maze.  She trips on her own tiny feet;  in even the smallest sized shoes she wears two pairs of socks, and yet she still trips every three or four steps.  When we sit, requisite questions follow about Suse’s teeth, her lack of pacemaker, if her blood pressure is always that low, and whether we’d like them to pinch her jewellery while she’s asleep.

Suse then follows the tripping nurse to the change rooms, and returns wearing a large art smock, a hair net, and cloth foot covers.  She looks like a lunatic art teacher who works part time at the deli.  We sit for two more minutes, and then we’re ushered through to the departure lounge, where she gets the chair that goes up and down, and I get the footstool.  In turn, we sit here for a few minutes in awkward repose, until a man who has been passed several times finally gets the courage up to say hello.

“Hi there, Susan, I’m Martin.  Martin,” he repeats, turning to me.

“Mark,” I say.

“No, Martin,” he says once more.

“And I’m Mark.”

“Right you are,” he says, laughing awkwardly.  He crouches close.  “Now I think you guys are aware that Dr Fleischer won’t be performing the procedure today?”

“Yes.”

“And that Professor Vermeulen will be supervising?”

“Supervising?  She’ll be doing the procedure, won’t she?”

“No, I’ll be performing the procedure while she looks over my shoulder and says, ‘yep, great, looks good.’  Do have a problem with that?”

I look at Suse, her eyes having gone wide.

“No disrespect to you Martin, but I’ve only just met you, and I have a great deal of respect for Professor Vermeulen.  She was a lecturer of mine at University.”

“And you would like her to perform the procedure?”

“We’d feel more comfortable with that, yes.”

“So in that case, I’ll be looking over her shoulder while she performs the procedure, and I’ll be saying, ‘yep, great, looks good.’ ” We all laugh easily at the break in tension.

“Do you have any questions, Susan?”

“If you could just walk me through exactly what will happen, that would be great.”

“Okay,” he says, beginning to move his hands animatedly, in a game of Charades.  “We’ll place a needle into each of the follicles, and see how many of them have eggs.   For someone like yourself who has limited follicles, we’ll puncture each of them, even though the smaller ones probably won’t have eggs in them.  We’ll flush them out, searching for eggs – just in case.  To get as many as we can.”

“Sure,” I say.

“You’ll be under a light anaesthetic, you see, and you’ll be out the other end in no time.  You may have a bit of spotting and some period pain for a couple of days, but it should all settle down pretty quickly.  Do you have any questions?”

I look across at Suse, who is staring blankly ahead.

“I’m fine.  Suse?”

She shakes her head.   Martin gets up and disappears as quickly as he arrived.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“Well, for someone like me with such limited follicles, I guess I’m as good as I can be.”

* * * * *

I drive down the back streets towards our house.  As I brake behind the one-hundred-and-seventy-year-old man they hire specifically to piss off the residents of Richmond, I quell the urge to beep.  I ride the break down Lennox Street, through the repeated roundabouts and over the speed bumps towards Swan.  Eventually – despite having until eleven – I overtake him, almost causing him to crash.  I round the corner, heading west up Swan before pulling down our street to the end, squealing the breaks as I zoom under our roller door and pull up hard.

As I enter I walk slowly, careful to not blow out the candle that we lit last night.

Suse has always been a candle-kind-of-girl, but ever since the clairvoyant at the café with the salt and the candles, I’m also a convert.

“Let’s light a candle for incubation,” she said last night, out of the blue, “inviting a soul to join us.”

We lit it together, both striking the match, both saying something softly as we did.

And while I don’t know anything about the rules for this sort of shit, accidentally blowing out our candle when I’m – blowing out my own candle – would surely not be good karma.

I pass the quiet flame and walk towards the kitchen bench.  I take the pot out of the plastic bag and unscrew its lid, placing it down on the couch.  I pull out the consent form, reading the instructions:  ‘How to Wank 101.’

I’m not joking.

There are instructions.

* * * * *

To be continued…

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, July 12, 2011 10:00 am

Sunday 4th July 2010

One year ago.

My wounds are healing.

I’d never realised it until Friday, but my thumb ring – something that I bought overseas ten years ago, and have worn every day since – doubles as a weapon.

It probably works as a bottle opener too.

I’ve been applying paw paw cream and antiseptic lotion to my bruised, abraded skin.  At least it gives us the chance to begin antibiotics for the ureaplasma.  As ropable as I was when were told to use condoms for fourteen days, the state I’m in right now, I don’t know that I’ll even be healed by then.

