Fertility Clinic

Author's comments. I regret that while I was at university this sort of job was not available. Unfortunately, one of my class mates was Tom Selleck who, hands down, could have been recruited for this job if they had to haul him in from the street....

Now, of course, the availability of sex at no charge and wherever one wants it has eaten into the occupation herein described. Still, I will argue that a trained professional is always better than even a gifted amateur. P-J

It started with a job I found offered in the campus bookstore on a note posted on a cork board held to it with a pin shaped very much like a man's penis. Who wouldn't at least look? Form follows function; The ad was for an assistant at a local fertility clinic AND sperm bank, nights only, no insurance, no perceivable benefits save that, as it was winter, they provided heat plus a roof over your head at night while hoped for sperm and eggs got together to make babies for childless couples who wished to rectify that situation. Apart from basic paperwork, the job was a combination janitor and security person-although who-or why-anyone would wish to break into a sperm bank wasn't made clear. Not to mention what they might steal….

Not surprizingly, they'd had quite a few applicants so the position was mine based, I believe, on looking looking “normal”-the Human Resources person's word which suggested that some “not normals” had also been applying for the job. . .Possibly wisely, a job that was completely associated with sex offered nothing other than a modest salary, a room, a bed and bath to obtain an employee could attract an ‘unusual’ stripe of applicant. After I’d been hired, I was told they’d usually had a graduate student who wanted the time as well as the silence to work on their dissertation; I hoped I wasn’t a disappointment, being only an undergrad….

Well, to be wholly honest, which is why I'm in this situation anyway, there was one benefit that wasn't mentioned, you just had to discover it which I did; Unlimited access to porn. Any kind, kinky, vanilla, acrobatic, any combination of sex and/or sexes, all manner of couplings-save animals and the very young-all at the touch of a button or the opening of a file cabinet carefully alphabetized, “Pornography: Bananas to Basics”, just as an example. No letter was without at least a thick file of magazines, articles, pictures, videos etc. And for the intellectual, references to ‘scholarly articles’, theses, dissertation on the topic of sex. (Some of those went waaaay beyond old fashioned porn. Way.) Need I mention there were boxes of tissue everywhere, mute testimony to the wide and varied needs of the others who worked there not to mention our clients? Really, just in the files alone, forget those who were making ‘donations’, there were enough samples of DNA left, mostly unseen unless you got somewhere before the sanitizing cleaning crew-partially me-got their to remove ‘deposits’ then restore to pristine cleanliness the areas inadvertently used as seminal dropping places to provide enough studies in recombinant DNA for centuries. Including mine. I did mention this to one of the guys who happened to work late and his only comment was, “Well, you didn't think we milked them did you...?”

Actually, in a perverted moment I had wondered about that; Some of the equipment in the labs could easily be adapted to wild and woolly purposes. Still, I grew bored with just wanking my way from A to Z, my tastes, indeed my expectations, grew exponentially more refined so it wasn't long before a simple suck and fuck session, whether on paper or on screen, no matter by whom, done where, kinky or otherwise didn't do much more than remind me to search further to see if there wasn’t something I’d missed, something so….arousing neither buttons, Velcro or zippers could keep my pants closed. Nothing.

Although it took me several frustrating weeks to realize it, plus almost flunking out of school, as I replaced doing assignments with doggedly going through all manner of materials hoping, praying, desperately needing to find the mother lode, the one I’d overlooked indeed, the Mother of Them All that could, finally, get my dick hard again. Jesus, I have to confess this...all those months, all those...other things had hardened me...well, that’s not quite the word...had made me immune to all but the most raucous, juicy, beyond belief, beyond what one could physically do to even make me more than yawn. Face it, I’d sort of created a situation in which my brain, as well as my cock and other involved physical bits, required stimulation that my job wasn’t offering but….what...did...I...lack?

