Until recently, even the thought of having children has been low on my to-do list (a list that starts with finishing Clone Wars on Netflix and ends with paying off student loans). It seems the majority of my childhood friends either have kids or are on the verge of scheduling their lives around ovulation cycles (disturbing evidence of this is easily observed on my Facebook feed). —-So, as an unmarried 31-year-old who has no heir, I decided to take the first step in furthering my legacy—I paid $150 to get my sperm analyzed at the University of Utah Andrology Department.

First off, it should comes as no surprise that Utah is ground zero for babies. There are babies everywhere. As far as I know, you can pick up a free baby inside Temple Square. I've never been in there. But what I'm saying is, the Beehive State is consistently ranked highest for birth rates and because of this, there are no shortage of doctors in the Salt Lake City area who specialize in fertility.

Now, because my insurance company is run by a posse of assholes who don't cover tests of this nature, I had to shop around for the best price. I spent fours hours one afternoon calling every fertility clinic in Utah, only to discover that a lot of these places won't allow you to get a test done if you're an unmarried guy with no concrete plans for fatherhood—which is entirely unfair. To make matters worse, after saying "semen analysis" into the phone 300 times, you start to wonder if these receptionists assume they're speaking to some sort of sex-crazed masturbator.

The following is an example of a typical phone call:

"Yes, hello. I would like to schedule a semen analysis."

"I'm sorry, a what?"

"A semen analysis."

"I still can't hear you. Can you please speak up?"

"A SEMEN ANALYSIS!"

"OK great, will your wife be joining you?"

"No, I'm not married."

"Oh ... umm, what's your doctor's name?"

"This is a self-referral."

"OK, why do you want to get this done, sir?"

"Uh, I don't know... self-discovery, a quest for knowledge, sustainability ... I'm sick of masturbating in my house."

Eventually, I settled on the University of Utah Andrology Laboratory because the price seemed reasonable, it's close to my home and they have "aids" for, you know, helping with "the process," which I'll explain later. If you're considering going through with a semen analysis, you should know you have to remain abstinent for at least three to five days. Naturally, I wanted my sample to be as potent as possible so I opted for the full five.

Five days is an incredibly long time. For anyone who's ever had their hands cut off or been on a family vacation, you know damn well there are plenty of things that are easier to give up for five days than the five-knuckle shuffle, like Candy Crush or crack. Hell, some people need to do it two, three times a day...

In those five miserable days, I drank 43 beers, got in six internet arguments, became overly fascinated with how The Simpsons should end, was forced by a friend to eat dinner at Trails Gentlemen's Club and cried watching Her.

When I finally crawled into the Andrology Department, I was a defeated, shell of a man. Thankfully, the gentlemen at the front desk—we'll call him "Paul"—was extremely professional. I suppose you'd have to have a polished disposition when close to 70 guys a week see you for the sole purpose of whacking off. He greeted me at the desk with a smile and handed me a form that was more of a detailed set of rules than anything. This list includes things like no lotion, no interrupted intercourse, no using a condom—unless you buy a $20 sterile one from the lab—and always, always deadbolt the door (something every guy should have learned by the age of 13). It was apparent that these rules were designed not only to ensure accurate test results, but also because some terrible things have probably happened in the not-so-distant past. I signed my name at the bottom of the form, agreeing to obey the jack-off rules.

Paul handed me a tiny plastic jar with a screw-on top and showed me to the collection room. "OK, remember to lock the door. When you're done, place the sample on that little shelf and you're free to go," he said, pointing to a tiny hatch at the back of the room that probably leads to the lab. I closed the door, locked it and surveyed my scenario.

If I had to design a room for doing this sort of thing, it would be grounded in reality and feature an environment that regular guys are familiar with—like a desk chair in a dark room in front of a computer. However, this place was designed with the notion that men regularly crank one out in the main lobby of a Holiday Inn from 1998. The room featured a large brown-leather chair, doctor's office sink, a huge shitty landscape painting on the wall, a fresh stack of towels on the floor and, to help with the process, a binder filled with porno mags.