I’ve told just about everyone I’ve met in the last forty-eight hours about the horros of Friday.  I’ve got mileage out of this event.  If my pain can cause someone else’s laughter, I’m all for it.

About half the guys that I’ve told have been horrified by the whole banned lube thing – like it’s an infringement on a man’s very civil rights.  The other half don’t understand what all the fuss is about.  One friend laughingly asked why I didn’t just resort to a rolled up T shirt, smiling like it was an in-joke, only to realise that he is the only person in the conversation who uses this method.

Seems I’m not the only one to keep my techniques to myself.

And it seems that I’m not so shy about being a wanker after all.

* * * * *

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, July 8, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 2nd July 2010

Gestation: 40 weeks – DUE DATE

One year ago.

I try to do the right thing.

For the sake of Cheryl, and the lab, and everyone else who makes the rules, I go lube-free.  Not even saliva.  I watch mediocre, boring porn.  I flick through the magazines, each time finding a ripped tab where a good bit was likely to have been.  The only magazine intact is “MILFs in Heat”, which has been left untouched for good reason.  I find myself looking around the room, trying not to imagine the spills that have occurred already this morning, let alone this week.  It’s a fucking Friday.  Although nothing looks perceptibly dirty, I can’t help imagining the cleaners coming in on Saturdays.

If this sounds gross, it’s because it is.

At the seventeen-minute mark, I finish.  As I do, I hear Cheryl in my head, practically yelling: “Make sure you don’t spill any!  There’s a lot of sperm in the first bit!”  That alone is enough to make me go limp.  In every sense of the word.

I’m lost for words as to describing the experience.  To bring yourself to the point of climax, only to stop in the seconds before, stick the end of your dick in a clear plastic container that it barely fits, and then wait, is kind of like…  sticking your dick in a clear plastic container and waiting.  It’s like… It’s like going on a roller coaster ride, and in the seconds before the last rush, the last descent before home, knocking yourself unconscious, and then expecting to enjoy it.  No then expecting to remember it.  No, then expecting to sit a maths test.

No, no it’s not.  It’s like sticking your dick in a clear plastic container and waiting.  It’s like nothing else.  It sucks.  I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed masturbation less in my entire life.

I bring the container up to eye level, examining the milky material.  Having never before ejaculated into a container, I have nothing to compare it against.  But I get a creeping feeling.  Something’s not quite right.  It’s too clear.  It’s…

I stop for a second, before realising with horror – that I’m not done.

There’s more to go.

* * * * *

I look down at my bruised and battered penis, chafe marks already present.  As a circumcised male, I seriously do not understand why anyone would masturbate without lubricant.  It’s like shampooing your hair against concrete.  Why the fuck would anyone – anyone - rub their hair against concrete, for even a minute, let alone seventeen minutes?

That’s my point.

I look at the screen, by now another bored woman, looking even more bored than the last.  It’s like a bore competition.  The magazines are crap.  All of them.  I can’t do this like this.

So I relent.  I use saliva.  I look at the bored women, but I use saliva.  I flick through the mags, and I use saliva.  And then I stop with the porn.  I think of being anywhere other than in the wank room.  And honestly, I close my eyes and I think of my wife.  I think of my wife, with me, at home, in our own home.  I think of my wife.

You give me MILFs on heat?  Seriously?  Have you seen my wife?

And that does the trick.  Six minutes later, that does the trick.  After twenty-three minutes, I’m done.  I’m over.  Again, I have to knock myself unconscious at the top of the roller coaster, waiting for it to finish without any further help.  But I think, mostly, I am done.  I am done.  I am finished.  But I am certainly not satisfied.

I look down to see my shrivelled and bruised penis, having not been in such bad nick for twenty-two years.  I consider calling my Dad.

But I don’t.  Instead, I clean up as quickly as I can, and I exit.

Suse is sitting there, waiting.  Her look changes to concern when she sees me.

“Thank you Cheryl,” I say.  I give her the sample, meekly, feeling a little defeated.   No slamming on the desk for me.  She takes it in her purple glove.

“How did you go?” she asks.

“As well as I could, I guess.”  I wait for her to tell me that none of my sperm have heads.

“If you could go next door now for payment, please?  Enjoy the rest of the day.”

“I might begin to now.”

Suse takes my hand in hers.  We walk out the door, me in a cowboy swagger, trying to avoid contact with my undies.  It’s impossible.

How was it?”

“Horrific.”

“Are you chafed love?”

“Yep.”

“How was the bottom drawer?”

“There was no bottom drawer.  There was no drawers at all.  Just “MILFs in Heat.”

“It didn’t cut it?”

