"Not tonight dear; I have a headache".  I never thought I'd utter those words, but today, in a loose way, I did.  And I'm not quite sure how I feel about it...  Disappointment?  Shame?  Mock indifference?  All of the above most likely.

When it comes to ejaculation, I'm not the fastest boy on the block.  I've come to accept that it just takes me a while and that sometimes things just don't go the way I want.   But my brother is similar (yes, we're a sharing family) and Google returns pages of results with people who post comments asking about it, so it's not something that I'm alone in, and it's something I've come to accept about myself.

When I go to the sperm clinic to donate, I can't help but fret about my performance.  When you arrive and sign in you're given your stats (your 'performance' if you like) from your last visit.  Usually with some muttered praise about how well you did, presumably so that your male ego feels large enough that you're encouraged to continue with the programme.  I suck it up of course: my heart swelling with pride at being told my numbers are 'really good', grabbing the BIOHAZARD bag and going off to the booth to do Another Good Job. 

Last week though things didn't follow this pattern: I had a sample rejected.  My little, swimmers were tired or something so when I arrived instead of numbers there was 'DISCARD' in the column.  It had been highlighted.  I presume to draw even more attention to my failure...  The occasional rejection is normal; they say that most people have 3-4 donations rejected.  But I found it as some sort of affront to my masculinity: how dare they reject me!

And now this week things have reached a new low: I left the booth with an empty BIOHAZARD bag having given it my all and failed. 

As I said earlier, I'm quite used to not reaching climax.  But at the clinic, there's paperwork: lines that need to be drawn through entries and so on.  And so I couldn't help but feel a bit of shame and inadequacy when I handed over the empty bag and scurried away.

I'm sure it must happen to others too, but as men, we don't like to talk about the bad sex.  Just the good sex.  And although my weekly relationship with a little plastic jar isn't sex, it's close enough that my ego can't tell the difference.

But next week is another week.  I'll catch up on some sleep, and in a few weeks, this little episode will be forgotten.  The ladies at the London Sperm Bank have probably forgotten about it already.  They don't care how long I spend in the booth or what porn I look at.  Or even that I'm jacking off.  Just as long as everything is safe and legal, they're happy.