26 September 2010, by Dannie Cho
I’m thinking maybe footballers will probably understand the agony and sharp relief behind this post best.
After all, I’m imagining a soccer team that has played its heart out for 90 minutes. Then another 30 minutes extra time. Then the heart-stopping penalty kicks start. And you know that if the goalkeeper saves this last shot, you win! And if he doesn’t, you have to wait till the next season…
The wife has gone through a month of injections – mostly self-applied – to do some crazy stuff to her ovulation cycle. Instead of producing one follicle (or egg) per month, she now had 22, all ready to be harvested by the doctors at the Fertility Clinic. The process had seemed to be wearing her down, and her discomfort increased along with the bloatedness she was feeling.
All I had to do at my end of the field was to supply the semen.
And hey, I’m familiar with the drill by now. Discharge 3 days before the ‘contribution’ date, so that the body can produce a fresh batch of highly-motivated troopers (nothing more boring than waiting around in the Parade Square waiting for something to happen, know what I mean?). Masturbate. Ensure the first spurt gets into the bottle, because these are the commandos. The best of the lot. Get to the hospital within an hour. Remember to bring an opaque bag to put the bottle in.
So, yeah… I was pretty confident that this was going to be a cake-walk. But as usual, pride cometh before we falleth.
We woke up bright and early, all shining-eyed and bushy-tailed, for TODAY WAS THE DAY! Brushed our teeth, and then while the wife showered, I started taking matters into my own hands. And frankly, I was nervous! The previous time was a test. This felt like an exam. A GCE ‘O’ Level kind of exam, which will shape the course of the rest of your life! And as the pressure increased, the pleasure decreased, and things became harder when the thing became softer.
The wife stepped out of the shower. “You’re not done yet?” Then she plopped herself on the bed, and started watching expectantly, as if she expected me to be done within the next few seconds. Great… this is normally a turn-on, but really not what I needed right now. I shooed her out of the room, before starting on my buildup again.
The funny thing was, I found myself building it up, then deciding that it was probably just going to be a small orgasm, then letting it subside. Then building it up again, then worrying about whether I placed the bottle within easy reach, then moving it nearer to me. Then building it up again, then deciding it still wasn’t to be a massive enough gush. Then building it up again, then realising that my eyes were closed, and experimenting how fast I could open my eyes to spot the bottle to grab it. Then building it up again, and deciding that it would probably be better if I just held the bottle in my other hand. Then deciding that it felt really strange, like I was holding on to two penises because my other hand felt like moving in a tell-tale up-and-down motion too. Then putting the bottle back down, and going back to doing what I was doing in the first place.
And when the moment finally hit, my eyes flew open, I spotted the bottle and my other hand grabbed at it, and I KNOCKED IT AWAY.
Of all the dumb luck!
Fortunately, I did not knock it too hard, and somehow managed to grab it before it flew too far away. In the excitement and sudden tension, the spurt did become more of a dribble, but at least it was all faithfully captured.
Quickly cleaning myself up, I pulled up my pants, opened the room door and yelled,”WIFE! WE LEAVE NOW! GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!”
*The actual words used contained only one syllable each.