Chapter 3: The Collection
Stu’s office was the opposite of the examination room. Warm oak, a deep leather chair, shelves with real books. A single orchid bloomed on the desk. It felt like the kind of place where important, discreet deals were made. He was already seated, fingers steepled.
“Sit, please.” He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Everything looks excellent. Your genetic screening panel is clean, your sperm motility from the initial sample is in the ninety-fifth percentile. You’re a prime candidate.”
He said it like he was appraising a racehorse. I should have felt pride. All I felt was a hollow thrum in my veins.
“So what’s next?”
“The commitment is for twenty deposits over the next six months. We schedule you twice a week. Consistency is key.” He slid a contract across the desk. The numbers swam before my eyes, but the final sum was clear. It was more than I made in a year. It was a lifeline thrown from a luxury yacht. “Sign there, and we can begin today. Initial payment upon first successful collection.”
My hand didn’t shake as I signed. That surprised me. It felt like someone else’s hand, moving automatically. The Ben from six months ago would have laughed. The Ben from last week would have vomited. Today’s Ben just pressed the pen into the paper, etching my name in a trade.
“Excellent.” Stu took the contract, his smile genuine. “Follow me.”
He led me back into the cold hallway, but to a different door. It was unmarked. He used a keycard. The room inside was small, brutally functional. Harsh fluorescent lights reflected off white subway tile and stainless steel. In the center was a single, oversized leather chair, like a dentist’s chair but lower. A small side table held a box of tissues, a stack of sterile cups with lids, and a stack of what looked like high-end magazines. A large, frosted window took up one wall.
“The collection room,” Stu said, his voice echoing slightly. “Everything you need is here. The process is straightforward. We require a… concentrated sample. The magazines are there if you need visual assistance. Some donors prefer to use their phones. That’s fine. Just place the sample in the cup, seal it, and place it in the pass-through compartment.” He tapped a small metal door set into the wall next to the window. “I’ll be right on the other side, analyzing it immediately for viability. Time is a factor.”
He made it sound like a timed test. I just nodded, my throat tight.
“I’ll give you privacy.” He stepped out.
The door clicked shut. The silence was absolute, except for the faint, high hum of the lights. I stood in the middle of the room, adrift. This was it. The transaction point. I looked at the magazines. Glossy, airbrushed, impersonal. I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over my photos. Pictures of Chloe, of the baby. I swiped past them fast, a hot knife of guilt twisting in my gut. That felt wrong. Profane.
I thought of nothing. I focused on the mechanics, the pressure, the need to perform. To earn. I fumbled with my jeans.
The lock on the door disengaged with a sharp buzz.
Stu walked back in, holding a tablet.
I froze, one hand still on my waistband. “What—”
“Apologies,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. He didn’t look away. His demeanor was still that of a technician. “I forgot the lubricant. It’s standard issue. Makes the process more efficient.” He placed a small, unopened packet on the side table. “And I need to confirm your donor ID number verbally before we begin. Protocol.”
He stood there, waiting. The space was too small. His presence filled it, a clean, citrus-and-anticseptic scent cutting through the sterile air. My heart was a frantic animal in my chest.
“It’s, uh… DB-782,” I stammered, reading the number off the keycard he’d given me.
“DB-782. Confirmed.” He made a note on the tablet. But he didn’t leave. His eyes lifted from the screen and found mine. They held a calm, assessing look. “You’re tense. That’s normal. But tension can affect the sample. Vasoconstriction. You need to relax.” He said it like a doctor, but his gaze felt like something else entirely. “Just do what comes naturally. I’ll be observing through the window to ensure the collection protocol is followed. For quality control.”
He turned and left again. The lock buzzed.
Observing.
The word hung in the air, toxic and heavy. I looked at the large frosted window. I could see the blurred shape of him moving on the other side, a shadow settling into a chair. He was there. Watching the blur of me.
Humiliation burned my cheeks, but underneath it, a treacherous, electric current sparked. It was shameful. It was terrifying. And it was the most seen I’d felt in years. Not as a father, not as a husband, not as a failing breadwinner. But as a body. As something with a function, a value. The ghost of Big Balls Ben stirred, not in pride, but in a raw, base recognition.
It was clumsy. My hands felt like someone else’s. The room was too bright, too cold. I was achingly aware of the shadow behind the glass, a silent, powerful witness. I tried to think of the money. The number in the contract. Chloe’s face when I could tell her the debt was gone. But the images wouldn’t stick. All that existed was the now, the chill of the room, the crinkle of the sterile paper on the chair, the unblinking eye of the window.
I used the lubricant. The sound was obscenely loud.
Time warped. Stretched and snapped. My breathing grew ragged, a private sound in the public silence. I kept my eyes shut, trying to block out the reality of where I was, what I was doing. What he was doing.
Then, his voice. It came through a small, discreet speaker I hadn’t noticed, smooth and calm, filling the room.
“Very good, Ben. That’s it. Optimal arousal state. The physiology is remarkable.”
My eyes flew open. I stared at the frosted glass, at the dark, shapeless form.
“You’re a natural for this. I can see why you had a… reputation.” A soft, knowing chuckle. “The nickname wasn’t just bravado, was it? I can confirm the anatomy is exceptional. Prime genetics.”
The words shouldn’t have worked. They were clinical, dehumanizing. Yet they landed on the raw, neglected part of me that missed being acknowledged, missed being wanted. They stoked the fire even as they poured shame on it. My pulse roared in my ears.
“Just let it happen. Provide the sample. Be a good donor.”
Be a good donor. The final command. It broke something. The release, when it crashed over me, was less pleasure than a violent surrender. A wave of intense, shuddering sensation that felt closer to pain. I choked back a sound, my body convulsing against the cold leather.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of my own desperate breathing echoing off the tiles. The shadow behind the glass moved.
The speaker crackled once more, Stu’s voice soft, satisfied.
“Perfect.”
The metal pass-through door clicked open. With trembling, numb hands, I sealed the cup and placed it inside. It slid away, taken by unseen hands on the other side of the wall.
I cleaned up mechanically, using the rough industrial tissues. My whole body felt hollowed out, used. I dressed. As I zipped my jeans, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
A banking app notification.
The first payment. The number was real, sitting in my account. It was more money than I’d ever seen move at one time.
The door unlocked. Stu stood there, holding the now-empty tablet. He gave me a small, professional smile. No trace of what had just happened lingered on his face.
“Excellent first session, Ben. We’ll see you on Thursday. Rest, and hydrate.”
I walked out of the clinic on legs that didn’t feel like my own. The sun outside was too bright. The city sounds were too loud. I sat in my car for ten minutes, hands on the wheel, not moving.
The ghost was in the passenger seat. But it wasn’t the ghost of who I’d been. It was the ghost of what I’d just done. And it had its seatbelt fastened, ready for the next ride.