“No honey.  When you’re dry wanking into a plastic jar in hospital, MILFs don’t cut it.  In fact, nothing cuts it.  Nothing.”

We head towards the maroon desk to pay for my two-hundred buck jerk off.  As I swagger down the hall, it suddenly dawns on me why everyone walks out looking just like this.

* * * * *

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, July 7, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 2nd July 2010

Gestation: 40 weeks – DUE DATE

One year ago.

I enter Room Two, locking the door behind me.  As I turn, I immediately wish I was in Room One.  I don’t know exactly what I was expecting.  Maybe that there was going to be some sort of oasis behind these doors, that perhaps the luxury of the women’s maroon counter may have been splashed around a little in here.

But it hasn’t.

It’s just like out there.

Only smaller.

And while I know that Room One would be nothing more than a mirror image of this, all the same, I wish I wasn’t in Brian’s express aisle.  The room is triangular in shape, with only enough space for a red plastic couch and a 34cm television.

There is a small toilet through a door off to the side, with a sink and huge roll of paper.  I look at the cabinet below, panicking at the sight of a tiny pile of magazines, and no drawers.

There is no bottom drawer.

I pick up the magazines and find that there are four in total:  two ‘Ralph’ magazines, one Penthouse, and the final, called “MILFs in Heat”.  They are tattered and used, pages are missing and loose, and other pages are folded and stuffed in underneath.

I mean, these things are old.

The television looks like something we had on our first computer, something called a Microbee, which used cassette tapes.   I don’t even think they make TVs this small anymore.  The rubbish bin – more adequately described as a disposal unit – sits pride of place, right next to the TV.  It is three times the size of the screen, and, by the looks, is almost full.

* * * * *

There is a set of instructions laminated to the top of the television.  They state:

“Switch TV on (if button doesn’t work, switch on at power point)

Push TV/Video button

Press stop button when finished

If you have any difficulties, please inform reception.”

Yeah right.  I’m sure Cheryl is just dying to know.

I turn on the TV.  Snow fills the screen, all thirty four centimetres.  I press the TV/Video button.  I can make out a woman dressed in a nurse’s outfit and a man, if I get close enough.  At least they’re keeping it in theme, although she looks nothing like Cheryl without the purple gloves.  I try changing the channel up and down, before fully comprehending that this is it.  The woman bobs up and down looking bored.

Now, I wouldn’t call myself a porn authority, but this is ridiculous.  Two men’s interest magazines, MILFs on heat, a torn and tattered Penthouse, and a bored nurse on a screen slightly bigger than my iPod.  I’ve seen more compelling material on daytime television.

This is going to be a challenge.

* * * * *

To be continued…

Comments (1)

By Mark Nethercote, July 6, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 2nd July 2010

Gestation: 40 weeks – DUE DATE

One year ago.

“Mr. Davis?”

The guy in thongs groans in the effort of getting out of his seat.  He slinks across to the counter, one of his thongs almost falling off.  I mean – it’s winter in Melbourne.  Wear socks.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yep.”

She hands him a jar and a bag.  “Room Two,” she says.  He drags himself up the hall, and into Brian’s old room.

Trench coat guy leans in towards me.

“I left my form behind as well,” he says, smiling nervously.  “My wife is having to bring it in now.”

“Mine’s on the floor in the study,” I reply.

“Mine’s on the couch by the front door.”   I nod my head, smiling back.

“I guess I was a bit distracted this morning.”

“Me too,” I say.  “A little stressed.”

Every single guy who comes in here has been asked to abstain for the better part of a week.  I now get why there’s a Perspex windshield.

“It’s nice of them to have the full selection of women’s magazines,” I say

“Best of 1994, I guess.  I think the good one’s are kept elsewhere,” he says conspiratorially.

We give each other a brotherhood look – one of shared anxiety.  It’s not cool to admit that this is a confronting process.  But for some of us – Trench Coat Guy and me – this ain’t our high point of the day.  Thong guy is a different breed.  As is Brian.  Thong Guy and Brian are in one clan, Trench Coat Guy and I are in another.

“Mr. Jensen?”  Trench Coat Guy stands with a jolt, before walking over to Cheryl.  “Have you been here before?”

“No,” he says, nervously.  Cheryl leans in and whispers something to him, handing him a jar.  He nods, listening hard, before turning.  He gives me a look, and I nod back.  “Into Room One, Mr. Jensen.”

He disappears very, very quickly.

I sit there alone in the waiting room.  And I realise that I never saw anyone emerge from Room One.  Is there a back door?  Is there a cleaner who does a quick reckie in between patients, like happens in hospitals between patients?  Is there a bed?  Sheets?  How big is the room?