I was on the floor, banging my sausage, hopelessly, against the cement praying that the cold, resistant surface could somehow, I don’t know how, give just a hint, a smidge, a memory of a white fountain coming from my meat….(concurrently I was also watching an interestingly assembled taped collage of sixteen guys doing quite a few things that they seemed to be enjoying but….I was not.) What Was Wrong?

I looked back at the screen...light, and a truly amazing schlong rose in front of me (on the screen) when...Eureka!!!...that’s what I needed, that’s what not one damn thing they had here could provide: REALITY!!!!!! The gigantic prick in front of me was...only there in a dimension unreachable. Hell, up close, what would I really have seen? In an age of CGI, maybe that gorgeously split head, that carrunculated foreskin, those bloated veins...might have been the product of a computer ergo, it couldn’t even fucked the outlet from which its electrical blood came.

I needed to go get fucked right then by a human, something with flesh, blood, a hard dick shoved up my ass which in my current state of desperation, would have snapped at a bulge in the uniform pants of a cop…

A smirk crossed my face. A smile, a look of lasciviousness that didn’t just say, but screamed, I Had An Answer….not on the floor although the floor could lead to my solution….I Needed People and knew precisely elsewhere to find them.

Elsewhere proved to be the little rooms where the men came in to cum/make a sperm sample/jerk off; I don't know how else to put it-our ‘technical term’ was “make a donation”. My tastes had gone from watching two dimensional figures do a stunning variety of things to wanting a more three dimensional figure go through the agony of production followed by the heaving, abdominal spasming of orgasm. To be fair, the facility promised privacy, no cameras, no peep holes just access to the “files” as they were euphemistically known, meaning the library of sexual congress of porn they had in their “stacks”. However, by adjusting my educational schedule a little, then telling my supervisor how I'd come to empathize with the guys who were our clients-which wasn't totally a lie-I got to keep my own warm bed as well as to begin to learn how the facility worked, deal at a functionary level with the clients. (Again, for privacy, we were not told their names and, usually, I saw a different person each time to prevent information as to their presence their reason for being there-although that must have been obvious- being passed along.) Just because it seemed a good idea I also continued to attend classes although what I was learning on the job was far more interesting and, I could easily see, had a future that Comparative English Literature could not. (Show me a hot cock or ass in Shakespeare, Thackery or Dickens and I’ll show you someone who’s delusional. So what if Romeo and Juliet offed themselves? There’s not one word to even suggest that her maiden’s head was anywhere but up her snatch when she croaked.) In fact, thanks to one professor who took a much longer view, there was more homo eroticism in literature than in contemporary novels. The guys all seemed to get along rather too well even if their scrupulous avoidance of the deed with girls was much discussed-his proof that the men were all over each other using as their ‘cover’ their oft stated pursuit of fucking women...which almost never happened. His was a very popular class often referred to as a better place to pick up guys than a gay bar. Rumor had it that supposedly there were illustrations-of the Professor himself demonstrating what he taught….

Over the months I began to select certain of our clients, those who had, or chose, to make, repeat visits to provide new, more viable “sample” and wonder about them. By then I had advanced to the position carefully titled “Media Specialist” which meant helping the men select the sort of porn that would be the most stimulating and, hopefully, produce semen in which zygotes were not just swimming downstream but jet skiing. It also meant that, on occasion, I “suggested” other techniques of masturbation, different “holds”, ways of increasing their desire, enjoyment then finally ultimately, jacking them myself as a sort of surrogate pan-sexual person there to help them get to the end of their means.

Word of my ability must have got back to the clinic for I was advanced to “Technician” status which meant that I did see a certain number of our clients on a continuing basis, got to know them more than slightly, established a rapport, discovered that knowing their more deeply held tastes actually refined their selection of stroke material finally becoming their beat off buddy on more than one occasion. I was told several times that having me join in reminded them of happy days in the frat house, the barracks, summer camp...”fooling around, you know, down there”…. with their cousins, their buddies, their brothers (an occasional cousin or uncle and, once, Dear Old Dad) so I could more fully identify, move into the role that most ‘encouraged’ them.

