So I just come back from the most disturbing time of my life. See, I'm almost 29 and my wife is almost 30. That apparently means we should be swimming in babies so our shit must not be working, so the doctors are hell-bent on figuring out what's wrong with us. So I got a prescription to whack off into a Dixie cup and let a doctor look at it to check out my Testicle Troops to make sure they're working correctly.
Now, I had the option to either "provide the sample" at home or at the fertility center at the hospital. I chose home field advantage. Not that it really helped. See, normally beating off is relaxing, fun even. A good time. My favorite pastime even. But normally I'm not doing it on the clock, into a Dixie cup, so I can rush it to the doctors within twenty minutes before it goes bad, with my wife standing in the other room tapping her foot waiting for me. So needless to say it took a couple more tugs than normal. I would have to say of all the times I've ever masturbated, it was definitely the least enjoyable.
So I finished up, wiped my finger onto the inside of my jizz cup, ran to the car, stuck out siren onto the wheel, and was off on my race against time to preserve the milky goodness that just came out of my penis. I arrived at the hospital and was naturally the only man in the entire fertility wing, making it extremely obvious what I was there for. I might as well have had a sign that said "HERE TO MASTURBATE" flashing over my head for all the looks I got.
And then I got to the community masturbation chamber, where all kinds of men go to pull out their shit and whack off in a public doctor's office. Even though I had already "taken the sample" I still had to go into the masturbation chamber to fill out my paperwork. I don't know what I liked best about the chamber. Maybe it was the stench of semen and shame. Or maybe the large faux-classy easy chair with the sterile covering. Or maybe the flat-screen TV which I assume was there for "collection assistance" as they told me. Or maybe it was the sign on the wall giving instructions on how to "collect your sample." Yes, that's right. They even had instructions in case you weren't sure how to masturbate. Or it could be the questionnaire I had to fill out, in which I had to circle my method of "collection" so everyone would know I had masturbated just in case there was any doubt, and which also asked me when my last ejaculation was, and also if my "sample" was complete or if any had missed the jizz cup.
No, I think my favorite part was the ghosts of masturbations past that haunted the room. Everywhere you looked there was the constant reminder of a thousand thousand naked dudes beating their meat in the very room I was occupying. Seriously. I've been in funeral homes that were less creepy than this place. Actually, I think if I had the choice, I would rather whack off in a funeral home than that place. Why can't I just do it in church? I'm used to that.