A couple of friends have had a semen analysis.  One of them said to look in the bottom drawer, because that is where they keep the good stuff.  I contemplate how many drawers there are, before realising with deflation that the part of me that was curious to see what this was all about never even woke up today.

I think he was left behind in that dream.

Room Two’s door flies open, and Thong Guy emerges, dragging his feet even more.  If he was relaxed before, now he’s almost comatose.  Although, I’ve got to hand it to him – that was quick.  I look at my watch, like it was my job to time him.

He must have been in there for about four minutes.  Wow.

His sample hits the bench like Brian’s did, like it’s his clan’s secret handshake.  He signs a form – at least he’s asked to sign a form – and then he saunters out.

I sit for a moment longer, thinking about the cleaner that must be in there, let in through the back door, cleaning things up.  But thirty seconds later, Cheryl leans forward.

“Mr Nethercote?”

No time for cleaning.

I guess I’m in the eight-items-or-less queue.

* * * * *

“Have you been here before, Mr Nethercote?”

“No,” I say quietly, before realising I’m the only one in the waiting room.

“So here’s your jar,” she said, handing me a sterile urine pot.   “Here’s a placemat for the couch,” she says, handing me a man-sized tissue, “in case of spillage, and here’s your specimen bag.  Any questions?”

“I’m in…”

“…Room Two.”

“Okay.”  I shift awkwardly.  “And I’ve been told that it’s okay to use saliva?”

“If you must.”

“If I must?  Well, I guess I can try without.  I mean, you want a sample, right?”

“Just don’t get any in the jar.”  I look at her confused.  “Any saliva in the jar.”

“Oh,” I say, smiling slightly, “I thought…”  I stop dead, looking at Cheryl.  This isn’t the place for banter.  They’ve got Perspex.

“If you run into trouble, we can just book you another appointment.  Or next time, your wife can come in with you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Well, you forgot the slip.”

“I did.”

She takes a deep breath.  “Look, there are special condoms you can use.”

“Really?” I say, genuinely intrigued.  “I didn’t know about them.”

“They’re forty-five dollars.  People only really use them as a last resort, or in emergencies.”

“That’s what I’ve heard about condoms.”

She shoots me a steely gaze.

Right.

No banter.

* * * * *

To be continued…

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, July 5, 2011 10:00 am

Friday 2nd July 2010

Gestation: 40 weeks – DUE DATE

One year ago.

I sit on a couch, alone in a room.  I can hear muttering close by.  Then I hear laughter.  I look around, but Suse is nowhere to be seen.  The room is empty.  And then, from the left, an older lady with straight, grey hair, cut into a bob, enters the room.  She perches herself on the edge of the couch, and then holds up a sheet of paper in an outstretched hand, looking at it over the top of her glasses.

A little smirk comes onto her face before she places a consolatory hand on my knee.

She’s wearing purple gloves.

“Mr Nethercote,” she begins, “there seems to be a problem with your sample.”

I look at her, hoping for something to come out.

It doesn’t.

“You see,” she continues, suppressing a grin, “your sperm have no heads.  Every single one of your sperm is just a tail.  No head.  The problem is you.  You’re the problem.  Your sperm are retarded.”

I let out a noise, a gasp as I wake.  Or I wake to the gasp.  I’m not sure.  I look around the room, disoriented.  The clock says 2.33am.  My arms and torso are bathed in sweat, as is my groin, where my headless sperm remain, locked away.  As my eyes adjust, I make out Suse in the bed beside me.

Sleeping quietly.

I get up, changing my long-sleeved shirt for a T-shirt.  I walk to the kitchen for a drink, empty my bladder, and return to the darkness of the room.  The woman appears in my head again, smiling.

I guess masturbating into a cup is playing on my mind.

It’s a pretty curious day when my most important job of the morning is to jerk off.

And on top of that, today is our due date.

Our due date.

Today, our baby would have been born.

Today is going to be interesting.

* * * * *

Suse and I enter the hospital’s familiar back entrance, take the familiar lifts, walk around the familiar corridor, and down past the familiar seats.  We approach the front desk, the cloned woman glued in place.

“How can I help?” she asks.  It sends a cold thought straight through my soul.

“I need to give a sample this morning.”

“Next door,” she says, not looking me in the eye.  “In Andrology.”

We apologise for our existence, before leaving the maroon, semilunar desk and walking ten metres down the hall.  We enter a small waiting area, the front desk to a laboratory.

