Current local Las Vegas time is 7:53am, January 19, 2018.

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Analyze this: a test you can’t study for

A while back Mrs. Vargas and I were trying to conceive a little Vargas. We were not immediately successful in this endeavor. Sometimes this stuff takes time. Even after several months, we were still without a future little Vargas.

Mrs. Vargas and I weren’t particularly worried, taking the “it will happen when it happens” attitude. Unfortunately, Mrs. Vargas was getting pressure from her mother (and mine) to conceive. And quickly. Now if ever there was a way to cross circuits in the male brain, it’s having mothers and mothers-in-law giving advice on conception. Sorry, ladies: I love you, but this isn’t an area where I want your advice.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother-in-law. We get along just fine. This is not a Fred Flintstone/Ralph Cramden type of husband/mother-in-law type of thing. It’s just that Mrs. Vargas’s mother (and mine) is anxious to have some grandchildren. So much so that she was convinced that we should have conceived within ten minutes, and thought we needed testing … to the point of being willing to foot the bill to get us to fertility experts.

I told Mrs. Vargas we needed to try for a few more months first, but her mom’s pressure (and check) got to her. Mrs. Vargas made an appointment with her gynecologist and had an exam. Nothing overtly abnormal was observed at the exam. So far, so good.

And that’s when she showed “it” to me.

“It” is a prescription from her doctor for “semen analysis”. Obviously this wasn’t for her, unless she was the one doing the analyzing. The worst part is that I had no idea where to have a semen analysis done. I had become expert at obtaining the desired bodily fluid in my teens, so at least that would not be an issue. I also knew that my medical insurance at the time would cover some of the expenses of fertility testing, keeping out of pocket expenses minimal.

At this point in my life I belonged to a club that held their weekly meetings in a hospital cafeteria. This club, in fact, was sponsored in part by the hospital. Another interesting point is that the hospital is owned and operated by the Seventh Day Adventist Church, so certain things like semen and pork are not necessarily welcome on premises.

I happened to know that they do all sorts of tests at this hospital, so I inquired about getting my test done with one of the women in the club who would know where to direct me. I also knew that simply asking, “Hey Carrie, where can I get a semen analysis done here?” would be a Very Bad Thing™, so I looked up the name of the specialty so I would have the fancy doctor name for what I needed.

My new euphemistic code phrase was “reproductive endocrinology.”

“Carrie, I need a test done. How do I get in touch with ‘reproductive endocrinology’ to schedule it?” She said she would have to check that out and would email me.

Unfortunately, nobody that Carrie spoke with really knew what kind of testing reproductive endocrinology did, so Carrie then asked (in email) exactly which test I needed. That’s when I had to email her back with the two dreaded words “semen analysis”.

Within minutes, I got the phone call. Apparently this was too much for email. She informed me that this was a “walk-in” test and I could go to Patient Check-In any time they were open (9-5, basically) and get the test done.

“Get the test done.” I liked the sound of that, since it seemed to imply that I wasn’t the one extracting fluids. The one doing it might not be the 19-year-old nymphet only partially clad in a nurse’s uniform I was imagining. With my luck, it would have been a 43-year old hairy guy named Rolf.

When I was 15, sanctioned masturbation would have been a fantasy. At my age, it’s an annoyance, and it was also something that I was being forced to share the knowledge of with several strangers in a clinical environment. My weekly meeting was at 7:30am on Wednesdays, so I figured I could pop up to Patient Check-In after the meeting at around 8:45am, toss off a quickie, and get to work no later than 10:00am.

I grew up Catholic, so the appropriate amount of guilt associated with self-love has been installed into me. Not to mention the adolescent accusations of “you play with yourself”. So it was with no small amount of irony that I walked into a religious hospital armed with a note from a doctor that essentially said that he wanted me to jerk off into a cup and that they were to look at it and tell me what’s up.

When I walked into Patient Check-In I had already gotten over any embarrassment I was going to feel that day. After all, a respected member of the medical community said it’s OK for me to do this. I wasn’t particularly worried about any hospital employees doing anything odd, since they are professionals and this was their environment. They’re paid to deal with situations like this in an orderly manner.

I was worried about collateral ridicule or disgust from the other patients, but was relived when the Check-In area was mercifully empty. I handed the scrip to the receptionist, who told me to walk through a door and go to cubicle number 3.

A really nice lady took down my particulars. Since I had procedures done there previously, my information was already in the computer. I was spared the barrage of questions about name, address, allergies, etc. After 5 minutes in “intake” I was pointed to another room where “preoperative testing” was done. This room was full of people and I still had my scrip that said (a little to large and legibly for a doctor if you ask me) “semen analysis”.

Much to my relief, I was able to offload my paperwork at a window and was instructed to take a seat. I had been waiting for about 10 minutes when the nurse called my name. She was about 45, very tall, very black, and very large. She also held a cup and had a look of mild professional disgust on her face. She clearly knew what was about to happen, did not approve, but her training nonetheless allowed her to keep a level of professionalism.

She said to follow her, and that I would be led to a room. I looked at the cup she was holding and noted it held about 4 ounces, give or take. For a moment, I was tempted to ask for a second one, just to see the look on her face.

It’s a damned good thing I didn’t.

When I first got my scrip, I not only had fantasies about the nymphet nurse, but the room as well. I wasn’t thinking about a luxurious hotel suite with a round bed or anything, but simply a nice quiet room with appropriate stimulatory materials. Instead, I got “D – none of the above”.

I was led through the examination area, out into the hall and to a bathroom next to a bank of elevators. This was a single-person bathroom, and had a nice sign on the door that said to “lock for privacy when occupied”. Considering that what I was about to do could be considered a sexual crime in several states, I wanted a bar, chair and Pit Bull blocking that door. The lock would have to suffice.

