How I masturbated at the clinic for a spermogram.

I had a friend who was trying to have a child with his wife, but it just wasn't working out. And then one day he said:

I need to go to the clinic and get my little ones checked. Get a spermogram.

He went and checked. He came back gloomy. It turned out he had few sperm, and they themselves were lazy, like seals at a rookery. They didn't swim toward their target, but lay on their sides, waiting for the egg to crawl to them, apologize for the disturbance, and be gently fertilized.

And then a truly profound thought comes to my mind:

«Fuck. I'm also interested in what's going on there.»

I decided that I also needed to go and have a spermogram.

I prepared myself like a responsible person. I didn't drink or masturbate for a week. The alcohol was tough, but manageable. But masturbating was more difficult, because there was a rubber vagina from Amazon in my nightstand, literally calling me back to the sordid stability of sin. But curiosity won out.

After all, it’s not every day that you go and get tested to see how well your future children can swim.

I arrive at the clinic. Everything is routine there, without a shred of respect for the moment. Sign here. Sign here. Wash your dick over there. Wipe your hands with this. Here's the jar. Here's the room. Jerk off there. Cum here.

I'm standing there with this jar and I feel like someone who would drop everything right now and go home. But, damn! I'm so fucking curious!

I walk into the room. It smells of bleach. No signs of masturbation. A typical medical office. Only the lights are a little dim. For a better masturbation, I guess! A row of several half-chairs, half-lounges, like at the beach. I go to the far corner. I sit down. I take out the lube I brought from home earlier. I open my phone to search the internet for something inspiring. I pull down my pants. I sit on the chair, dick in one hand, lube in the other, and try to find masturbatory zen.

And then the door is kicked open. A man comes in.

He's also holding a jar. I'm sitting there, my dick half-erect, looking at him, slightly stunned. The guy looks at me. He nods in greeting. I automatically nod back, because apparently, even in a collective sperm donation situation, good manners are the last thing to die. And you have to be friendly.

He stands right in the middle of the room, pulls his jeans down to the floor, spits loudly into his palm, and begins to jerk off furiously. It sounds like a carpenter sanding a slat.

Then he releases his penis, spits again into his palm, and continues. And all this with such a focused expression, as if he weren't jerking off next to a stranger in a clinic, but saving the country from demographic collapse.

I'm sitting there. I have lube in one hand, my dick in the other, and I catch myself freaking out, just staring at some guy jerking off for two minutes now. As the friction dries out, he periodically spits on it.

Then I finally can’t stand it and ask:

Maybe lubricants?

The man stops. He looks at me. Then at the bottle. Then at me again.

— No, I don't drink. I'm driving.

I speak:

— No, it's lubricant.

He keeps looking at me as if I were offering him work in Oriflame or Faberlic.

— Well, lube. For jerking off. Here.

And, to shorten the path between misunderstanding and enlightenment, I drip a little onto my palm and demonstrate the principle of operation using my own example.

— Ah-ah-ah

… the man perks up. Okay, come on.

He approaches and extends his palm.

I drip some lubricant onto his palm.

He makes a couple of movements, freezes, and then with absolutely sincere delight says:

Oh-oh-oh, holy shit. This is so good!

And at that moment, I realized I might be witnessing the greatest technological breakthrough in his sex life. Because his reaction made it seem like he'd been using nothing but saliva his whole life.

The man came quickly. Grunting, writhing, and missing. These days, the jar isn't the diameter of a basketball hoop. The man got ready and left.

I was left alone, caught my breath and tried to get back to my task.

I had just started to get myself in the right frame of mind when the door opened again. A man came in. A different one.

And now I'm no longer at a loss. So, as someone with experience, I immediately ask in a businesslike manner:

Lubricants?

And I hand him the bottle.

But this one turned out to be a professional. He had his own.

And you know what? I wasn't even surprised. Nothing ever surprised me anymore.

So a guy came in to jerk off nearby. So he got out his lube. Oh well.

A typical Tuesday, a typical clinic, a typical jerk-off with a stranger. We ended up coming almost simultaneously. In sync. Almost like Olympic swimmers, only the discipline was noticeably worse.

My life experience when I jerked off in the same room with strangers and at the same time acted as a lubricant ambassador.

When it was all over, I walked out and went to the nurse: «Tell me,» I said, «do you always have several people there? And no partitions?» It's like a wanking hut.

It turned out there was a partition screen in the room. Like an accordion. It was like a VIP wank-off box, damn!

But we didn't see it. No one did.

Or rather, maybe we did, but who cared? No time for interior design. But at least I'm not afraid of a group masturbation anymore!

I'm just wondering, there's only one screen for the entire room. What if there's an influx of patients? Then what? Should everyone sit in a circle and jack off?

By the way, everything was fine with the tests.