The room is lit only by the blue of a TV. A thick, DEPRAVED MAN, 38, sits by himself watching a PORNO. He is unshaved and has messy hair.
Perhaps, capping off a night of drinking.
ON TV- Two girls moan as they attack Pool Boy.
The TV is burrowed in a WALL or CABINET, a la PEEP SHOW.
On the table next to the man are the contents of his emptied pockets: a roll of breath mints, some crinkled bills and loose change, etc.
He watches with mouth open and locked-jawed. His chest and shoulders vibrate with the RAPID MOVEMENTS of his unseen left hand.
Faster! Faster! Lip bite! And...
He collects his breath and his left- RINGED!- hand reaches for the stuff on the table.
INT. HALLWAY- MOMENTS LATER
He walks through dimly lit corridor of what could be a PARKING GARAGE (but is not). His overcoat collar is raised.
He looks behind himself and all around, in shame in some way of what he's done...
OR is he?
EXT. WAITING ROOM-MOMENTS LATER
Man enters the darkened waiting room. An attractive woman in pajamas sleeps in a small chair.
Man kisses her cheek and she opens her eyes.
They look over to see the NURSE with a clipboard.
The specimen is ready. Come on.
Say Nurse, how were my numbers? Was it a good sample?
Nurse didn't hear or is ignoring him. The woman is excited, HOPEFUL. She turns back and kisses him.
Just relax. And know I love you.
She skips off and follows nurse.
The man watches. He loves her. He crosses his arms and closes eyes. We hold on the (now) SWEET MAN.
FADE TO BLACK
I. How was it that the man above went from "Ugh, he's so gross" to "Ah, he's so sweet" in only several lines? And couldn't the gross man and sweet man be the very same man, only on different nights?
Where are all your libertarian "let live" values when it comes to me jerking my bird?
All I know is that it's nice to be on the other, head-tilting sympathetic side; and not only is there a side, but a whole science devoted to it.
II. "Okay, I think you have everything you need...just enjoy yourself." She says and closes the door.
Enjoy myself? Really? That's allowed? Well, I take in the room and there's so much: magazines, videos, a vat of Vaseline with an easy-pump top.
Unsure, I drop my pants (it's a step in the right direction, no?) and do a penguin walk over to the leather leisure chair. The magazine stack sits on a table next to the chair.
I sit in the chair and begin sifting through the magazines: Playboy is on top; Hustler next; Swank; Barely Legal; Shaved and so on. (There's a logic to everything, isn't there? ) I take an issue of a magazine showcasing ladies of South America and begin flipping.
I'm reminded of when I was a college sophomore and Playboy came to Boston for its "Girls of Women's College" edition. The local news covered protests...
"This is degrading to women!" (especially, ugly women)
"They're here to learn!"
And one very indignant woman from a Gay/Lesbian Alliance who spat fiercely: "Women are being objectified so men can masturbate!"
Here I am being given carte blanche to stroke away to contorting women from all over the world as long as I deliver it into a plastic cup for insemination, but I'm a villain if I enjoy it in my own home?
How does this good woman from the alliance think when she decides to have a child, after picking a donor who suits her sensibilities, how does she think he'd be titillated enough to fill such a cup? Would watching Ellen do her stupid filler dance giggle him to climax?
The hypocrite! And what about the top drawer of her bureau and its dirty little secrets? "Objectifying women"? What about the male model whose fourteen inch, thick-veined penis was molded to create your strap-on of choice? How would you imagine he feels?
(I can tell you: Just awful! And betrayed! They told me it was for an anatomy textbook!)
Ah, well the magazine is ruined for me.
I hit the lights, grab the remote and lean back.
It's mid-movie and between money-shots, so I reflect...
Despite the warning that alcohol wasn't a good thing the nights before giving a specimen, I stop at the British pub on the way home and have a half dozen or so of my favorite, Boddington's Pub Ale (the cream of Manchester, England, as it were).
The doctor's warnings that alcohol "raised body temperature" and "created an adverse" environment for sperm disappeared as I nodded to The Specials.