Given my earlier days on the night shift I'd become a connoisseur of all things that dealt with male sexuality, could openly, easily discuss it, man to man, guy to guy, friend to friend, cousin to cousin, brother to brother even father to son.... I reminded them of their old buddy (pick a name) from the (pick a location, place, activity) in their past; Thus reminded of those happy times, recalling the feeling, they'd drop 'em then go for it. And, just to completely repeat the experience that had made them happiest, I'd suck them off; Not infrequently they'd reciprocate. Needless to say, this was not in my job description nor did I find any reason to “share” my techniques with others. However...I have little doubt certain of my colleagues, of both sexes, did the same thing but....to discuss it probably would have quickly led to problems, then to dismissal and, face it, by then, I was permanently horny, not for men or women specifically but for sex. Worse, I’d developed a very specific taste, one small facet of sex; The taste of semen, sperm, cum, man milk.... finally, it couldn't stop there.

(In desperation I tried to suck myself but...all that got was a visit to a Chiropractor who wondered what I’d been doing? Remember? I was getting wild eyed for the nectar of cum? So I sucked him off….I wasn’t charged for the visit; He also gave me a card with a number to call which would get past the usual mess of making appointments to see him-or him to see me-and I’d always be made extremely welcome.)

I used that number several times, his was Grade A Jizz was, quart by quart over time the best. He seemed always overloaded, anxious to be relieved plus...he gave great massages, always picked up the tab for dinner after which we’d both found we were ready for another session. His cum for dessert was...well, yum is a trite but accurate word. Oh, plus he took me across another sexual border, fucking. Remember that prick I thought I saw on the screen? Turns out while there were a few minor differences, the one I wanted was in his pants, always available even welcoming for a new place to park that he knew he could get, quickly, up to medical grade. To get in my modest space at the facility, he didn’t even need a door opener or a code, just a sly smile accompanied by the sound of a zipper; Nothing I’d read said visitors were excluded an assumed fact of which he and I took advantage.

One of my clients, who I had every reason to suspect wasn't coming in to make donations so that his wife, or whomever needed his particular gift, asked me if I ever made “house calls”. He pointed out he lived alone, I could bring my sampling collection ‘materials’. (I wondered how much porn I could stash in a back pack?) He said he’d be a lot more comfortable in his own setting than with the vaguely clinical decor of the facility. OR, I could just drop by-fuck the clinical shit, we'd have a beer then see what came up; I selected activity number two.

As with many of our consistent donors, Pat, his name, was not married but had virtually all of the characteristics that were felt led to the creation of sperm that would have what others wanted in their children. He was tall, pleasant looking in the sense of a Marlboro man, not some fashion model, well built, well educated, successful, good bone structure, Grey eyes, long eyelashes…. (You'd have to read the characteristics couples could choose from when selecting something for in vitro fertilization. About the only things missing were whether he was a Ford man or a Chevy guy and whether he preferred a refrigerator with through-the-door ice or not. I am not kidding or making this up-and those are some of the more ‘normal’ requests.) had a good sense of humor. Like myself, given a great deal of practice, could practically shoot on command plus, beyond that, produce specified amounts of cum with no ‘warm up’-from the stand point of the sperm bank, he was a prime depositor even to the point that when his ability to produce in quantity was found, they opened a sort of refrigerated safe deposit box for his...deposits. As he said, spend an afternoon filling little vials, knowing they were well kept for the future, cut down on his visits just not their ability to produce what a couple might want that he’d left. In terms of economy of motion, it was terrific. After such a strenuous work out, it seemed only fair to suggest he would benefit from a Chiropractor I happened to know, happy to give him a referral, get those kinks out of his arm. And onto the examining table; The Doctor was grateful for this introduction to the extent that on some weekends he’d asked both of us to join him at his home for a fuller, totally without meaning, several hours of sex-he had a remarkably equipped home for that sort of activity. Oh, and if we remembered, happened to be hungry, he could grill some meat outside...other than the heating we were getting inside.

