My Semen Analysis

Erasmo Calzadilla

HAVANA TIMES — What is the quality of my sperm? That is what the doctors are trying to find out. The first test I was subjected to yielded such bad results that the technicians were wondering whether, instead of ejaculating, I hadn’t actually spat in the jar they gave me.

I often take pride in not being a pure-bred macho-man, but, on getting the bad news, I was hit by a number of hang-ups.

I underwent treatment and the second test showed pure whole milk: this time around, my boys were so strong they made waves in the jar as they swam anxiously in search of an inexistent ovum (poor fellas).

The stark difference between the first result, expected of a sixty-year-old pensioner, and the second, more in keeping with a strapping young lad, made the doctors suspect that something wasn’t quite right. Perhaps the samples had been mixed up? It wouldn’t be the first time.

A few days ago, I had my third exam, and I would like to share my experience with you – not out of an exhibitionist whim, I swear. I would simply like to know how others deal with these situations. My story could perhaps also be of help to others.

Here it goes:

I go to the “shooting range.” I don’t have a laptop, so I try to fill up some bytes of my poor memory with the sensual images I capture as I go. The selection isn’t too promising, for, as the moment of truth nears, sex becomes foreign and strange to me – reality becomes de-sensualized.

What’s so attractive about an ass? What do we find so appealing about a pair of shapely hips? Why would anyone want to suck on a milkless mammary gland?

A series of tissues, support structures and conducts where foul-smelling substances flow – what sexual arousal could they possibly spark off? None.

Expectedly, no arousal comes to my aid in the less-than-sexy little wanking room while I hold the semen jar, in one hand, and the flaccid bit of skin that refuses to swell, in the other.

There’s a line of people waiting outside and the sense of urgency kills what little remains of my lust. Where are those recurrent erotic images (which come to me even at funerals) when you need them?

I set out on a race against my own mind. I close my eyes and try to imagine I am somewhere pleasant, with a nice girl who rubs her naked skin against me, but it’s all for naught: as soon as I gather a bit of pressure, my consciousness breaks in and reminds me where I am. The mind can’t outrun the mind.

I persist in the half-hearted fondling when, suddenly, a physiological miracle occurs: a few millivolts of current flow wearily down my lower abdomen. My mind reacts by trying to put out the incipient fire with a bucket of cold lucidity and begins to revert this physical process. The voltage goes down, but an opportunity reveals itself.

In the jerk-off room, there is a slight crack through which one can see a lobby, a lobby where several women wait to be seen. I barely see anything: a bit of cleavage, the silhouette of a thigh…not much, but enough to distract my consciousness for a few minutes and take the conspiracy of the flesh to fruition.

The boxing match is on. No definitive verdict is in sight until a few spasms announce the arrival of the hot spurt of liquid.

My contribution to science isn’t significant. It’s been a cruel battle.