If you're like me, a modern man aka a man with an internet connection, you probably haven't seen a porno mag in at least a decade. This particular lab provided the stereotypical classics; a few copies of Playboy and Penthouse. A friend of mine who had the same test done not long ago in North Carolina told me that his collection room had a TV, burned copies of Bree Olson DVDs and a crappy, homemade porn that had probably been accidentally left behind. I suppose that wouldn't have been much better.

While leafing through the February 2014 issue of Playboy, with a piece of paper towel over my hand because everything in this room is beyond flagged, I didn't feel any sense of arousal ... because, well, I've seen some shit, man. And to be completely honest, reading a porno mag made me feel more nostalgic than anything.

If you were born anytime before the '90s, the act of sitting and reading a porno brings you back to a simpler time, a time when young men would scavenge for whatever they could to stare at and defile. Redbook, Good Housekeeping, Boating World, nothing was safe. If you were lucky to enough to come across a legit porno, you felt as if you were the first to discover the Dead Sea Scrolls. When I was growing up, the "bad" kids in my neighborhood had an old rusty box in the middle of the woods that contained a jackknife, some lighters, firecrackers and a shit-ton of porn. Forest porn. It was ... the greatest thing in existence.

I put the magazines away and tried to focus on the task at hand. I didn't want to be in this room any longer than I had to, so I whipped out my phone. No service. It was then that I realized I was a prisoner, locked in a cell with a loaded gun and no way to fire it. Apparently, when activated, the brain has a reserve of untapped power that allows men to accomplish extraordinary feats. They say normal people can lift burning cars or punch bears in the face when they're experiencing high levels of stress. So, like a damn animal, I had to jack it to my stupid imagination. If it wasn't for the five-day drought, I'd probably still be there.

After I turned in my sample, I headed back to the main lobby to speak with Paul. "So, uh, who's in charge of the magazine selection around here?" I asked. Paul laughed with a smug look on his face, "Yeah, we try to keep them pretty up to date." I leaned over the counter to let him know this was no laughing matter, "What I mean is..." I whispered, "they're pretty weak." Surprisingly, Paul responded with complete empathy, "Yeah, I know what you mean, man." 

I waited a full 10 days for my test results to arrive, and when they did, I frantically ripped open the envelope. For the most part, my sperm analysis was fantastic; my ejaculate volume was an insane 5.2 (normal being 1.5), sperm motility was a kick-ass 72 percent (normal being a 32 percent) and I couldn't be mad about a total sperm count of 1,092.0 millions (normal being 39).

Overall, everything about the test was great, except for my 3 percent sperm morphology (head/tail shapes) rating. According to an article by the Mayo Clinic, a 4 percent rating is considered normal. So, what does a 3 percent sperm morphology rating mean exactly? Well, it means I have tons of effective, but slightly deformed, half-wit sperm cells. For example, if my sperm was in the Battle of Thermopylae, as depicted in the film 300, they wouldn't be a small band of highly skilled warriors, like the Spartans. No, my sperm would be best represented by the Persian hoard—millions of idiot warriors that only win because of sheer numbers. What I'm saying is, my ejaculate would blot out the sun.

One of the factors that leads to deformed, idiot-sperm with multiple tails and fists is excessive alcohol consumption. This seemed about right, considering I drank myself into an oblivion during my five-day masturbation hiatus, but there's no need to be worried. It is said that sperm morphology can be fixed by making a few simple lifestyle adjustments, like cutting back on booze, taking multi-vitamins and not resting your laptop on your genitals.

If you're on the fence about getting a semen analysis, you really should do it. Every man should know what he's made of and what's happening below the belt. And, best of all, if you're a single guy in search of an heir, you can use your semen analysis as your Tinder profile pic.