(Okay, when the facility needed an emergency donation-and Pat wasn’t available- I would be handed a collection kit, a key to a room plus my own selection of erotica-By then I hardly needed the latter but they seemed to feel without it nothing would happen. What I did was implicit-although the picture of the ‘donor’ wasn’t me. That, whatever born of this switched per-insemination sperm, might not be what they expected, all couples were reminded that….what happened when sperm met eggs wasn’t guaranteed to produce a specific product. For that, it wasn’t even guaranteed that pregnancy would result. Hence the reason for many men to make repeat visits hoping, each time, that the motility of their baby makers would increase or strengthen. Candidly, and I found this by accident, one guy continued to visit us frequently to make contributions seven month after his divorce was final. It goes without saying that I was the technician he requested saying that only with me did he feel...something; My cock up his ass while he jerked off into a collection tube was a great encouragment.)

I grew to like the taste of Pat's jizz and slowly, stealthily, found I wondered if the body that produced it might, just might, be as good for other activities? Well, wasn't that a logical conclusion? I even then had the idea of giving him the number for the doctor but...not quite yet. Given the growing intimate nature of our relationship, plus a few too many beers, I told Pat about my wondering; He just smiled a sneaky, furtive smile and told me that I was more correct than I might think, indeed he'd sucked his way to many of his characteristics. I blinked, just on the edge of comprehension.

A day or two later I used the ‘special’ number which got me in the back door at the good doctor’s office….bringing a friend who, I felt, was in need of emergency attention. Good thing the office had the sort of padding that suppressed any sort of noise; Pat as well as the doctor were immediately good buddies. My role that day, apart from making introductions? Score keeper.

His theory, not borne out by any research, scientific or otherwise, was that every time he consumed the fresh gravy of another man, it added to the quality of what he was shooting. In the back of my not-too-suspicious mind it sounded like the perfect rationalization for spending the day sucking guys off; I was immediately a fan of his theory. Plus, he was almost depressed to learn, I had them come to me, a convenience he did not have. As he said, “Oh, sure, there’s always delivery people, door to door salesmen, USPS, UPS, meter readers, guys like that but even though there was every reason to believe they were loaded with what he wanted, he had to ask himself….did he really want to become known as the house down the block where all you had to do was ring the bell then leave, some time later, having just had a blow job? It’s the sort of ugly neighborhood rumor, we both agreed, had to be avoided.

Still there was in what he was against the grain of something; Whether you wanted to be known for sucking off, what he was missing was that….these guys were coming to him, he didn’t have to do anything. While not quite an A HA! Moment we both looked at each other knowing that whatever it was going to be was just about to come forth….

Remembering how I’d got into what might be called the ‘polite’ sex trade, I pointed out that I’d answered an ad, that simple. What happened after, while not anticipated or offered by my employer did lead me to an infinity of cocks each of which was known to be already well loaded-or that was the theory. (Our ‘clients’ were told not to masturbate for at least 72 hours in advance of their...appointment. ….why come to a sperm bank if there was nothing in you to make a deposit?)

Pat could kind of see where I was headed but wondered how we could attract similar, uh, clients? The Sperm Bank was a credible organization approved by everything from, hell, who knew? The AMA to AAA plus the Better Business Bureau. No way in hell would they even consider endorsing two men giving blow jobs no matter where they were doing it or their proficiency...Of course he had a point...but I had the solution. The smile on my face must have suggested something, something he’d like but first, just to make him earn my idea, I had him strip then tied him, spread eagle, to the dining room table.

I’ve found that men who are in this situation, or similar, give you their attention even if, at first, they may have thought it was a joke; That thought usually vanished when you crawl up, naked-as are they-straddle them then allow them to feel a hard dick in the vicinity of their ass. If they can’t figure out what, or who, may be next on the sexual menu then they’re incredibly stupid. Pat was not stupid.

“What now?”

