Join our special guest "Anonymous" in his quest for the ultimate "package". Maybe we would want to remain anonymous too, when dealing with subject matter this, shall we say, "sensitive?" All we can tell you is that this talent lives and works in NYC and makes a living doing promotional writing for the record business (VH1, Interscope, BMG, etc.) He once referred to a new release by Motley Crue as the "aural equivalent of a good nipple-piercing," and believe it or not, got away with it. In his free time, Anonymous steals from the rich and gives to the poor, swings through windows on chandeliers and sings with a lederhosen Oompapa band. This guy is busy.

Upward Motility

by David McDonald

Growing up around the corner from each other, my best friend Timmy always beat me at everything. On the basketball court, he was a snaky, shimmering hoop-machine. On the tennis court, he'd have me scrambling from baseline to baseline. I was never a bad athlete, but on a competitive level, Timmy just owned me. And he knew it.

Even now, well, I guess you could almost describe our relationship as a latter-day version of A Tale of Two Cities. Timmy works on Wall Street, has a beautiful duplex in Brooklyn Heights, even goes helicopter skiing in Gstaad, Switzerland every winter. And me? Well, let's put it this way. I simply ain't in that category -- no way, no how. And I don't see that changing for a long while.

So anyway, here I am last weekend at this divine deck party hosted by Timmy and a few of his ridiculously wealthy friends, when Timmy starts holding court. The subject? Fertilization. You see, he and his dream wife Fabula have been attempting to conceive a child for about two years now, and no matter how hard they try, they just can't seem to do it. Oh yeah, they've tried just about everything -- going to witch doctors in Peru, covering their bed with roses and garlands, timing their lovemaking to coincide with the tidal patterns of the equator. None of it's worked.

Then one day Fabula had an idea. Since nothing was obviously wrong with her, maybe the problem lay somehow with her husband. At which point he was summarily ordered off to a fertilization clinic up on Park and 72nd for some, uhh, testing.

Here's the tale, in Tim's words:

"So I get there, right? And I'm sitting in the waiting room. I'm waiting and waiting, and finally, well, this nurse walks up to me and hands me a vial. And I'm like, 'What do I do with this?' And she doesn't say a thing, simply just guides me into a back room, a back room that's got about four little cubicles with doors on them. And she points me towards one of the doors.

"Well, I get inside one of the rooms, and what's there but a bench, a roll of toilet paper, and about eight porno mags! All from about 1976 or something. Things like Oui, Jugs, Honcho...A lot of them with, like, pages missing or stuck together."

Timmy's instant dilemma: To wank or not to wank.

"So I stood there for a few minutes," he continued. "And I, well, uhh…I did give it a shot. But for a second I thought I heard someone in the cubicle next to me, and that was it -- Ol' Jake had wilted and he wasn't coming back."

At which point, not exactly knowing what to do, Timmy pocketed the vial and went back into the waiting room, burying his head in a magazine. Then, just as he was deeply ensconced in a golfing article (Sic Ways To Improve Your Putt), a nurse came towards him and reached out a hand.

For the vial.

For the empty vial.

"At this point I was thinking: 'Why hadn't I just asked the guy next to me: Buddy can I just borrow a little bit of your semen?'" Timmy continued. "Instead, I had this nurse looking at me like, 'Are you so lame that you can't even wank off into a little vial?' And I'm, like, just mumbling and stuttering about like, well, it's the atmosphere, ya know?"

As it turned out for Timmy, things weren't so dire after all. The nurse informed him that he could, in fact, do his, umm, duty at home -- there was just one caveat. He would have to unload and be back in the office within ninety minutes for all the lovely little spermies to live -- otherwise, just like Cinderella, his, umm, magical aura would quickly wear off.

Timmy bolted onto the downtown subway and got back to Brooklyn Heights within a half an hour. Walking down Montague Street, he realized that he too would need some help in the stimulation department, and walked into the local bodega in search of printed material. As he grabbed a Hustler and a High Society off the rack, who walks in the door of the bodega but Mrs. Porwick, a friend of his (and my) mother from days gone by. In too much of a rush to feel embarrassed, Timmy breezed by her with the quick utterance: "It's all for a good cause, Mrs. Porwick." (writer's note: I would have paid a thousand bucks to have seen that.)

Getting home, Tim disappeared into the bathroom for five minutes. Triumph! But no time to gloat, he had to get back onto the subway -- pronto.

Before leaving the doctor's office, the nurse had told him that one thing was key. By all means, he had to keep his own sperm warm all the way back to the office -- body temperature, in fact. So as Timmy stood on the uptown Lexington Avenue Express, he had a vial of his own jism tucked into his boxer briefs. And every minute or two, he had to readjust it so that it wouldn't slip down the leg and onto the subway floor (writer's note: I would have paid a million to see that).

As Timmy started wrapping up his story to the gathered throng around him, I couldn't help but ask the question.

"So Timmy…what was the end result then?"

"Uhh…well…" he hesitated, clearing his throat.

"Yeah, Timmy, what happened?" asked another member of the peanut gallery.

For a brief moment, I saw my super-confident friend lose a smidgen of composure. But just for a nanosecond.

"Just a little motility issue, nothing to worry about at all," he smirked.

"What exactly is motility?" I pestered.

He looked at me with a benevolent smile that really meant: You asshole. Don't you know I'm gonna get you back for this (friends can do this to one another, you know).

Then, flipping into his I work on Wall Street and I'm an authority on everything persona, Timmy gave us a lesson:

"Guys," he said, "think of motility as mobility. Sperm mobility. High motility means they move like Michael Jordan. Low motility, well, that's like, uhh..."

"Fat Albert!" I volunteered.

"That's right!" he laughed. And he went on talking and talking. About various motility levels and how they can be influenced by temperature, diet, even environment. About how motility had absolutely nothing to do with actual sperm count. And of course, how motility had nothing whatsoever to do with potency -- far from it, in fact.

As Timmy went on and on, I couldn't help but think of all those moments from our youth when my buddy had beaten me in tennis, ousted me in pool, shimmied and shaked for that last-second shot to defeat me in the final play of the game. And I laughed to myself. Because on the greatest court of all -- the court of life -- Timmy's boys just didn't have the moves to dribble upcourt, double-clutch in the pivot, and drive past the center.

Contact Anonymous at 5a7@avivalasvegas.com. Make sure to put Anonymous in the subject line.

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