The Fatted Calf: The Sperm Bank

It all started, really, when Jared Bukowski asked me over one night (for prayer no less). He needed me to pray for him. For his sinful, persistent urges and his own noble, but futile attempts against them. He broke down, not me. I listened. I’m a good listener. All it took was a thought, a sentence started but taken back, when he said it was starting to get—

“painful?” I finished. 

“I don’t know what to do.” 

“Pray through it,” I told him, “I’m telling you. Prayer always works.”

“I’ve tried that,” he moaned, “don’t you think I’ve tried that? I mean, for ten months now…I can’t…I can’t do it anymore. I can’t not do it anymore. And believe me, other guys have given up sooner than I have, I swear.” 

“But Jared,” I say, “masturbation is a sin.” 

“I know! But is it really so bad that I have to suffer like this?” 

I told him I believed him, I sympathized. 

I swear, I’m not making this up.

“I mean, what kind of service to the lord can I do if there’s some…you know, permanent damage? How can I have kids of my own?” 

I swear, I’m not making this up. 

“Look, the question is…do you think that God would want you in this much pain? The Lord created our bodies as vessels for his message. If your body is sending you a message of pain, then do you really think that message is a divine one?” 

He was crying. Like, really crying, like he was scared his pecker was going to turn purple and fall off right there. And then, he was blinking, sniffling, thinking over this dilemma with a fresh perspective, as if I had actually suggested something that had not crossed his mind before. 

“No, unless this is a test…”

“You’ve been pure of heart and soul and mind for ten months! If there was a test, then don’t you think you have passed it? If this is anything, I think it’s a sign.” 

“Of?” 

“Of…” I stood up, like maybe I was going to leave, walk out with all of this still hanging in the air, “of…permission.” 

“What? Wait,” he jumped off his bed and I was surprised by his sudden agility, embarrassed by his weathered gray boxers, which was all he was wearing at the time, “permission to do what?” 

“To release the pressure! That’s all, not to pleasure yourself, but to rid yourself of the pain, that’s all.” 

“To rid myself of the pain…” he mulls this over, and I continued, thinking that I am possibly a genius. 

“Possibly even a calling? You probably have lots and lots of little Jared’s locked up inside that loin of yours.”

He moves his hand and covers his crotch, like a girl covering her bosom. Please. 

“If you just relieve yourself into a Kleenex, that’s wasteful. That’s sinful. You could use this chance to be of service to God, just like you said!” 

“Oh, Jesus,” he moans, and sits back down. 

“Listen,” I sat back down next to him, put my hand on his shoulder which sickens me because his skin is sort of clammy, soft, not at all the rigid, strapping muscle that a teenage boy was supposed to have. I resent the people who have made him this way, “go to the clinic, say hello to the nice lady, fill out the form, and get it over with. There’s no reason why anyone even needs to know. I’m pretty sure it’s completely confidential.” 

I told him I didn’t care who he thought about, or what, that I would be there for him no matter what, that this was the right decision. I told him to think about the family he was providing for someone who may have otherwise never had kids of their own. 

Jared pulled the covers over himself and asked to be left alone, like simply talking about it had made him ready to go. But we prayed one last time, mainly thanking God for clarity, for relief, for remembering the special sacredness (okay, I did make that part up myself) of our bodies, and what precious gifts we hold inside of us. He said he was thankful for me above all things, that no one else would have given him good advice; they would have told him to hold it until he had a heart attack. 

Really, I was just trying to get him to break down and buy some dirty magazines. The sperm bank thing was just a bonus. 

The bank was confidential, but Jared took them up on the option to be informed when someone purchased his sperm and had success with it. A young Lebanese couple from Ridgefield bought his little gifts and were pregnant. A letter of congratulations and thanks came in the mail. His dad opened it. 

Genius.