Science – Friction/Double Feature, Part One:

It’s Alive

lipsI confess: sometimes I judge. In most cases of course these soapbox stepping, high horse climbing, sanctimonious laden decrees take place in the privacy of my own head. And because I am a recovering Catholic, after silently criticizing some transgressing heathen or another; it takes me twice the effort – and time – to secretly scold myself for having had the sinful, self-righteous thought in the first place.

This very twisted psychological cycle of censure and self-flagellation began to occur as I sat on the waiting room couch at my follow-up visit to the reproductive fertility office of White Coat and The Dark Angel. As I was patiently waiting for my turn to ejaculate into a cup, I noticed a middle-aged man standing at the reception desk with a female that appeared to be at least half his age. You see there – already I am making judgments. Perhaps the young lady was the older gentleman’s daughter, or his niece, or his fresh-faced, innocent charge – like Jean Valjean and Cosette. Could be. I mean – really – who the gay, HIV+, forty-six-year-old hell was I?  Right?

Anyway, the May-December couple’s interchange with the receptionist caught my ear when I heard Valjean ask, “How much does it cost to choose the sex?” Oy vey iz mer! I only had enough time to hear the beginning fragments of what struck me as a rather sordid haggling between Valjean and the receptionist about the fair market value of gender selection. Thankfully, just then my name was called by a short, female, lab technician who proceeded to escort me into the next room.

After she drew my blood, the petite technician handed me a Dixie-cup-size, clear plastic, specimen container and directed me to the masturbation chamber – my nomenclature, not hers. The chamber was accessible only through a doorway that was directly off of the lobby that I had just come from.  I reached into the small room, and flipped on the light switch. As I stepped in and turned around to close the door behind me – I noticed a smattering of other patients lounging on the waiting room furniture. Whether our eyes actually met or not, they all knew. I was going to be just on the other side of this door – pleasuring myself.  That’s right. I said it.  Pleasuring myself.

So be sure to get a full cheapest viagra prices http://valsonindia.com/portfolio-items/staple-fiber-yarn/ check up so that you can pick the best one among series of medicines available these days. Taking example of two tadalafil buy india countries, X and Y, can help you understand better. The market levitra prices size of China’s diabetes drugs is expected to top 20 million within the next decade. Quite a large number of males have evaluated the medicine and have seen the wonders of the buying cialis in spain medicine on their health. The windowless cubby that I found myself in had probably once existed as a water closet. There was a simple vanity and sink on one side of the door, and a vinyl recliner on the other – my guess is that the recliner was sitting where the toilet had once been. There was a roll of paper towels on the counter, some soap, and a couple of drawers full of girlie mags – bad ones. Luckily, however, I didn’t any need inspirational photographs – just a little imagination and some friction. After completing the task at hand, I admit that I remained in the chamber for a little extra time – you know – not wanting the lobby folk to think I was too easily pleased.

Eventually I emerged from the chamber, sought out the petite technician, and handed over my sample.  She asked me to again take a seat in the waiting room. A short time later she returned to let me know that the sample I had provided looked fine, and asked if I wanted to see it. Yes, the offer to have a gander at my own sperm did strike me as a bit strange. Nevertheless – moments later – I was peering through a microscope at what my seven minutes in solo heaven had just produced.

it's AliveIt’s alive. Astounding. In school I had never been a big fan of science, but after observing my super-magnified semen I was sure that I had probably missed out on all kinds of cool experiments as a kid.  They were amazing; enumerable, and they all seemed to be completely fired up and ready to get the job done.

I would be lying if I said that this very simple act of looking through a highly powered and sharply focused lens at those squirming seeds of life did not cause me to profoundly consider the miraculous nature of human conception. Now that I think of it, perhaps that was the petite technician’s intention all along – to inspire my profound consideration. In any case I was told that I would need to call back in a week or ten days to get the detailed results of my analysis.

This part of the process was not altogether new for me – the waiting for results. I was well acquainted with the lab-work waiting game. By this time I had lived for almost twenty-five years in three month cycles of: blood draw, wait a week, then call for a T-cell count. There was a period early on in my HIV – when things seemed to be headed decidedly south – that it was just a matter of calling my doctor at week’s end to see how many T-cells had actually been lost during the previous three month period. Still, there was something unique in this week; waiting for the results of my semen analysis. After all – this time I was not dreading news that could potentially limit my future, no, this time rather I was praying for laboratory results that could possibly blow my entire future wide open.