The Deed Is Done
Okay, that was totally NOT what I was expecting. OKay, maybe some parts, but the experience as a whole... weird.
I arrive, receptionist greets me, finds out who I am, and is immediatly up and behind a door. I sit for probably only 30seconds and then am called back. She shows me the lab where I am to put my "sample" after I am finished, and then ushers me into.... a bathroom. It's like one of those over-sized, unisex, handicap-accessible types. And there's a chair in there, in front of the sink. She says to make sure to put the label on the cup before I leave it in the lab, and then disappears. The chair seat has one of those "sanitary, absorbent" sheets laid over it, and on top of that is a cup in a plastic wrap, the label, a pen, and a manilla "inter-office mail" type of envelopes.
I look around, not quite sure if I'm in the right place, but eventually I take a seat in the Lounge Chair of Luv. Great, they have it positioned so I can see myself in the mirror above the sink. I just won't look that way. I fill out the label, tear the cup out of it's plastic wrapping, and apply it. This is making me hot, hoo boy.
Finally, I open up the inter-office envelope and pull out whatever they have deemed to be my sexual interest. A Hustler, Penthouse, and Galaxy magazine. Never even heard of Galaxy. I actually begin to laugh at the utter absurdness of this whole exercise. Here you are, sit on this absorbent butt cover so you don't spew all over our nice clean black leather lounger, flip through these here dirty magazines and above all, relax! When you feel the need, deposit your sample in this handy cup to culminate this erotic orgy of events!
But, I had a Job To Do, and a Reason To Be There, so I did as I was non-commanded to do. I admit my brain did, at one point, suddenly relapse into some bad 70's porn-style mode where I half-expected the receptionist to knock on the door open it and say something cheesy like, "you've been in here a long time, do you need any .... assistance?" Like straight out of American Pie or something. Actually, there was one point where someone was making a big noise in the room across the hall and my first flight-or-fight response was to cover up quick for fear of being "caught." My next response was to yell out, "Quiet down out there! Don't you know someone's trying to MASTURBATE in here!!???"
I, of course, did neither and continued on with the matter at hand. No pun intended. So eventually I finish, clean up, zip up, and am back out the door. Some Indian guy is now in the lab and he, in a rather unnerving way, happily accepts my specimen. I walk back into the lobby area and the reception lets out a big sigh and says something like, "okay, now for the paperwork." As if waiting there at the desk waiting for me to pull and yank and capture and clean and do all the REAL work was somehow more exhausting for HER than it was for ME. I fill out the requisite forms, pay the requisite amount, and am out the door.
I was expecting to be greeted by someone who understands that, while I voluntarily signed up for it and they deal with it on a daily basis, this is still a somewhat embarassing procedure. And to be led to an actual ROOM. Maybe even with a TV and a small library of different pornos. Okay, maybe I'm fantasizing about the place the Buchman's went to on Mad About You, but still. I certainly did NOT expect to be led to a washroom and given only three magazines. I can see it now, some poor guy comes out all shaken and asks if they have any other "material." They must! I mean, they do this every single week! They're booked up for another 2 weeks after today! Where's the variety? Where's the library? Where's the VHS tapes?
Or maybe I just expected too much from a clinical procedure.
I won't find out the results for probably 2 weeks.
More waiting.
I arrive, receptionist greets me, finds out who I am, and is immediatly up and behind a door. I sit for probably only 30seconds and then am called back. She shows me the lab where I am to put my "sample" after I am finished, and then ushers me into.... a bathroom. It's like one of those over-sized, unisex, handicap-accessible types. And there's a chair in there, in front of the sink. She says to make sure to put the label on the cup before I leave it in the lab, and then disappears. The chair seat has one of those "sanitary, absorbent" sheets laid over it, and on top of that is a cup in a plastic wrap, the label, a pen, and a manilla "inter-office mail" type of envelopes.
I look around, not quite sure if I'm in the right place, but eventually I take a seat in the Lounge Chair of Luv. Great, they have it positioned so I can see myself in the mirror above the sink. I just won't look that way. I fill out the label, tear the cup out of it's plastic wrapping, and apply it. This is making me hot, hoo boy.
Finally, I open up the inter-office envelope and pull out whatever they have deemed to be my sexual interest. A Hustler, Penthouse, and Galaxy magazine. Never even heard of Galaxy. I actually begin to laugh at the utter absurdness of this whole exercise. Here you are, sit on this absorbent butt cover so you don't spew all over our nice clean black leather lounger, flip through these here dirty magazines and above all, relax! When you feel the need, deposit your sample in this handy cup to culminate this erotic orgy of events!
But, I had a Job To Do, and a Reason To Be There, so I did as I was non-commanded to do. I admit my brain did, at one point, suddenly relapse into some bad 70's porn-style mode where I half-expected the receptionist to knock on the door open it and say something cheesy like, "you've been in here a long time, do you need any .... assistance?" Like straight out of American Pie or something. Actually, there was one point where someone was making a big noise in the room across the hall and my first flight-or-fight response was to cover up quick for fear of being "caught." My next response was to yell out, "Quiet down out there! Don't you know someone's trying to MASTURBATE in here!!???"
I, of course, did neither and continued on with the matter at hand. No pun intended. So eventually I finish, clean up, zip up, and am back out the door. Some Indian guy is now in the lab and he, in a rather unnerving way, happily accepts my specimen. I walk back into the lobby area and the reception lets out a big sigh and says something like, "okay, now for the paperwork." As if waiting there at the desk waiting for me to pull and yank and capture and clean and do all the REAL work was somehow more exhausting for HER than it was for ME. I fill out the requisite forms, pay the requisite amount, and am out the door.
I was expecting to be greeted by someone who understands that, while I voluntarily signed up for it and they deal with it on a daily basis, this is still a somewhat embarassing procedure. And to be led to an actual ROOM. Maybe even with a TV and a small library of different pornos. Okay, maybe I'm fantasizing about the place the Buchman's went to on Mad About You, but still. I certainly did NOT expect to be led to a washroom and given only three magazines. I can see it now, some poor guy comes out all shaken and asks if they have any other "material." They must! I mean, they do this every single week! They're booked up for another 2 weeks after today! Where's the variety? Where's the library? Where's the VHS tapes?
Or maybe I just expected too much from a clinical procedure.
I won't find out the results for probably 2 weeks.
More waiting.