My Husband Gave A Sperm Sample In A Parking Lot
You know, wherever the mood strikes.
Yulia Grigoryeva / Shutterstock My husband and I have been trying to conceive for over a year. In that time, I've had more sex than a hooker and spent enough money on pregnancy tests to purchase a fully loaded Kia. Hope has emerged with every late period. Knowledge has been gained from every Google search on infertility. And confusion has been born while trying to decipher the code language on TTC message boards (i.e. BD, AF, LP, DH, DPO, WTH?)
At the 14-month mark of abundant sex with negative pee-soaked sticks, I made an appointment to see my gynecologist. We discussed our options. I had blood work done and scheduled a procedure that would check to make sure my tubes were not obstructed.
With that procedure, I endured the most horrible cramps I've ever felt in my life. And although I called my gynecologist an SOB and plotted to do him bodily harm for manhandling my tubes, he smiled kindly, apologized, and seemed genuinely happy to discover that all of my womanly parts were functioning as they should. He said the next step was for my husband's swimmers to be checked.
When the day arrived for my husband to make his deposit, he was suddenly a scared little virgin boy. His face flushed crimson when the attractive nurse confirmed that he was there to give a sperm sample. He bit his fingernails as if it was his first trip to a brothel.
I tried to ease his mind, assuring him that thousands of these samples were taken every week, but he wasn't hearing it. He said something just wasn't natural, or sexy, about the whole scenario. I told him to get over it.
My gynecologist, who is the spitting image of Aziz Ansari (and hilarious to boot), entered the exam room.
He handed us a cup for the sperm sample and winked. He said there wasn't a special place in the clinic filled with smutty magazines to "obtain the sample", but we could go home and retrieve it as long as it was returned to the lab within 30 minutes.
That's exactly what we would've done if we didn't live more than 30 minutes away from the clinic.
When I told Aziz where our home was, he clicked his tongue and told us we were big kids and would figure it out. I know he lives in one of the doctor's mansions only minutes from the hospital, but my husband pulled me out the door before I asked if we could use his place.
"Maybe we should go to a hotel?" We walked to his truck in the parking lot.
"I'm not checking into a hotel for 30 minutes. That's how rumors get started," he said.
"Who will know? We will go to a cheap one by the interstate," I suggested. "Maybe it would be exciting. We could check-in under false names!"
"No."
So we sat in his truck and stared at the clean cup on his console.
"Let's just do it here," I looked around the parking lot.
It was a beautiful place, as far as parking lots go. Mature Oak trees shaded the lot and a stone wall surrounded the property. Birds chirped and bathed in the fountain beside the beautiful old office building.
"Your windows are tinted. It'll be okay. Let's just do it here."
"Look at how many people are in this lot! We can't do it here!" He motioned to a couple walking right past his truck.
I agreed that it was a bustling venue, so I looked around and noticed that the lot on the side of the building was very quiet and empty. It was also right across from the lab entrance, which would make "drop off" even easier. So, I told him to drive over there. Upon his examination of the vacant lot, he agreed.
He parked at the very back and reclined his seat. I turned Sirius up and, ironically, ZZ Top was singing, "You didn't have to squeeze it as you did, but you did, and I thank you." We had a hearty laugh and proceeded with the task at hand. Literally, at my hand.
I adamantly refused to take off any clothing, so my husband was forced to close his eyes, cup a hand full of my t-shirt-covered boob, and use his imagination. It took nearly ten minutes for him to forget that he was in an OBGYN parking lot, but once he did, he gave a hearty sample.
He tucked his mister back into his pants. I tightly affixed the top to the sample cup, and I opened the door to take it into the lab. It was at that moment that I noticed the security camera pointed right toward his vehicle.
I didn't even mention the camera to my husband because I know he would've wigged out. He's a recognized figure in our small community, and the last thing he needs is to have that footage shown and then be arrested for solicitation at the next town hall meeting. Besides, his windows are tinted. It probably didn't record us.
Probably.
When I opened the door to the lab, I was greeted by a kind lady wearing latex gloves.
"How old is the sample, sweetie?" She took the cup from me.
"Uh," I blushed and nodded out the window, where my husband was exiting his truck to casually tuck in his shirt.
"So, it's pretty fresh, then?" She winked at me as if it was completely normal.
For the record, my husband's little swimmers did come back normal, but we aren't pregnant yet.
But if and when I do, I think I'll leave this story out of the baby book.
Alex Alexander is a blogger for YourTango whose written extensively on love, relationships, and lifestyle topics.