Okay, I’m going to start off this post by saying, I’m sorry. I wanted to get my husband’s perspective on this this morning, and he wrote everything out while he was waiting. The following paragraphs refer very graphically, and using kind of crass language….he’s a guy. What can I say. :) It’s pretty funny though. 
SO here’s the boy’s part of the story, in his own words!
First off, the waiting room is too small and intimate for a bunch of guys to sit here knowing they’re all going to squeeze one off for the team.
The check-in counter is within kicking range of the 5 waiting room chairs. There’s no privacy, plus guys don’t like touching thighs period — especially when there’s copulation requirements in the very near future.
As I check in, the nurse shouts “semen collection” and I know it’s only a matter of time until I have to turn around and face the 5 other waiting dudes in the room. After reading the instructions and knowing my wife can’t come in, I shoo her away. “What? You want me to leave? Now?” she sighs loudly.
Thank God someone got called in about that time, because now there was a seat open for me. A warm seat, which is a weird sharing time for a bunch of guys who need to make love to a cup in 10 minutes.
“I have a room ready to go for you,” shouts a chipper man nurse as he shuttles the next dude down the hall.
“All the rooms are full to capacity,” I here them talking at the admin desk. Great. Lots of whacking here today.
Actually, what’s taking these guys so long? I’m all about getting in and out. No need to meander about and enjoy it, really. This is business. It’s business time.
Who designed this entire process, actually? The office should be decorated like a sports bar and there should be a flatscreen with football on in the corner. We should all be given a bottle of Bud Light when we walk in and high fives should be given when people “score.”
Instead of a persistent, awkward silence, the office should pump in Motley Crue and Guns N’ Roses — you know, macho doing-it music.
And what’s with the reading material? Ladies Home Journal? REALLY?
Then the little man nurse announces my name and leads me into a typical clinic room, except in place of the examing table is a big leather recliner.
Next to the recliner is a small end table with a CD boombox and “Pachabel’s Cannon Relaxation” album set on top. That’s the mood music? REALLY?
The man tells me to sit in a chair as he reviews the jerkin’ instructions with me step by step. He shows me the incubator where the “specimen” goes after I’ve “finished” and about this time I notice he’s incredibly sweaty.
Beads of perspiration are running down his forehead, and I almost start to feel bad for him. This is this guy’s job. To faciliate male masturbation as a science. Who goes to college for that? I bet mom and dad are really proud.
Before he leaves he points out a purple binder under the coffee table, “There’s some (ahem) reading material in the folder” he says motioning across the room with a smirk and a wink. REALLY?
How many times does this guy run through this routine each day — let alone this morning — and he still smirks about the whacko mags?
Then he tells me to be sure to lock the door behind him and leave the door wide open when I’m “done.” You see, that’s the only way the staff knows the room is open, and they try not to make a habit out of knocking on doors during such a delicate process.
When I’d “done the deed,” I completed my walk of shame down the hallway of 15+ squeegee booths and into the waiting room full of men awkwardly waiting for my room to open up.
Of course, the beautiful wife is sitting there with a sly grin and instinctually says “All done, honey?” without realizing this is the cherry on top of the weirdest Saturday morning I’ve ever experienced. Yes, I was indeed all done.
Thank God I get to do it all over again tomorrow!