“I’m thinking...want to be gagged? How close are the neighbors?”

“Gag me.” You have to appreciate honesty.

Some like a used underwear, a jock or similar as a gag-which under some circumstances is a great idea-but for what is going to be a friendly fuck, a clean piece of cloth, knotted in the mouth, preferably thick to protect their teeth, is really better. Which is what I used to silence Pat; Given the look on his face as I tied the bandanna, kinda think he may have been looking forward to the ‘deposit’ I was going to make in him.

Seems he not only sucked but fucked….and got fucked quite a lot. I was grateful, just to be generous, after I’d finished, scooped out my deposit, took out his gag then fed it to him. What is there that says appreciation like the smacking of lips? As a sign of my real appreciation for that, I plugged him again...the good thing being I could keep going with nothing but my yearning prostate to keep me plugging away. Sort of like edging yourself. Twice.

Laying on his stomach, my still hard piece stuck up his tail, I whispered something in his ear that made him orgasm. It was so simple. It was so elegant. It was also a cheap way to get what we wanted; Advertise ourselves as Sex Therapists dealing with men who were finding difficulties in performing sexually. His ass clenched down so hard I wondered if I’d have a crimp in my dong for a while?

Still on the table, but cooled down a bit, he had but one word he strangled out; “How?”. Again, advertising. I pointed out I’d got my job from a note on a wall-mentioning the cock shaped pin-so it was entirely possible to do something similar, just being careful where we left our ‘ad’ for spurious service; He could see my point. While he thought it over I moved forward deciding to let him clean up the ‘evidence’...after I took off the gag. You can discern who has a professional mouth, you just can. He did.

Eventually I turned him loose, gave his ankles and wrists a good, therapeutic rubbing while I did that, let him feed from my dick...seemed only fair.

It was then that I reminded him of our friend, the Chiropractor. People with M.D. after their name have instant credibility in terms of what the public will believe-look at the shit they succesfully endorse on television. He had an established practice, a pleasant location, attractive patient rooms….in a sense, he was all set to ‘welcome’ overloaded balls to a place where that problem might be handled, fondled, tugged, licked, sucked, in short, appreciated before being drained.; He even accepted all major credit cards. Great….. Almost.

All well and good for him but….just for the sake of how things looked, he would need to see patients who wanted other than sexual relief. Why? Well, everyone has their own tastes...and ours, the three of us, ran to the taste of male ejaculate to be our preferred formula: Jizz. Cum. Man Milk. Baby Making Sauce etc. That elixir that came out of a cock when agitated as well as physically motivated to give forth. Again….while that was grand for him, he had obvious access, it left us with spot nothing. Oh, sure, I had my job but, by now, even blowing guys in a cubicle had lost almost all its interest even if the men enjoying the service had not….while Pat was faced with either working the neighbors or…hitting the bars...and on a couple of occasions….paying guys to let him suck them off. (He described those times as ‘hunger desperation’. I understood fully and, thinking about what he’d told me, my clients at the clinic were surprised to be damn near restrained while I gulped down what they had to give….just not with such demand as well as...on successive minutes, continuing the demand for more, more….)

After almost no thought we took our problem to the good doctor who...it does pay to go to medical school….had an immediate suggestion; One look at Pat on an ad for male sexual therapy and we’d have to accept appointments. After all, what the facility liked, hell, loved about Pat was that he epitomized all sorts of male characteristics that others wanted for their young. It was only a baby step from that assumption to realize that checking the ‘product’ out before ‘buying’ was an accepted business practice.

He smiled at us assuming we ‘got’ what he’d said but...not quite. Medical people are known for their patience so he started back with an explanation that, finally, made the sun and our dicks come up; As a trained medical doctor, using a picture of Pat, theoretically the ‘doctor’, we could legitimately advertise our ‘services’ which...with little, well, almost no, effort, we’d have lines of men to be sucked as well as much cum as we could swallow in a day. Of course you didn’t, couldn’t really, advertise that your purpose was to be paid, maybe even stick it to your insurance carrier, to get sucked-that was, as we saw it, part of the therapy.