As the nurse left me at the bathroom, she simply said, “You know what to do. Find me when you’re done.” I wasn’t sure if that was a smile or a grimace on her face. I wasn’t also pleased that the last female presence I had was the medical version of Nell Carter (may she rest in peace) on a bad day who disapproved of what I was about to do.

I was now safely locked in the bathroom, with ugly brown tile on the floor and walls. Every ambient sound was echoed and amplified by the wonderful acoustics in there. Especially the elevator sounds. Ever hopeful, I scouted for some sort of stimulatory magazine, but there were none. The only paper in there was toilet paper and paper towels. And they were plain white. No Playboy. No Penthouse. No Hustler. Not even Glamour or the Sears catalog underwear section.

My hydraulics function well, but they’re not accustomed to performing under duress, especially while a disapproving nurse is waiting. So getting going took a while. Getting comfortable took even longer. There are some things I don’t do well standing up. This is one of them. My back also happened to be on the fritz that day, so comfort was even more difficult. After about ten minutes, I was able to adjust myself into a semi-comfortable position.

I’ll spare you the ugly details of what happened next, but let’s just say that I used a lot of imagination of favorite Playmates past and nearly sprained my wrist. I don’t know how long it took, but it was a long time. The word “chafing” is an important part of this story. Chafing is not good when you’ve got results to produce. I persevered regardless. (I would have considered getting some help from the hand soap, but I didn’t want to skew the results. I can imagine the report: “100,000,000 of the cleanest sperm we’ve ever seen.”)

There’s no polite way to say this, so I’ll be simple and blunt: I was sorely disappointed in the results. I’ve watched enough porno movies to know a good money shot when I see one, and this one was worth about 38 cents on a good day. But it’s all I had in me, and damn it, my wrist hurt and I was rubbed raw. So that’s all they were going to get. This is also why I’m glad that I didn’t ask for the second cup, even in jest. Sometimes my filters do work well.

This is when an ugly problem cropped up. I didn’t know where to find the nurse. I didn’t particularly want to wander the halls of the hospital carrying a pittance of my man juice in a cup, for such things are frowned upon in polite society no matter the circumstances. So I backtracked into the examining area and asked a nurse where to go. She said through this door and to hand it off at the counter. So I walked through the door.

Into the crowded waiting room.

With my cup.

In full view.

This was clearly a “no eye contact” situation, so I made a beeline for the window and proudly plopped down my cup, waiting for attention. And wait I did. For at least 5 minutes. Five. Long. Painful. Minutes. Finally a nurse came by and said that I would have to go through yet another door. Fortunately, “my” nurse was nearby, saw me, and took charge.

Since she knew what was in the jar, she put on rubber gloves, which didn’t offend me too much. She took the jar from me, looked at it, glanced at me disapprovingly for one last time, especially given that my efforts were obviously below average in volume, and placed it in what looked like an evidence bag. I then got the all clear, “You can go now.”

It wasn’t a cheerful “you can go now”, but more of the “I know what you just did and I still don’t like it but this ends our relationship so there’s no sense in prolonging it with artificial social niceties” kind of dismissal. I was happy to go.

Out the back door.

Published Tue 11/15/05 at 10:18pm

Categorized in Flashbacks, Mrs. Vargas

5 Responses to Analyze this: a test you can’t study for

  1. lmednick said on Sat 11/19/05 at 7:07am

    Uhhh… Uhhh… Cool, like he said.
    Mr. Vargas. Sometimes, stories, though very entertaining, may have just a bit TMI.

    Well, if nothing else, you got this off your chest, or off your… chest. Like I said.
    You’re right. When you get to a certain age, the glories of jumping into bed for a quick solo afternoon delight disappear in favor of turning on the tv and relaxing. Granted, some things do take place naturally and my up bringing, thank G*d, has not instilled a guilt about masterbation. Though, society has.

    There can be so many conversations that can spring from this story. I can comment on your last sight as you entered the bathroom. On almost all TV shows, they supply a magazine. Even in King of The Hill, Hank requested a magazine! But you got bubkas.

    Several years ago, I had to go under the knife. My appendix was bursting. To make a funny long story short. When I was in the recovery room, the first morning after my surgery. I saw my first nurse. Like any single guy in his late 20s that’s never been in the hospital since birth, you imagine a hospital to be like you see on TV. Nice, good looking girls tending to your every need…
    I opened my eyes to see some guy in a nurse uniform.
    Apparently I died and was in hell!
    This hospital, though it had fantastic service, had some of the most G*d awfull looking nurses! No masterbation for this guy. No imagination could make what I saw make me want to play with the ol’ salami!

    Oh right, what was I talking about. Yes, and after you tighten the oil filter about 1 to 1.5 times revolutions after the gasket makes contact, you are done. Refill the crankcase with the appropriate stated amount of oil and start the engine.

    That’s how simple changing your own oil can be.

  2. Kevin W said on Sat 11/19/05 at 3:57pm

    Dude, after I picked myself up off the floor for the 87th time, I realized it took a lot of cojones(pun intended) to not only take the test, but to write about it. Hope you score high!!!

  3. Special K said on Mon 11/21/05 at 3:08pm

    Ok, this is just way too much TMI for your SISTER! Dad told me about your site – thanks- Dad! Now I cannot get the visuals out of my mind – I am now blind! Thank god I have a seeing eye cat, Max.

  4. LarsVargas said on Mon 11/21/05 at 10:14pm

    Oh yeah, like anyone forced you to read this story. There are at least 20 others on the site right now … and you complain about this one.

    Just be happy I wasn’t thinking about you during parts of that story! How ’bout DEM apples? 🙂

  5. Dad said on Sat 11/26/05 at 1:10am


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