"Stop your messing around!...Ru-oo-dy, a message to you!"
I finish a beer and it hits me: This was really irresponsible of me. Unable to cope with the guilt, I have a couple more pints and move on to Oasis.
"'Don't look back in Anger', I heard her say..."
I make it home and slip into my bedroom where my wife is already asleep. I crouch to kiss her goodnight and she stirs:
"You coming to bed?"
"Soon" I stage-whisper, backpedalling out.
"Take it easy." I hear, closing the door.
There's no Bods in the 'frig (they only come in four-packs). So, I settle for an Amstel Light left from a party. I pop and sip. It'll do. In a preemptive effort to conserve energy and pass out in my clothes, I grab the two remaining Amstels and the opener and plop on the couch.
Pleasant, I say. The buzz. Music from the '60's station. The moonlight coming in from the skylight. A cold beer in hand, two more in waiting. What could make this more perfect?
Why a hand down my pants, of course?
I tried, but after a few moments it didn't feel right. I told my hand so:
"Listen, I've had a long day. Not tonight." Pulling him away.
"'S hell that's supposed to mean?" He slurred.
"It's just...my mind's not in it." I begged.
"Well...I ain't here for your mind." He laughed and grabbed hold. And I admit, I was weak to him; I always am. But everyone has a breaking point, I guess, and he pushed me to mine.
"You know how much you like it...who owns it, baby?"
"Excuse me?" I snap, sitting up.
"What? No, uh" He stammered.
"For your information: I and I alone 'own it'"
"I know, it was just the heat of a moment" He appealed to me (roles quickly reversed).
"I know what it was. And if you ever want to have another moment with me, you'll learn some respect."
"Sorry." He said, but it was too late.
"And let me tell you: You ain't all that. You can easily be replaced." I told him, holding up my left hand.
"You wouldn't? But you couldn't...?"
"Good night." I told him, as he groused his way to my pocket, "Son of..."
I nearly choked with pride at my new-found strength.
But as the movie cut to the next scene where a woman was giving herself a languorous breast examination, my pride did me little good. Like Jell-O stirred and left to its own devices, what my right hand (the bastard) had started had now congealed in the base of my bottle neck.
Even when the masseuse is interrupted by a pony-tailed gardener who boldly asks if he can "help out" and proceeds to mount her, I can only do so much and the daunting task only bears down harder on the experience.
When I finally go, it is painful and without sound. I hit the lights and rather than a healthy pooling of stuff at the bottom of the container, a dribble is making a slow roll down the side.
I cover the container and opening a interconnecting aluminum cabinet I hear the lab attendants talking about how inauthentic Mexican Food is in Boston. Something about that strike me as funny, so I laugh and go to raise my pants. But my ass is stuck to the chair.
I wonder what it is that holds my ass to chair? And how many other naked asses had been stuck there before?
III. Several weeks later at my Doctor's office to get the results. He repeated his spiel about the effects of alcohol on body temperature, and how I should be retested in a month or so. And then he slid the sheets, the relevant numbers highlighted.
My balls, as it turned out, were Calcutta: Temperatures in excess of one hundred, its fourteen million residents, ravaged by the influence of British and later Dutch occupation, were not functioning as best they should.
And fourteen million?
To put some perspective on how low that is: When Alexander Hamilton's body was exhumed several years ago, scientists discovered that Aaron Burr's bullet had eighteen million.
But the doctor quickly put me at ease by showing me a picture of his expansive family and telling me not to "sweat the little things."
He then handed me pamphlets, Kleenex, a copy of The Sun Also Rises, a breath mint (though, I failed to see the connection entirely) before scooting my "nearly important ass" (I think that's what he said; he has a Swiss Accent) out the door.
I was so nervous as I approached my home that I had to circle the block, muttering words of encouragement...
I am no less a man...(technically, though, I think I am)
I have lots of great things to offer...(My Rice Krispie Treats are nothing short of spectacular)
And maybe a miracle could happen?...(we all know how secure the promise of miracle makes a woman feel).
Finally, I pulled and met my wife in the kitchen nook.