All that we needed was that all important ad, the one with Pat as the ‘doctor’ suggesting that by visiting him, or his associates, your erection problems could be professionally attended. The picture? A masterpiece. Remember my noting that Pat had a lot in common with the Marlboro Man? (less the tattoo on his hand) in the picture Western duds were deleted. Sitting casually on the edge of...something….he was wearing a white smock, no shirt, blue scrub pants, white socks with white Adidas sneakers. The icing on this phallic cake was a stethoscope hung around his neck….as even the photographer said, just looking at him, even if you didn’t want or need surgery, much less the product offered, you’d call just to see him. He proved to be more accurate than he could have known.

I’d learned quite a bit working at the clinic some of which, just incidentally, dealt with marketing. Theirs wasn’t a product that needed wide exposure, as in television, just the word “Fertility” got the attention of...whomever wasn’t feeling fertile then called the number. I wondered whether using a push pin made like a cock had any virtue?-It was what attracted me but...while the Doctor agreed, as he laughed up his last sip of coffee, there was obvious and then there was flagrant; Maybe we could offer them as a sort of lolly pop for adults...after they’d had a ‘consultation’. Our poster had pretty much the same effect; The words ‘Sexual Therapy’ combined with Pat’s picture plus the number to call lit up the switchboard to the extent it became necessary to hire an answering service.

The first ads were discreetly put out on Thursday; By Monday virtually all appointments for the next several weeks were taken making it necessary for me to take a ‘leave of absence’ from school-no time for return mentioned.

If there was one slight glitch, it was that I’d become more than an employee at the clinic, I was the man in demand for….my assistance. Some of our, well, my, clients had complained about my absence; It was very complimentary...my only regret was that I couldn’t tell these cum laden men where to call to relieve their problem; Obviously the clinic would hardly allow one of our posters even near their facility-they, too were paid so this group of men who would potentially siphon off their ‘business’ was a threat. Unless….

On one of the rare days I was there functioning in my role as ‘Technician’, I was called into the director’s office, greeted cordially, offered a drink-I declined-and brought right to the point. In a statement that revealed a more accurate view of what we did than I might have expected, he made it clear he knew why certain of our clients continually returned to have their wholly spurious ‘fertility’ dealt with; They came to get sucked off and, as he well knew, I was the prime sucker, the one most requested for my technical ability etc. He was only too aware that I was now involved with ‘another group’ which, in what must have cost him certain professional ethics, amounted to sex for sale. He followed that by acknowledging the clinic was only too aware some of our clients came to get, as he, surprisingly, said, ‘get a blow job’. Seemed a good idea to not quite agree but smiled in what I hoped would be some sort of acknowledgment. But he had one more part to his commentary that took us over the fence; He got on his knees, unzipped my pants then spent some little while giving me what I can only describe as one of the best suckings I’d ever had….when he finished, we had a deal if not on paper, at least in theory.

It was as simple as realizing that nobody really lost anything, indeed, by referring to each other, we both gained. After all, certain of the clients of the clinic were genuinely in need of some form of fertility assistance, the repository of sperm was a real benefit and, as our Doctor said, what did we care about frozen jizz? Didn’t even taste good. In short, ‘We took the deal’.

Several months later what both sides had discovered was that it was a better deal than either could have hoped. Cross referring built business for both-indeed the clinic was, subtly, able to off load ‘clients’ who only came to get sucked while our group sent men who had real fertility problems to them. (After you’ve sucked enough cock, you can almost tell by the taste and appearance what the chances are that, other than be treat for those who enjoyed it, their chances of producing off spring were….limited.

I got to keep my warm room, with bath, but now, for ‘special clients’, from either organization, sleep overs were allowed on the theory that it “more accurately approximated the full sexual experience.” In short a guy could get both fucked and sucked while still getting free parking. What could be better?