If you could just fill this please.

Every man can ejaculate, it's easy really.  But it's a whole lot harder providing sperm when someone is going to analyse it under a microscope a few minutes later.  This is the story of my first time, the day after this our lives changed for the worse, forever.

January of 2009, a year after Kelly came off the pill and I'd went to my GP for an ear infection, as he read over my files and printed out my prescription he commented mostly on my unusually hairy ear canals, which had led to the infection in the first place but noted that apart from that I was in quite good health.   

“It's been a few years since your last visit is there anything else you’d like to bring up while you're here?"  

 Extra questions? Why is this doctor so interested in me? Normally they want me out of their office, normally they’re delighted I’m in and out in less than five minutes. Nothing to worry about here, next patient please. But not this guy, he’s staring right at me and he seems really interested in the answer, it’s not the normal bored indifference I’m used to. Unprepared for further examinations and panicking slightly at his unexpected curiosity the words just fell out.   

"Uuummm.... Well... I suppose.... There is something.... It's just my wife and I..... Well we've been trying for a baby for a year now....... And.... Umm…. I don't suppose there's much that can be done but..... so far…. Ahhh….we’ve had no luck."  

It was the first time I'd mentioned it to anyone other than Kelly, it hadn't been on my mind but it was out there now and this doctor seemed to be taking the matter quite seriously.   Despite my ineloquent explanation he was actually taking notes and rummaging through his cabinet.  He began with a reassuring, serious look.   

“Nothing to be concerned about, for some couples it takes time and for unexplained reasons it may not be that simple. One in six couples have troubles conceiving you know.”  

 I didn’t know but just hearing helped lift some of the worry.   

“But there are tests we can do to find out why.  If you've been trying for twelve months the view of the NHS is it’s always better to have the appropriate tests done to see if there’s a genuine medical reason why you haven't conceived. We can start the elimination process today."   

And with his declaration my momentarily lightened shoulders felt the full force of a larger, heavier and far more embarrassing problem.  Medical science was involved now, always striving for answers, it knew nothing of awkwardness and possesed little tact.  I know exactly what test he has in mind. I wanted to leave.   I just came to get my ears looked at and now I was sitting here while a health professional was insinuating that my nuts were not functioning as well as they should be.   

“It’s easier to begin testing men all we need is a sample."  

And just like that he handed me a prescription for my eardrops and began rummaging through his drawers for a container to capture my ejaculated semen.   

“Ring the pathology unit at the hospital before you do it, organise a convenient time to fill this and hand it in. You must abstain from any sexual activity for at least forty eight hours before producing. I'll have the results the next day and we can go from there." 

 I was handed my pot.  

“On you go now and good luck.”   

Good luck? What the hell is that supposed to mean?  Turning up of the corners of my mouth I attempted a smile. I stood and backed out of his office with my pot and an instructional leaflet stuffed deep into my pockets. I tried to affect a casual manner as I waded back through the crowded waiting room, I looked around afraid my body language was betraying my shameful secret. 

Later that day the receptionist ignored my obvious unease on the phone, or she simply didn’t recognise it.   "You can produce your specimen here in pathology…." 

I knew that would be tough by the way my scrotum contracted, objecting quite clearly to the combined use of specimen, produce and pathology in the same sentence.   

"…..or if you want you can do it at home and drop it off within half an hour of production."   

Maybe she had sensed my discomfort?  It didn't matter, while I still despised the use of the word production I agreed with my loosening scrotum.   

“Uumm… Home ...... thanks."   

For the second time that day I found it impossible to form a complete sentence.  The thought of masturbating in some broom closet or waiting room while lab coated scientists waited for my recently released ejaculate on the other side of the door, microscopes ready was definitely not something I was completely comfortable with. Hindsight tells me everyone would have been considerate and discreet but outright panic had overcome me a few hours ago as I waited in line at the chemist for my eardrops.  Mania may sound a bit extreme but surely you must realise this is an extreme situation. I’ve never had an in-depth discussion with another man who has been through IVF but if I did I'm pretty sure the wanking conversation is bound to be on the agenda. I’m guessing somewhere near the top, maybe the first thing.  There'll be amusing anecdotes about the preposterously small pots, perhaps the poor quality of the worn out magazines we were expected to use, or sly winks at masturbation endorsed by our wives and the entire medical community. We'll congratulate each other on our reliability, maybe pat each other on the back for being so freaking awesome. And then I’ll raise the question.  

"That first one was tough for you though, right?"  

He'll close his eyes, take a deep breath and stare down at his fidgeting hands, or maybe on some unseen entity on an invisible horizon.  He’ll be unable to make eye contact.  

"I don’t really want to talk about it...... but it was tough."  

Two days later and I'm ready for the next step, I'm not happy about it but I never will be and really will I ever be fully prepared to test if my scrotum is ferrying around mere passengers?  The lab opens at nine thirty and with Kelly leaving for work at six I have a few hours to whip myself into an agitated wretch. She parts with a few light-hearted words, a candid look and a comforting pat on the back.  My A4 sheet of instructions specifically mentions I'm to receive no assistance whatsoever.  It would have been a great if she could offer more help than a few words but they want the pot contaminated with my DNA only. A helping hand is totally out of the question. Pun totally intended. 

I’m worried for many reasons but firstly let’s start with the pot supplied. It’s a simple specimen jar, the type used to safely store skin scrapings for a biopsy or perhaps toenail clippings which are suspected of harbouring a fungus. A generic container and one that’s wildly inappropriate for trapping ejaculated semen which is blasted into the world at thirty miles per hour. The key word here is blasted and I’m working with an opening about an inch.   There is no way that I can make the next ten minutes of my life sound anything close to dignified.  

