Well, not actually at the sperm bank, but I did do some serious partying with sperm bank workers last night at one of SF’s diviest Karaoke bars. It was a birthday party for my friend, a sex crisis hotline worker, fetish model and sperm bank employee. Wha–? Yes, I said fetish model *and* sperm worker. Yes, she helps to aid men in making DNA donations to the world. To her party last night she wore a skin-tight army t-shirt, fishnets, boots and a tight little black skirt. In San Francisco, we have it all.

I listened to her day; she had the day off and was happy about "No sperm today!" Does she often see a lot of sperm, I asked? Yes, and it gets everywhere. I teased her by making finger-licking movements, and rubbing the licked fingers between my breasts, rubbing my boobs together in a mock-porn-star move while licking my lips and moaning loudly. "Umm, not quite," she said, but she did once date a client. "It was, uh, compromising. Yes–I *did* help get samples. I’ll never forget the day I rushed out of the donation room, all flushed and just-fucked-looking to get the phone and ran into the janitor. He just looked at me with this sour look and said, ‘I get lunch now.’" Goodness. Beer was flowing and the other sperm bank workers were getting rowdy. I asked what the most popular picks are for sperm shoppers. "High education, blonde, blue eyes, white. Totally boring." What could someone do to increase his chances of having his deposit selected? "Lie and say you graduated from Harvard." One tall young gay man behind us was loudly out-singing the hippie college girls onstage, shrieking the words to Four Non-Blondes’ song, What’s Up. "He works at the sperm bank, too," she told me. He screamed in an ear-piercing falsetto, "And I say hey! I said hey! What’s going on! Eeeee!"

Did I sing? No, that is too horrible to contemplate, but I did shout lyrics from my seat with all the other partygoers, all from various sex ed jobs around town, including a columnist and several SFSI directors. At one point a sex educator who is also an ambulance worker (and friend) came up behind me and grabbed my hand, making me squeeze my own boob, then my crotch. Because Hornboy and I had at least fifty beers each at this point, it was hilarious. I laughed and said, "Dude, whatever. I do this like every hour." "Every hour?" "At least." Get a bunch of sex educators together with booze and a Karaoke machine and things get pretty loose — plenty of grinding, humping, groping, and I distinctly remember flashing a random stranger at the bar… It sounds out of control but trust me that this was a night of much-needed therapy. I am so out of my mind with work frustration that I am like a rage-infected monkey Monday through Friday these days. I have a hell of a sore throat today. I wonder what today was like at the sperm bank… I can only imagine what it’s like to work at a spank bank with a nerve-shattering hangover.