Sperm Bank Donation

Sperm bankSperm Bank Donation

by Ronald Ayers

” A cub Reporter in search of the Pulitzer Price will write about anything. “

When I was a young cub reporter for the Harvey Star Tribune back around 1979 one of the weirder journalistic assignments my editor Mike O’Neal gave me was for me to go undercover to the Harvey Sperm bank, pass myself off as a man hard up for money, and desirous of depositing my sperm into the sperm bank for a few bucks.

I was to gather information about my experience at the sperm bank and develop a hard-hitting investigative news article about the pros and cons of sperm bank donation.

I was happy for the assignment. This was just the kind of story I needed to get nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for excellence in Journalism.
I must say, that jacking off in a small private cell that’s a cross between a bordello and a hospital room was both erotic and surreal. Aiming my man seed at a small plastic cup also made for attention grabbing conversation when I told my boys down at the old President’s Lounge on E. 75th street about how I made love to a plastic cup, and the cup had an orgasm.


Now it’s official. I’m a wanker.

When you’re a cub reporter, you’ll do just about anything to have a story you’ve written published under your byline. But, my quest for the Pulitzer Prize was not my only reason for donating my seed to the sperm bank. You see I had this altruistic notion of granting childless couples the gift of life. Sacrificing myself, cumming in a cup, creating life for others was well… God like.

If my masturbation for money doesn’t make me God like, you’ll have to say that I’m at least a saint. Jacking off for the good of humanity so that others might have children puts me right up there if not next to God, at least next to Gandhi, Mao se Tung, or maybe even Barak Obama.


At the time I laid hands on myself for the sake of a story, sperm donors in the United States earned up to $150.00 a sample. At the Harvey Sperm Bank couples could choose from donors whose information included their profession, education, race, blood, eye, hair and skin color. A girl I was dating at the sperm bank told me that my sperm was in high demand because of the high quality information on my data sheet. The way I figure it, there’s about three hundred mini-me’s walking around in the world. My nightmare is that one of my hand created babies will walk up to me on the street one day, call me daddy, and ask where the child support payments have been all these years.

But, that’s another story.

According to research, about 20% of couples in America are infertile. There are roughly a thousand men on the books of fertility clinics around the country. Obviously demand for semen outweighs supply.

Anyway, jacking off at the Harvey Sperm bank got to be a good thing.

In the first nine months of my undercover work I was paid $100 for every 5 donations. The sperm bank would only let me donate 4 days a week. I made $400 bucks a week for nine months. I didn’t quit my job at the newspaper, but with my extra $400 a week, I bought my boys a lot of beer down at the Presidents Lounge.

Hey guys check this out. We’re in an economic recession right?

Imagine this. You’ve lost your job. Your wife wants her hair and nails done. The five rug rats you have running around the house all need a new pair of shoes. You’re holding a letter in your hands from the Wells Fargo Mortgage Company, telling you your house is in foreclosure. You see an advertisement in the local paper.

HELP WANTED WANKERS. The Harvey Sperm bank is seeking sperm donations from healthy male applicants. Short hours. Excellent pay. Pleasurable fringe benefits. Must have your own tools.”

You go to the interview, you pass the exam, and you’re offered 20 bucks every time you jack off. Come on now guys. If you had a chance to get that kind of work, wouldn’t you take it?

Well, after nine months, a thousand pages of notes and calluses on both of my hands I turned in my sperm bank story. Mike gave my story one column inch on page 77 of the Sunday edition of the Star-Tribune. I wondered at the time if the size of my story in inches was Mike’s way of making a sarcastic comment on the possible size of my life creator?

Here I am more than thirty years later. The calluses on my hands are gone. I’m still writing, and I’m still in the hunt for the Pulitzer Prize.

God is good.



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