That'll Do Nicely Sir!

It seems strange, and I’ve talked about not feeling involved in this process, but when I have been asked to contribute to the ingredients, boy did I want to be somewhere else.  
 
I have yet to meet a man who has not, at sometime in his life, enjoyed those special unrushed moments, home alone, when all else is left to one side for the more pleasurable actions.  It’s one of the most natural things to do and we, the male of the species, are born experts.  That’s just the way it is.
 
If you’re still not sure what I am talking about then let me spell it out.  One man, one locked room, a brown A4 cardboard envelope of ‘reading material’ and your very own sample of DNA, yet to be produced or expressed as they like to call it.  And let’s not forget the obligatory plastic cup which, I have to say, is big enough to hold a sperm sample from a bloody elephant!
 
Feeling uncomfortable?  Welcome to my world mate!
 
Now, picture this.  You’re sitting in a room full of couples who, along with you and your wife, are waiting for their initial consultation with the IVF clinic staff.  This is the first consultation and takes three hours to complete.  During this time couples can expect to see four different members of the clinical team.
 
So, full room, first time consultation.  In pops one of the nurses and calls for Mr O’Connor.  Instantly I stand up and move towards her.  I note the look on the nurse’s face and then realise Beth is a step behind me.  I stop and look at Beth, then the nurse, then back to Beth; something’s got to give and everyone in the room knows it!
 
Diplomatically, thankfully, the nurse steps forward to inform the pair of us that, on this occasion, only I am required.  Every man in the room, apart from one, smirks.  Beth quickly sits next to a couple and delves into a Cosmopolitan.  I continue my journey into the depths of the building; oh happy days!
 
I follow the nurse along a very clean smelling corridor and she stops abruptly.  So abruptly in fact that I have to use all my strength to pull up before running into the back of her.  She takes a sharp left turn and disappears behind a half door which she shuts firmly behind her.  I sense the tone of her action; I am not following her into the room, clearly.  She smiles at me and delivers the first killer question of the day:
 
“How long has it been since your last sexual encounter?”
 
“Don’t sit on the fence will you!” I think loudly to myself
 
“About four days” I mumble whilst looking at my feet.
 
And, at that point, she produces what I can only describe as one of the largest, and I do mean large, sample pots I have ever seen.  I know for a fact she enjoys this and I can feel her laughing at me as I make a feeble attempt at humour by promising not to fill it to the top.
 
“Yeah, OK monkey boy, I can’t wait to see you fail!”
 
 Whilst she didn’t actually say that I know she is thinking it!  I make a mental note never to speak to her again and take a look at her name badge for future reference: Evil Nurse from Hell. I am not however, convinced that’s her real name.
 
I stand there, lost.  Surely she doesn’t want me to drop the tweeds in the corridor, as clean as it is!  She raises her eyebrows and looks over my shoulder.  I take this gesture to be the sign to crack on; I will God to strike me down whilst singeing her badly.  To my relief, she coughs quietly and points to a door directly behind me; I am saved! I quickly thank God whilst quietly making a pact with the devil to have Nurse ‘Smugandaloof’ burn in Hell for the rest of enternity.
 
I disappear into the designated room, firmly locking the door behind me.  I take a look around the space where I have to ‘express’ my boys.  Basically, it’s a toilet.  Yes, it has a nice chair artistically covered with industrial sized duck egg blue kitchen paper.  Yes, it has a couple of pictures hanging on the walls to give it that, shall we say, calming effect.  And yes, as expected, it has the collection of ‘helpful’ magazines every man needs in situations like these.  But, at the end of a very long day, it’s still a bloody crapper!
 
Classy!
 
Faced with the situation in hand, quite literally, a guy has little choice but to make things happen.  To start with I looked at the selection: FHM, Stuff, Heat and GQ; all as you can imagine, quite stunning.  I then found myself in the rather awkward position of being more interested in the 4x4 article in Stuff than anything else.  I really had to work hard to stop myself settling down in the duck egg chair, and kicking up my feet on the toilet lid for a good read.  In fact, the only thing that did stop me was knowing that Nurse ‘Little Humour’ was waiting outside for me to return the collecting trough as requested.
 
So, I expressed.
 
And then, dilemma; had I expressed too early?  Was there a time attached to these things?  Did they keep a chart of Husbands and Partners with points for who took an above average period of time to flip their lid, as it were?  I simply would not be known as Swifty O’Connor.  So, in order to counter such a claim, I flipped open the Stuff Mag, stretched out on the kitchen chair and spent some quality ‘self’ time alongside my little pot of expresso.  Believe me, it was a special moment for the pair of us!
 
After about five very relaxing ‘special’ minutes, I thought it was just enough time to give me the stud rating I so obviously deserved following such an arduous and harrowing experience.  All I had to do now was leave my little toilet and return the sample to Nurse ‘Starched and Sterile’ waiting on the other side of her stable door.  So, with a quick look in the mirror to make sure I was a little less flushed I unlocked the door and stepped out of the wanking booth.  
 
I handed her my pot, to which you would have thought I had asked her to actually drink the contents judging by the expression on her face.  In reply and complete silence, she handed me a tray to place my sample on and return to her whilst she snapped on a pair of industrial strength plastic marigolds.  Obviously she wasn’t into touching men’s jumping juice then?  Whilst I can’t really say I blame her, I couldn’t help but think she was in the wrong job.  Maybe something along the lines of scaring small children would have suited her better?
 
The final task; the re-entry into the waiting room crammed with people who had seen me leave.  This is another one of those nightmare scenarios as, whilst I am trying to look calm and collected, I know I am actually looking a little flushed and I also know that every one of those people knows that I have just tossed for England!  So, as I walk up the stairs, I plan my entrance to the last detail.  It’s so simple I relax as I approach the door; deep breath, let’s go.
 
In.  Turn left, forward, make eye contact with a rather large bloke and his wife, look elsewhere, forget about overflowing bin, kick bin over. Noisily!  Die quietly whilst sitting next to giggling wife.  
 
Next Please!