Tom was 19, a second year student at Leland Stanford Jr. University, or Stanford. He had accepted the good-natured kidding from his high school buddies who had gone on to Cal about the “Junior University” appellation, but explained that Leland Stanford Jr. was the son of a nineteenth century railroad baron who died at an early age.

Ironic, Tom thought, that now he was trying to create life at a University who had been named for a person who had died young! Tom had seen an advertisement in the school paper for sperm donors. The ad was upfront; it stated that donors could earn as much as $l05/week. Tom had called, and had gone through the long screening process. At the clinic he was treated well. Although they seemed very interested in his background, the screening process seemed very clinical, and almost unrelated to the ultimate goal of making babies! They tossed out terms —sperm count, motility rates, viability— almost like exam questions. Tom has finally told that he had passed!

Tom had been able to tell the screening rep that he had had no previous sexual experiences. The screening rep said that this made things easier, since he should abstain for three days before his donation appointment. Tom had been a very gifted student, but had never really given sex serious thought. Of course, when the opportunity arose, he got himself off, but he had never given thought to having sex with someone else. The screening rep explained that guys who had girlfriends sometimes had to disappoint their girlfriends a couple of days before their donation days, and this sometimes created problems.

Tom knew that lesbian women used the center. He would have preferred to know the women who used his sperm, and their children, but understood that this was not possible. The donation center kept donors and recipients apart, even scheduling appointments for the two groups on different days.

He gave the idea of having offspring some thought. He liked the idea, but decided that he was helping someone who wanted to have children; and reasoned that someday he could have children himself.

Tom always looked forward to his appointments at the clinic. He couldn’t beat off several days before donating; so his appointment at the clinic meant that he would at least get some sexual release.

On his scheduled appointment day, Tom almost bounded to the clinic after class. He walked past the receptionist, who noted his arrival in her appointment book, and asked Tom if he needed any “visuals.” Tom said no.

A young black technician appeared, and told Tom to follow him. He obeyed. The clinician was black, and Tom noticed the contrast with his white lab coat. The technician took Tom down a long hall, to a fairly large room. The room had been disguised, and did not look clinical. There was a bed with a somewhat “homey” faded cover. A modern painting adorned the wall, along with a clock of 1960’s vintage. The clock seemed out of place to Tom; but he reasoned that the clock was probably about the same age he was, so he accepted its presence.

Even in the midst of this clinical, somewhat impersonal setting, Tom was hard. He knew that he would have absolutely no problem getting off. His psyche yearned for more, however. Some physical touch, perhaps. In the midst of creating new life, he felt alone.

Tom looked at the lab technician. The young black man seemed to represent the only humanness in the clinic. Although Tom was 19, and very self-assured, he desired the touch of someone else.

The technician said, “I guess you’ll be OK?” Tom picked up on this response. The question seemed almost inviting. Tom sat on the bed, and said, “Hey —it’ll just take seconds— please stay.” He realized that the technician might respond differently than he had hoped! Tom also didn’t know what he wanted. He knew he was at the clinic for a very singular purpose, but the desire for human contact, even at this most personal moment, overcame his reluctance to voice this request.