There is a counter with a bell, and down a short, tight corridor there are two more doors that I spot immediately:  Room One, and Room Two.  They have the universal male toilet symbol on them;  although I’m guessing that there’s more than just a toilet in there.  Directly behind the counter, there are three chairs haphazardly shoved against the wall.  Two of them are occupied by men.  Both of them sit awkwardly, crossing and uncrossing their legs.

One of them is wearing a trench coat.

I shit you not.

The counter has a Perspex shield, with a small slot at elbow height, as you’d expect in a bank – or in lab that is concerned about armed robbery.  The Perspex is covered in A4 sheets of information, each curling at its edges;  taped in place for years.  Scattered around the walls of this tight little space are worn posters, which cheerily advertise venereal diseases, prostate cancer, and other myriad afflictions to really set the mood.  There is a solitary framed picture above the chairs;  a painting that someone has discarded from their holiday house.

I look at the two men.  They are each flicking through last decades women’s magazines;  the ones that been discarded from the slick, female friendly desk just ten steps back down the hall.   I turn back towards the counter.

And then I see her.

Sitting behind the Perspex is an older woman, purple gloves on her hands, her grey hair cut into a bob.  She smiles slightly.  A shiver runs down my spine.

“May I help you?”

“I’m here for a semen analysis,” I say, trying to pitch my voice somewhere between embarrassed whisper and soulful declaration.

“Join the club,” she says, without looking up.  As well as being the woman from my dream, I think she might be the clone’s mum.  “Path slip?”

“Oh, shit.”  I look at Suse.

“Where is it?”

“On the floor of the study.”

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.  I’ll be waiting out here.”

That solves that one.  Ten minutes ago, on the way in, I suggested to Suse that I’d like her to be in the room with me, should I need… support.

“You can’t be serious.” She said.  “You’re landing this on me, in the car on the way to the hospital?”

“I just thought that…”

“…I don’t want be in that room where men masturbate all day.”

“I don’t really want to be in a room where men masturbate all day either, honey.”

There is a silence.

“I don’t think I’m comfortable with that.”

“Well this is hardly the most comfortable day of my life either.”

The discussion stopped dead.  The man in the lift, in the wheelchair, missing a leg, put paid to that.

And before we could resume discussions, Ol’ Purple Gloves is asking for a slip.

Suse kisses me quickly on the lips.

“Good luck, honey,” she says.  And then she leaves the dirty Perspex room quicker than I’ve ever seen her move anywhere.

Ever.

I look back at the woman behind the counter.   She hands me a clipboard.

“Fill out the paperwork, Mr Nethercote, and tell me when you’re done.”

I sit in the empty chair between the man in the trench coat, and a guy wearing thongs.  The guy in the coat is talking urgently into his phone, while the guy in thongs flicks happily through a copy of Women’s Weekly.

With that, a door flies open.  A man emerges from Room Two, swaggering like a cowboy, in a way that none of us sitting-folk are.  He places his yellow-topped container on the counter with a thunk, like you would an empty pot after you’ve just skulled a full beer.

“Thanks, Cheryl,” he says, without even braking stride.

“See you next time, Brian,” she says.

Oh fuck.

* * * * *

To be continued…

Comments (2)

By Mark Nethercote, July 4, 2011 10:00 am

Thursday 1st July 2010

Gestation: 39 weeks, 6 days

One year ago.

Masturbation is not a standard conversation topic for me.

In fact, in the twenty-two years since inadvertently injuring myself as a thirteen year old – to the point that I had to consult my slightly embarrassed and wholly reassuring father about the swelling that I’d inadvertently caused (to which he offered me the sage advice to avoid activities that may lead to excessive swelling or bruising) – I don’t know that I’ve discussed it with another man.

You can talk about golf club grips till your blue in the face, but masturbation techniques?

It’s not really the done thing.

Masturbation has polarised society as far back as there are records.  The Ancient Greeks were not the slightest bit fazed by it, thinking it a healthy release.  In Ancient Egypt, it was considered a creative act, especially if performed by Pharoahs, during a ceremony, directly into the River Nile.  The ancient Indian text, the Kama Sutra, gives explicit instructions on the most enjoyable techniques available.  And even into the seventeenth century, nannies regularly used the practice as a method for of getting their adolescent boys to sleep.

Can’t say I ever had a baby sitter like that.

But despite this, the conservatives have always been more vocal.  As they say, those that do, enjoy;  those who don’t, complain.  In the book of Genesis, Judah gets mighty pissed when Onan decides to spill his seed rather than impregnate Tamar.  The Qur’an, as interpreted by most scholars, also sees the practice as ‘haraam’, or forbidden.

