Disclaimer: The views expressed within this article are entirely the author’s own and are not attributable to Wessex Scene as a whole.
It’s a primal urge for us homo-sapiens to reproduce. To spread our genes thoroughly, to increase the possibility of them surviving the test of time. This primal urge would make you think, ‘Hey, if I want to spread my kid juice more than Genghis Khan, I should just donate sperm?’ I mean, they store it for years and years and it can be used for multiple families – its reproduction’s only passive income. Yet, the majority of the planet do not donate their sperm or eggs.
Whilst there are a number of reasons as to why this is the case: effort, apathy, lack of awareness that infertile parents desperately need donors, etc. – I believe the most interesting reason also links back to our ancestors. Before that, however, here’s the story of how I became a professional wanker, and to my kids, this is the story of how I met your mother.
It was the first year of my undergraduate degree at the university. I was broke, a regurgitation of the same three Lil Peep tunes were fortified in my eardrums protecting me from my own thoughts. My bank balance and I both felt negative, yet I still craved modifications to my Fiesta. My baby girl needed a honeycomb grill, she was tired of being a basic batch with the generic brace grill that came on the 2013 model. It was time for her to grow up and ditch the braces, she wanted a grill bigger than a Soundcloud rapper’s. Thus, I remembered my mate telling me about how much you can get paid if you donated sperm – 35 quid apiece.
My whip would be looking fire in no time.
So I signed up. I visited the hospital, had medical checks and sat down with a counsellor to discuss my mental state. She asked me why I wanted to donate sperm. I said money. She laughed, ‘at least you’re honest.’ Bang. I’m in. All I had to do now was provide a sample to check I had a sufficient amount of sperm cells per ejaculation.
I got taken into a room full of porno magazines and given a cup (you can guess what for). I remembered that this was 2018 and not the 1980s so whipped out my phone to watch Pornhub. I’ll save the details and skip the next bit. I sat down in the waiting room. I was nervous. 20 minutes later a nurse took me into a room. I had passed the test with flying colours. The average amount of sperm cells per ejaculation is 15 million, my sample had a whopping 55 million. I was over the moon. I signed my contract to become a sperm donor, it was official. I was a Certified Wanker. What a title.
For the next few months I visited the hospital, ‘business trips’ as I would call it. Like the majority of things in life, I never really thought about it too much. I knew I was doing a good deed for the families, and I knew that my whip looked naughty with a lowered suspension. All in all the maximum you can do is 16 samples, so I made £560.
That was it.
I forgot about this experience for a while until one day I remembered I could e-mail to see if I’d got anyone up the duff. I emailed but didn’t get a response for a few days. Although, once it came through I was pretty shocked. The email told me that I had a son. I didn’t know what to think at first, I mean, I donated sperm so this was quite obviously the outcome to expect. I just had this shallow hope that he would grow up and his parents would think he’s alright-looking, I wouldn’t want them to be disappointed with my service.
I knew that when he was 18-years old he had the right to contact me and I could meet him. I am under no legal obligation to do anything for him but I will fittingly treat him to a £35 meal. Call that the circle of life. My flatmate made me try to believe I should have some weird bond with the child as if it were my own. Yes, biologically he was genetically intertwined with me, but as Roll Safe would say, ‘that’s not my son.’ The man who raises him and supports him, shows him the love and affection he needs to develop into a good person is his father. This is the other primal trait we carry that I mentioned in the intro; a sense of bondage with our own blood. It does weird me out sometimes thinking that I could nip to the shops and walk past my biological son in a pushchair without even knowing, but I get over it. I just hope that in 18 years time, if we meet, I will be a man he is proud to be related to.
I see no real loser in the transactions I made four years ago. An infertile couple had the chance to become pregnant, my bank account was somewhat rejuvenated, I did a good deed, my Fiesta had a makeover, everybody was a winner. So would I recommend everybody capable of donating sperm or eggs to do it? Absolutely. The only reason that you should not donate your sperm or eggs is if you’re someone who claps when the plane lands on holiday. Other than that, everybody should. You are benefitting everybody. Albeit, I understand it is a lot more personal for women to donate eggs as a doctor has to extract them. All it normally takes to bust one out is 5 minutes alone in a free gaff, so why not do it for money?
Anyway, that is all I have to say on the matter. I have one final thing to say to the parents that used my sperm. If you become puzzled when your son develops a strange Tesco meal deal addiction, starts supporting Liverpool, and throws up gun fingers to cheese tunes on nights out because it’s his only dance move, I’m proud to tell you that he’s just like his old man.