Things start well…… and continue smoothly..... Until the introduction of the cup.  With its tiny, gaping mouth placed in position momentum is lost, the mood is ruined and my cock decides it's time to leave the party.  This happens twice more until I decide it's time to take a risk, I'll have to go beyond the point of no return.  I've need to trick my sperm into making their charge.  The point of no return is the sexual equivalent of no man’s land, a tiny wedge between two opposing forces.  The fine dividing moment sandwiched between before and after and normally lasts long enough to mutter a brief "Uh... I'm sorry" before it passes and everything is truly all over.  In these critical seconds I need to make sure everything is in place.  

The Wikipedia description of ejaculation is as follows:  

First stage: Emission. The first stage is called emission (which means "the act of sending or throwing something out"). A man's testicles make sperm cells, and these are stored in a coiled tube called the epididymis. During emission, the two ducts (tubes) called the vasa deferentia, which carry sperm away from the testicles, squeeze the sperm from the epididymis to the top end of the ducts. When this happens, the man feels that he cannot stop his ejaculation. It is sometimes said that the man has reached the "point of no return". The sperm then passes through other tubes called the ejaculatory ducts, where they are mixed with fluids made by glands called the seminal vesicles, the prostate and the bulbourethral glands.  

So you may have noticed the critical words “Point of no return”, it's not some abstract idea I've just made up because I'm having trouble concentrating.    

Second stage: Ejaculation proper. The second stage is called ejaculation proper (which means "real ejaculation"). When ejaculation proper begins, the man starts having an orgasm. A muscle at the base of the man's penis called the bulbospongiosus muscle squeezes strongly again and again. This forces semen to move from the ejaculatory ducts into the urethra, which is a duct that passes right through the penis. Semen is pushed along the urethra until it shoots out of the end of the penis in spurts. Once the muscle starts to squeeze, the man cannot stop the semen from coming out of his penis. During an orgasm, the man's muscle will usually squeeze about 10 to 15 times. The squeezes happen very quickly. They start at about 0.1 second apart, then slow down and become weaker.  

So now I'm in a race against the comically named bulbospongiosus, a mistake here and what I dearly hope will be hundreds of millions of sperm will fall worthlessly on the floor, it's definitely not how they hoped to end their lives and it's not ideal for me either because I'm going to have to clean up my mess and forty eight hours later I'm going to have to go through all this trauma again.  

It can be said, by women, that many men will not see a job through to the end. This can’t be said of bulbospongiosus.  Called into action for only short periods of time, once this ferocious little muscle is set off then the unstoppable eruption that is the male orgasm arrives and you’d have more luck damning the Amazon or halting the expanding universe than you do of stopping ejaculatory fluid.  To cut a long story short, the point of no return came and so did I.                   

However it's not long before a new wave of angst sets in and when I say not long I mean instantly because with my bulbospongiosus still contracting I start to worry there's not enough there. I thoroughly examine my semen for the first time in my life and I don't like what I see.  There's not much of it and I'm worried that the colour is all wrong.  Before the cap is screwed in place I assume I'm the cause of our fertility issues.  This pitiful offering could never impregnate my wife.   

My sperm hadn't even hit the lab yet for analysis and already it was under investigation but without a microscope or any medical qualifications other than workplace first aid I admit I need a second opinion. With fifteen minutes to get this to the hospital I wrapped the pot discreetly and with no other ideas on how to transport it I wedged it tightly between my thighs for warmth and as close to the source as possible on the drive to the hospital. The previous day I had done a reconnaissance to locate pathology because I couldn't afford to get lost in the hospital.  Asking for directions with my confused sperm tucked away in my pocket could not happen. So when I rang the bell at pathology the white coated receptionist who slid open the window must have felt the lingering warmth as she unwrapped my pot from its discreet covering of toilet paper.  Of course she needed to identify it but there was total shame on my behalf as she had to hold it close to look through the condensation that had formed and then filled out the paperwork with the pot resting prominently between us.  She never asked what the contents were so I assumed she'd done this many times before.

With my semen now under microscopic analysis my anxiety levels plummeted. It seems I was less worried about being infertile than I was handing over a cup of my seed to a stranger.  I went back to my GP the next day, the results were normal, well better than normal actually. Mobility and count were very high, abnormalities were quite low. I was really quite proud and if it was possible to take my nuts out for a drink they wouldn't have had to buy a round all night.    

If there was a criticism, (and I did take it as one) the viscosity of the liquid was thick, I was very light in the fluid department and it wasn't simply paranoia creeping in as I'd brooded over my mostly unfilled pot.  This may cause some issues for my sperm I was told, but it’s probably not a major problem.   

There's worse things in the world than producing too much sperm and not enough fluid. It was time to let all the guys at work know my scrotum was working at full steam but first I had to tell Kelly.     

“That’s great” she told me. 

 Call it husbands intuition, I knew she didn’t really mean it.  

“Look I’ve got to get back to work, I’ll see you tonight.” 

She hung up.  She was well aware that more tests were needed and they would be on her. I was oblivious, too proud, happy and relieved to realise the implications.  Kelly instantly questioned her own body. If the problem lay with her what could it be? A lot makes up the reproductive system of a woman, a lot can go wrong and nearly all of them more serious than too few, or too sluggish swimmers.