Steve approaches an unmarked door and begins typing his secret code on the keypad. He enters the lobby and is greeted by an older woman seated behind a desk. She silently motions for Steve to put his hands inside a biometric scanner. From that point on, she will only refer to him by his identification number: X19.
“Which video would you like today?” she asks, as she edges towards “Catholic School Girl Party.” Clearly, Steve is not the next double-oh agent. He is merely getting ready to make a donation—to the local sperm bank.
California Cryobank, located at 950 Massachusetts Ave., aggressively recruits Harvard students to “supplement your income while giving others the chance to experience the joy of starting a family.” And if your sperm have got it, you’ve got it made; a qualified donor can make up to $900 a month, and Steve was no exception.
“Steve,” who was granted anonymity due to the unusually private nature of the matter, is an athlete at Harvard and initially went to Cryobank after his pockets were empty. “I had seen the ad in The Crimson every day for two years, and one day, I was broke and gave them a call,” he says.
After being accepted, he began donating sperm three times a week. With an out-of-town girlfriend, Steve’s new livelihood worked out perfectly for him.
“It’s an even better way to commit yourself to not fool around,” Steve says. “Not only are you getting paid for it, there is that moral thing, too.”
But don’t drop your pants yet—Steve is one of the one to two percent of applicants who are eventually accepted, according to Carla Pedrussian, the marketing manager for the sperm bank. And, surprisingly, not all Harvard students seem to measure up.
With a perfect score on his SATs and a varsity letter from one of Harvard’s most competitive sports, then-freshman “James,” also granted anonymity, said sperm donation seemed like a lucrative option. After hearing about Cryobank from a friend, James decided to give it a whirl.
“It’s only a five minute walk there and a five minute walk back. You are in there for 10 minutes,” he says. “I figured three shots a week at up to $75 a deposit...you’re making $225 an hour. You’re in, you’re out.”
But the experience wasn’t the quickie James had expected. After filling out a brief online survey, each candidate is notified of his acceptance. After clearing that hurdle, he is invited in to give a specimen and fill out more paperwork. The swimmers are examined “to determine sperm count, motility, progression, morphology and freezing traits to ensure that it meets our standards,” according to California Cryobank’s Web site.
For James, this was no problem.
“I had the right stuff,” he boasts, claiming that the right percentage of his boys were “movin’ and groovin’ like they should.” And James has reason to boast: California Cryobank “demands sperm counts that are higher than the average,” says Pedrussian.
However, $900 a month was still a few, ahem, squirts away. James still had to conquer the lengthy 27-page family history.
“You profile yourself your siblings, your parents, your grandparents,” he says. He and other candidates at this stage are given $50 for this trouble, “a trifling sum” according to James.
Once this paperwork is completed, the real fun begins: a meeting with a genetic counselor, a physical examination with the company’s physician, and two samples, according the sperm bank’s web site.
Unfortunately for James, things went sour—after this stage, he was rejected.
“They don’t tell you why you’re rejected,” James explains, unless the reasons are life-threatening.
“I had already started spending like I had been accepted, so that was kind of rough,” he says. But it was not an entirely wasted effort. “You know the Playboy issues you would be kind of excited about but never pay the six dollars for? They always had those issues.”
Neither James nor Steve had serious qualms about donating their goods for others to populate the earth. While James was slightly worried that “my familial kids might meet my sperm babies,” Steve “thought the idea of a bunch of my kids running all over the place was kind of sweet.” With no financial responsibility to these children, it made perfect sense.
Not all Harvard students are so gung-ho about spreading their seed. Secretary of Harvard Right to Life Justin S. Murray ’07, speaking on his own behalf, calls the practice immoral, especially when combined with in vitro fertilization. “This reeks of eugenics,” says Murray, who says that “designing your baby...creates an atmosphere in which the baby will only be accepted conditionally, based on the specific characteristics sought out in the sperm donors.”
James’ parents, though, would disagree. When he told his mother, she told him modestly that he has “great genes, so it’s better to have more of [James] out there than random other people,” he recalls.
In quiet, but in numbers, Harvard male undergrads are making the trek out.
“Every single guy I’ve ever told that I did it has said ‘Oh that’s so stupid!’ And then in private ask me about how to get involved,” Steve says. And not just for the $900. “I definitely had some friends who wanted to do it just to spread their seed.”
Gives new meaning to the command “Go forth and multiply.”