By the 18th century, as a veil of conservatism fell over the western World more thickly than the sooty pollution of the industrial age, the term “onanism” was coined.  In 1716, Dr. Balthazar Bekker, a Dutch theologian, circulated a pamphlet through London, titled: ‘Onania, or the Heinous Sin of self-Pollution, And All Its Frightful Consequences, In Both Sexes, Considered: With Spiritual and Physical Advice To Those Who Have Already Injured Themselves By This Abominable Practice.’

It was a really light read.

It listed the risks of this sin as the following: “Disturbances of the stomach and digestion, loss of appetite or ravenous hunger, vomiting, nausea, weakening of the organs of breathing, coughing, hoarseness, paralysis, weakening of the organ of generation to the point of impotence, lack of libido, back pain, disorders of the eye and ear, total diminution of bodily powers, paleness, thinness, pimples on the face, decline of intellectual powers, loss of memory, attacks of rage, madness, idiocy, epilepsy, fever and finally suicide.”  Luckily, he had a cure – a ‘Strengthening Tincture’, at 10 shillings a bottle, and a ‘Prolific Powder’ at 12 shilings a bag.

Thank God for that.

These claims – based on absolutely nothing – became incorporated into science for nearly three centuries.  By 1743, Robert James had published his Medicinal Dictionary, stating that masturbation was “productive of the most deplorable and generally incurable disorders”, concluding that “there is perhaps no sin productive of so many hideous consequences.”  By 1760, Auguste Tissot furthered the claims, stating that the loss of this essential oil would lead to “a perceptible reduction of strength, memory and reason, blurred vision, nervous disorders, gout and rheumatism, blood in the urine, loss of appetite, headaches, and weakening of the organs of generation”.

* * * * *

So, essentially, masturbation was thought to be responsible for all illness. John Harvey Kellogg saved the day by inventing Corn Flakes, and Reverend Sylvester Graham made Graham crackers – both with the express effort of trying to stop young men from pulling their puds.

By 1870, Ellen G. White, in her book ‘A Solemn Appeal’, said that women who masturbated – being “less vital than the other sex” – were at high risk of developing “catarrh, dropsy, cancerous humour, and inward the decay of the head.”  I mean, these people were inventive.  Not only do they make this shit up, but they start inventing new diseases.  I mean, catarr?  Dropsy?  Inward decay of the head?

Things began to liberalise at the beginning of the 20th century, when the Governments of Western Europe realised that if they kept propagating fake consequences for jerking off, that they wouldn’t have enough healthy men left to send to war.  By the 1950’s, Alfred Kinsey cracked the whole thing open in conservative America by revealing that men have penises and women have vaginas.

Ken and Barbie sure were surprised.

But some people still haven’t caught up.  I found an Ayurvedic internet site warning about the risks of over-masturbation: fatigue, lower back pain, thinning hair, fuzzy vision and groin pain.  They suggested keeping ejaculations to less than three times per week, for fear of over-stimulating the acetylcholine/parasympathetic nervous system, disrupting liver enzymes and affecting neurotransmitters.  The words may have been updated, but the message hasn’t changed.

I’m not kidding.  It’s live now.

There is actually someone who is paying to host this site.

* * * * *

Today, most of medical science understands that masturbation has health benefits.

A study in 2009 showed that daily ejaculations, whether through sex or otherwise, improved the quality of the sperm.

Another study in 2003 found that frequent wankers had a lower incidence of prostate cancer, and it is also known to lower blood pressure.  It is thought to raise self-esteem and relieve depression.   In 2009, the U.K. Government joined several other European nations in encouraging teenagers to masturbate at least daily, in an effort to stave off the highest teen pregnancy rates in the Western world.

And yet, we still don’t talk about it.  Men just don’t talk about it.  Men don’t chat about having a toss.

We just don’t.

Sure, we joke about it, we jokingly allude to the topic, but that’s it.  I don’t think I’ve ever openly discussed bashing the bishop with anyone.  My biggest question, the one bugging me before tomorrow, is about the lack of lubrication.  Surely I’m not the only guy in history to baulk at the idea of using a dry hand?  And it’s not like I can ask advice at the IVF centre – the only pre-requisite for working there is that you have boobs.

So, as I’m writing a book about this whole drama, and revealing my own dilemmas and predilections, I figure now’s the time.  I owe it to myself.  At least one person.

It’s time I talked to someone.

* * * * *

So there I am, chatting to Joel on the phone, when I slip it right there into conversation.

“I’ve got my semen analysis on Friday.”  Smooth as silk.

“Yeah right,” he says.  There is a palpable change in his voice, like he’s just taken a step back towards the door.  Any male who has been through adolescence has this automatic response – by which, I mean, all of us.

