How I (Almost) Became a Sperm Donor

Around November of last year I panicked about money. I can’t remember exactly why, but it was probably because I looked at my student loan balance and had a good ole’ case of debt fright. But by fortuitous happenstance, I saw a little banner ad on the side of the page – a little banner of hope.

Sperm donation! If I passed their “rigorous” admissions process, I would have the opportunity to make $100 a pop, up to three times a week. That’s $1,200 a month. In one fell swoop I would solve my money woes and achieve genetic immortality.  I was extremely enthusiastic about my prospects as a sperm donor.

These people are eugenicists. I knew my chances were good.

I sent a couple of emails, and quickly had an appointment after class made for California Cryobank’s Central Square office. They would test my first “donation”, and then determine if I’d made the cut. What ensued was perhaps the most awkward experience of my life.

After arriving at the office, I was made to wait in a conference room. A short time later a girl in her 20s came in and had me fill out some paperwork. She was very professional, but there was an elephant in the room. We struggled through small talk while I filled out the forms. I’d hoped to make the entire experience into a big joke, but here we were: a strange girl processing the medical history of a guy about to sell his genetic material. I was in a brave new world.

She ushered me down a hallway, where a smirking male nurse stopped, looked me right in the eye and said, “Sir”, accompanied by a stiff nod of his head. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

Finally, we reached another reception area, where she turned me over to a male nurse behind a counter. He gave me a small clear plastic cup and told me to select a room. There were three doors, each labeled “Collection Room.” I chose the room on the far left because it was the one farthest away from the counter with the male nurse.

What happened in there was very private and none of your business.

I turned the “sample” in at the counter. In retrospect there was no way I could have lessened the painful awkwardness of handing that little clear cup back to that nurse, but I tried anyway. I said, “Might as well get paid for what I’m doing anyway.” He didn’t laugh.

I never went back.