Recently I took it upon myself to look into this issue of sperm donation. Some surprising things emerged from my investigation. First of all, I discovered that the process of becoming a sperm donor is a rigorous and selective process tantamount the rigors of applying to graduate school in philosophy; except where a grad school will judge you on your skills at writing academic papers, looking closely into philosophical thought, and sycophancy, a fertility clinic will test you on your sperms general vitality (quantity, motility, ability to be frozen and thawed), your overall health, and your genes. Similar to grad school they only accept about 5% of their applicants, and, like grad school, only the best are even applying. In order to apply, you have to be tall enough (preferably 5'10" and over), you must have no venereal diseases (or, preferably, diseases in general), you must be young (obviously you must be over 18, but you probably don't want to be much past the age of 30), and you must be male (though I suppose if you were a female who was able to produce sperm, they might be interested in you).
Now, I write this in preface and stress that the rigors of sperm donation application require you to have the virility of a frothing bull and the health of a Greek god, precisely to accentuate my level of gloating. Yes, I've applied. And, no, I haven't passed all of the tests, but I passed that oh so critical first one: the one in which you deposit you're sperm into a cup and they look at it minutely and decide whether it can find and penetrate a certain tiny little egg in the dark. Maybe you all think it a broach of good taste that I should boast so pompously brag about something which is best left to bedroom conversation ("you know honey, it just lacks the bold complexity and subtle mix of flavors that my last boyfriend's had"), and that I should stop it right here. But I can't contain my joy. I want to sound my barbaric rawp over the rooftops of the world, I'm so gleeful. This is such a boost to my ego. I wish there was like a shirt I could wear that would announce to women my general vitality and vigor: "The few, the proud, the SPERM DONORS." Or if I could start a club, a fraternity of other men who are themselves of this elite clique.
I only went in for the first step of my pre-screening last Wednesday, but I've entertained this idea for a long time. Ridg himself can attest that I openly admitted at Goucher that I liked the idea of becoming a sperm donor so that there might be as many as possible of my genetic kindred running around. Now I realize the folly of my waiting so long. Whereas, I could have, if I had acted upon that thought immediately, actually managed to donate at quite of number of different clinics in cities across the country (Baltimore, Houston, Denver, San Francisco, Albuquerque), nay even in countries all over Europe. I could by this time have dozens of little Joe's running around wondering about their true father, and deep in their heart aching after me to complete them. And then I could, through subtlety and subterfuge somehow manage to contact them after they have grown and one day call them all together to fulfill that purpose which they've always felt but never been quite able to put into words, forming a small army of philosophy geniuses, yearning for the opportunity to unite with me in taking over the world. But, I've waited too long. My sperm are only good for a few more years and I may just have to settle for a modest number of Joe-2s strategically placed in key positions of power manipulating the course of world events. It's disappointing, but I'll have to accept it.
Yes, I plead guilty to listening to Joni Mitchell. It's a girl thing, and I've been doing it since 1968. I've gone from LPs to 8-tracks to cassettes to CDs to Napster, but I'm still listening to Carey and Big Yellow Taxi andWilly. [My ex-husband's name is Willie, and he's a lot like the man in Joni's song ['an ancient injury that had not healed...'].