It’s like that old statistic: 95% of males masturbate, the other 5% are lying.

I hear him take a short breath, like a nervous tic, a subconscious association with some memory of nearly being caught as a teen.

Like I said, 95% of us have nearly been caught, the other 5% are lying.

But then his brain catches up, and melts quickly into curiosity.

“So what’s the go?”

“I have to go to hospital to have a wank.”  He pauses a moment, catching the pace.

“Right.”

“And they’ve told me that I’m not allowed to use any lubricant.  It might contaminate the sample.”  He is silent.  “So, basically, I’ve got to dry hump my hand for the good of science.”  There is another pause.  He’s an old friend, but I get the feeling he’s almost at the door.

“And you’re not into that?”

“No way, mate.  I’m a helmet.”  There is a long pause, like he’s considering his move.

“You see, I don’t mind knocking of a dry one every now and then.”

There you go.  I’ve just had my first adult conversation about masturbation.

“Really?” I continue.  “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Not if you do it right.”

“I guess I’m just not doing it right.  I haven’t been lube free for twenty-two years.”

“Really?  You know how many years?”

“It’s amazing what you figure out when you’re ordered to beat off in hospital.”

“So they give you a room?”

“I’m guessing so.  I’m pretty sure you don’t do it in the foyer.”

“How long do you get?”

“As long as you want.”

“As long as you want?”

“That’s what Cheryl said.”

“I don’t even want to know who Cheryl is,” he says, laughing.  “Sounds bloody great.”

“Not for me, mate.  I’m circumcised.  Doing it without lube is like… It’s like sticking my dick into a hole in a tree.”

“Dude.”

“Well, it’s the best I could come up with.  It’s no good, mate.  And seriously, I’ve got soft little doctor’s hands.  Imagine if I was a tradey with callouses.”

“Then you’d have callouses to match on your dick.”

“Good point.  Still, it’s no good.”

“Well, wait till you have kids.  Then you’ll be happy to ever get to flog the log.  You won’t even do it anymore.  You’ll wake up one day, and your balls will be that sore, and you’ll just go, ‘well, ain’t that something.  My balls are sore because I haven’t ejaculated in weeks.’  And then you’ll go and change a nappy instead.  Count yourself lucky.”

“You’ve got the kids, mate.  We both know who’s lucky.”

There is a silence.

“So this is a room specifically designated just for this?” he asks finally, still fascinated.

“Seems so.”

“And nothing else?’

“Nothing else.”

“Does it ever get cleaned?”

“Dude, it’s a hospital.”

“I know, but – what happens if you spill a bit?  I mean – those little suckers can live for a while.  I remember a story from my ex-girlfriend, about her uni science class.  They were doing mouth swabs to see the bugs that live inside everyone’s mouth.  So they get this girl, swab her mouth, and then look at the swab up on the big screen.  And they see sperm, swimming around on the slide.  A few of them.  So, being the good little scientists that they were, they start looking at them, at their motility and shit, like that’s what they’d done the swab for in the first place.  The girl reckons they been in there a couple of hours.”

“In her mouth.”

“Yep.  Just sitting there next to her teeth.”

“Interesting.”  There is another pause.

“So,” he continues, “like I said, what if you spill a bit?”

“Well, I guess wipe it up off the carpet, and then just hope that I don’t get Brian’s sample.”

“Good, old Brian, eh?  That would suck.  That would really suck.  You accidentally spill a bit, scoop it up, and then end up with Brian’s kid.”

“Yep.  That would really blow.”

“So don’t scoop it up, bro.”

“Oh, no, I’ll be scooping it up.  We’re just doing my count.  Brian will help with my numbers.”

“Good luck with that, mate.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe you could take along one of those spill-proof containers?  Tupperware or something.”

“Thanks, mate.  You’re a real sport.

“And say G’day to Brian for me.”

“Will do.”

And there ends my first conversation.

Piece of cake.

* * * * *

Comments (0)

By Mark Nethercote, June 29, 2011 10:00 am

Sunday 27th June 2010

Gestation: 39 weeks, 2 days

One year ago.

So I practised.

I produced a sperm sample without lubricant.

I know, I know.

Hand me the medal later.

* * * * *

This whole pregnancy thing has taught me a lot about humility.  Nothing in my life has ever been quite as confronting – as directly questioning of my sense of worth and value – as this little ride we’re currently on.

I mean, I’ve had things come and go that have made me wonder about who I am and what I’m made of.  But generally, at the end of the day, I’ve been able to confirm for myself that I’ve got what it takes.