What I had been nervous about? She understood perfectly. And in exchanges so darling that I have to save them as cold openings for when I'm asked to do a "King of Queens" spec, she told me everything would be all right.
"I just need to relax, I know." I said.
"No, that's wrong." She shot back.
"What? But the doctor-"
"The lady at the clinic-"
She then explained to me that the problem was, sure that I drank too much and ate like I was on food stamp buying spree, but also: I was just too relaxed. If I was ever to get up to the suggest twenty million, was going to have to tighten up.
She was right...and I implemented change right away.
IV. From that moment on, I swore that I would worry and overthink each step I took as I had in my angst-ridden, headboard-splattering days of adolescence.
Sure, thirty minutes on the treadmill after a circuit or two on the Cybex machines had lower my blood pressure, but it was heavy deadlift for short, plate-crashing sets that sent a surge to my loins. My sperm needed a good model with exact, powerful movements, not one who dawdled about with a steady heart rate.
I even gave up Boddington's and put Natural Light, staple of all frat houses, on tap- 24-7.
On the ride to the clinic, I deliberately cut off a guy in a pick-up truck and flipped him the bird, as I peeled out, "Taking Care of Business", BTO style.
When the Lady brought me to the room and again, seeing that I had everything I needed, told me "to relax and enjoy." I told her, "No way, Missy. That's not the way it's done."
The door closed and I treated it like it was 1987 and I've made it back before the rest of my family from Sunday Mass.
"Hello? Someone just come in?" I even called in the not yet darkened room.
While I had all the time in the world, it was the physical act of rushing that triggered sensory recall, so I didn't even take the time to undo my belt but pulled the guy out just into working range. Dumping a crumpled tube sock on the floor in front of me, I felt at home again. I was tempted to tape my brother's Larry Bird poster to the wall, and pull my mother out of retirement to knock at the door: "Paul, it's a nice day out...you gonna waste it in there?"
I ignored the new stack of magazines and video, shunning these intimacy aids for my own inspiration: I pulled from my back pocket a wrinkled high-gloss magazine photo ripped from a dirty magazine at Walgreens circa 1984. So worn from it days between mattresses or quickly stuffed beneath a pillow or extorted by vandals, its gloss peeled, but 'ol "Maisy Mae' s tip-toe car washing routine started me up. I imagined, as I did when I first had the photo, that Maisy was Jess Collotta (not her real name, but pretty fucking close) sitting in front of me in Ms. Venti's French Class, leaning on our elbows to better taken in our Nos Amis text book.
With Maisy, I pulled a "telephone list" as my friend and I called the list men make of all their conquests (note: "telephone list" as the original list had been written on the unsuspecting envelope of an AT&T bill).
The lists were broken down into columns: first base, second base, etc. But one column was for "other" such as dirty talk, and that overanalysis of fleeting moments was exactly what did the trick...
-"How do you like that?"
-"I can't believe we're doing this...but I'm so glad we are."
-"This will help you sleep tonight..."
-"Oh, and there's more, baby..."
-" Do you mind if I do this while I...?"
And like that, my toes curled and I huffed deeply. And in my hand, was the container, heavier and what I could gauge, a comfortable 98.6.
I had done all I could. Now it was up to my chicken salad-eating friends in the white coats to let me know...?
EXT. THE INTERIOR OF PAUL'S SACK: SACKVILLE-DAY =ANIMATED=
It is thriving, pleasant metropolis. Happy SPERM zoom the city streets and multi-layered expressway, floating like saucers; think: The Jetsons.
Sperm say "hello" to one another, jog, carry groceries, etc. Child sperm with bows in their hair use their flagellae as jump rope and skip down the street.
MOVE IN on ENTERING SACKVILLE sign.
TWO WORKER SPERM in painter's overalls put the finishing touches on the new sign.
"A Wonderful Place to Live" is the town slogan.
The painter finishes painting over POPULATION: 14 Million. He paints over the "14" with white and writes: 87.
They look at the handiwork, chomping cigar butts.
87 million? Say, that's something.
Wonderful place to live.
They swim off and we hold on the sign. "87 Million."