First the decision - "Do I/we do this at home and rush in under an hour with a condom of man-love kept warm in my pocket, or do I go in to the ROOM OF PORN (ROP) and 'enjoy' the undoubtedly classy facilities?"
Now this aint no easy question.
Option A is all messy and gooey and "what if i fall over in the street and end up with pearl jam all over me and people point and call me clag-boy and i develop life-long anxiety traits?".
And Option B is, well, just plain un-erotic and probably the anithesis of woody-inspiring. (And what if I couldn't... it wouldn't, you know.., happen???)
But option B it was, cos carrying around a condom of spooge in your pocket is second only to picking up doggy do via the inside-out plastic bag trick. And the doggy doo doesnt have to be humped through the city for an hour.
I grabbed a late train and jumped off at central station.
"Walk or tram? Walk or tram?" I will admit to being a little on edge. Walk it was - hell, it was sunny and I had no intention of arriving early. I mean, sitting in a waiting area watching other guys go in and out of a little chicken choking room and knowing i'd have follow and maybe sit on the same seat and... Euuuk. This aint no all-boy private boarding school you know.
I finally arrived - dead on time - enter the pleasure dome.
"G'day... I'm AB and I'm here for the 10am milking" (or words to that effect...)
"Ok" said the nice lady in a white coat... "Here's the jar, room is directly behind you, read the instructions on the wall and remember to lock the door."
I was somewhat dissapointed at her cold and calculating nature,...
"Just like that - no dinner, no movie, no moonlight stroll? What you take me for lady in white coat?" (But all that actually came out was a kinda muffled "yes mam".)
I turned. I walked. I entered the ROP and locked the door. Twice.
A couch, a couple of chairs, a TV/DVD all-in-one unit, a toilet, a sink and a set of instructions on the wall. At first I thought i'd entered the remand centre by mistake, but no, this was indeed the love shack in minimilist form.
("What, no shagpile, no revolving king bed, no mirrored ceilings?")
The TV didnt seem all that appealing (hell, lady in white coat would surely hear it) so it was off to the magazine rack. Now i was getting nervous. A friend had told me of a guy they knew in the States who'd turned up for such a thing to find the only magazine was 'TIME', with bonus 'woohoo' factor of Dame Maggie Thatcher on the cover. (He took it as a challenge to his manhood, if not imagination.)
I looked - an FHM (better not - i actually would read the articles), a Playboy (aww jees.. old men in bathrobes) and a [something-or-other-i-had-never-heard-of] that appeared mildly erotic. Oh well, its hardly the Paris Hilton/Mimi McPherson double set DVD collection, but it'll do to "set the mood".
The rest can be left ot the imagination. I followed all the instructions on the wall, which mostly consisted of washing your hands - a lot. (Despite this, no one offered a handshake when i left.)
That all over, it was just to leave the ROP, jar in hand. This became a whole lot wierder when I exited to find another bloke standing and talking to my date/lady in white coat.
"Aw crap." I said to myself.
Now what do you do? Stand there with a jar of jizz, which everyone knows is a jar of jizz, and hop from foot to foot and try to tuck it under your arm to "keep it warm"/hide. The other bloke, clearly having recently deposited at the love bank himself, was equally hot footing it.... eye contact was NEVER going to be made - the unspoken rule of the communal urinal was in force.
Dont look. Dont talk. Just do. (Its a man thing.)
He left - blind turning so we never crossed so much as a glance (must be a regular; good move) and i passed "the jar" to lady in white coat.
"Heres a form to fill out" she said.
Scribble.
Done.
"Thats it. Goodbye".
("What, no kiss, no phone number, no same-time-next-week or dinner with the folks??")
I slunk out the door - a little opening in a long grey wall with "andrology" signed above it - and wandered off down the street with the sun on my face, a post-pop-looseness in my groin, and the knowledge that someone was probably watching my boys freestyling Thorpy-like under a micoscope that very second.
"Chalk that up in the 'one to tell the kiddies' file" I mumbled.
Orrr... maybe not.
(Postscript: Like Thorpey, the lads had clearly just needed some fattening time in L.A - a week later, the wee-wee swizzle stick announced we were preggas. Good on ya boys.)
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