That I’m made of the right stuff.

Until now.  This whole ride, this entire cascade of events that began with the simple ease of falling pregnant, to losing that pregnancy, to learning that we might not be able to even have kids, has taken us both all the way down to the bottom of the valley – where our fertility, our very virility – has been questioned.

And it is in that valley, that Suse and I have had stare deeply into ourselves.  To look within, and within each other, and face a simple question with very humble hearts.

That question is simple.  But the answer to longer to arrive.  But it did.  Eventually it did.  The answer is equally simple.  And it is this:

‘Yes, we do.  And we will do what ever it takes to have those kids.’

Yes, we will medicalise it.

Yes, we will surrender our bodies and our very seeds to science, so that we can be given the chance for a child of our very own.

Yes, we will surrender our innocence, and along with it, the assumption that to have children – easily, happily, seamlessly – was our birthright.

Because for us, it is not.  This very concept has burst.  A stern teacher checked our maths assignment and decided that the figures don’t add up.  We have to relearn the course.  We have to resit the exam.

And so, we do as we are told.  Our pride swallowed, we do as we are told.  And nothing – I can tell you nothing, to this point – has made me swallow my pride more than my sperm assessment.  Not only will someone in a laboratory assess my sperm and give me a mark out of a hundred, but I’ve been instructed on exactly how to produce the specimen.  I’ve been given strict instructions on how to masturbate.  Masturbation 101.

If there’s one thing I was pretty sure I’d perfected by now, this was it.  I was pretty sure I had it licked.

Apparently not.

I’ve been informed – by Cheryl in Andrology – that under no circumstances am I to use lubricant.

It seems that I’ve been doing it wrong for the last twenty-two years.

* * * * *

And that’s the sticking point.  Not since inadvertently injuring myself as a thirteen year old, have I ever used my bare hands.  I’ve not had locker conversations with others regarding this kind of thing – I’m not that kind of a guy -  but until now, I’d just assumed that anyone who hasn’t yet discovered the joys lubrication is a pie short of a pastry shop.

So understanding that, you’ll appreciate why I woke in a cold sweat this morning, as I remembered that I have to turn up to hospital this Friday, to enter a room that I’ve never previously even seen, and come out with a full jar.  Not a tissue.  A jar.

And I’m not allowed to use lubricant.

* * * * *

And that is what has led me to this very toilet, at this very moment.

It’s Sunday afternoon.  We’re due to fly out of Fiji in two hours.  Our bags are packed and in the luggage hold.  We’re left to hang around the hotel lobby, listening to the tuneless guitarists and the squeals of one thousand chlorine soaked children.

It’s five days until I have to produce the goods for Cheryl.  As she explained to me over the phone, she doesn’t want anything stagnant – so nothing older than five days.  But I must abstain for at least three days.

As per instruction, I’ve got to clear the pipes one more time before Friday.

So why not now?

Initially, the thought fills me with dread.  And embarrassment.  In my brain, cemented through years of adolescence, masturbation and shame go hand in hand.  For a man, I don’t think that link ever really disappears.  Not even in adulthood.

Come on guys.  Let’s be honest here.

So, if I’m embarrassed about it now, and I’m embarrassed about it in the comfort of my home, and have to turn up to hospital and spank the monkey, and I’m not allowed to use lube, and so I’ve got to use a new technique for the first time in twenty-two years, and I’ve got to get it right on Friday, like a whole jar-full right – then how embarrassed and awkward am I likely to be?

Do I really want to hand in my first draft on the day?

I mean, do I?

Really?

* * * * *

So, I decide to practice.  Right then and there.  In a cubicle.  In a toilet.  In the lobby of the Westin Hotel.  In Nadi, Fiji.

Without lubricant.

Okay, okay, I know.  I’m hardly a hero.  And it’s not as bad as it may sound.  There’s no one else around, no one even uses these toilets.  But there’s the chance that they might – just like there’s a chance that Cheryl might accidentally walk in on me on Friday.

I’m in a cubicle, in a foreign country, concerned about someone else walking in.  And I’m polishing the family jewels.

If that isn’t a simulation of pressure, then I don’t know what is.

* * * * *

You don’t need to know the details.  I’ve already told you more than I told Suse when I returned from the loo.  Somehow, it just didn’t seem pertinent to let her know that I’d just been tooting my own horn for practice.

But I did.

And it went okay.

In fact, it went better than I thought it would.

I feel strangely proud of myself, in a shameful, repressed, Western-society-teenage-kind-of-way.

But at least I know I can do it.

Bring on Friday.

* * * * *