BONUS EPISODE: Donor's Big Decision

This week’s bonus episode is an anonymous story from a sperm donor who donated during what we call the Wild West of sperm donation - a time with little regulation, few questions asked, and consequences no one fully understood.

Why did he donate? What was he told at the time? 

This is a rare, unfiltered perspective from the other side of the story, one that raises just as many questions as it answers.

Because behind every donation are real lives, real identities, and a legacy that doesn’t end when the clinic door closes.

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Get in touch and share your story with us, we're looking to interview people on upcoming episodes! 

Email us at: spermsisterspod@gmail.com

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Subscribe on YouTube: @SpermSistersPodcast

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:12

For this Friday's bonus episode, we're sharing a fascinating firsthand account from a listener who donated sperm during what we've been calling the Wild West era of sperm banking in the late 1980s. He's requested to remain anonymous, but we are so grateful for this contribution. By sharing these deeply personal stories, we hope to shed light on a chapter of history long obscured by taboo. His story offers valuable insight into the motivations and personal reasons that led so many men to donate during this time. If you also have a story that you would like to share with us, whether you yourself were or are a donor, or if your donor conceived, we would love to hear from you. Our email address is spermsisterspod at gmail.com.

SPEAKER_01 1:03

This story starts in 1988. A time when everything felt bold, loud, and a little defiant. Fashion was all about excess with oversized denim jackets, studded leather, shoulder pads, and high-waisted jeans. Madonna and Michael Jackson dominated the charts while UK acid house and rave culture began bubbling underground, with bands like The Smiths shaping the sound of a generation. Globally, it was a tense but changing world. The Cold War was beginning to thaw, while back in Britain, Margaret Thatcher's policies continued to reshape industry and society, leaving many communities navigating unemployment, change, and a growing sense that the old ways of life were slowly disappearing. Kilburn High Road shimmered in the late afternoon heat. London smelt warm with fumes, and the air felt thick enough to lean on. The excitement of moving to the city had worn off by now. It had been four months since he had arrived. Stepping out of the job centre with a folded leaflet in his hand and nothing else to show for the day, he sighed and closed his eyes for a brief moment, feeling the summer warmth on his face. Someone had to give him a yes. It wasn't like he wasn't trying, he really was, but he couldn't bring himself to call home and to ask for help. Eighty applications in the past week, each one carefully written, folded, posted, with a kind of fragile hope that had started to feel embarrassing. He'd imagined them piling up on desks across London, opened and discarded, probably lying at the bottom of a bin covered in yesterday's sandwich wrapper. Back home in Yorkshire, things had been different. His family had worked the same line for generations at the textile factory just outside of town. There was something solid about it, despite living pay packet to pay packet, but they grafted. When he got his acceptance letter from the grammar school, his parents were so proud. For him, life was on the up with a job as a clerk in the office above the factory. Our son works in an office, his mum would say to anyone who listened. It was like he'd crossed into another world, and maybe he had. But when the factory slowed, when the orders dried up, and the whispers started, closures, cuts, uncertainty, he'd be one of the first to go. Too young, too new, too easy. But that was the way of things now. He had started to block out the noise of Thatcher on the telly talking about change. The miners striking, the news full of picket lines and police, inflation eating away at what little people had. And somewhere in all of that, people just like him slipp through the cracks. A move to London was the only logical solution, he thought. It's got to be the only place left in Britain with any employment security, surely. How wrong he had been. The pub wasn't far, just a few streets down, but he took his time. There was no rush to get there, and even less desire to go back to the flat. He'd spent the morning aching from sleeping on the floor again of his friend's bedroom, and racked with guilt, taking up space in an already busy flat chair. Mike had been a good friend to him. They met at grammar school and had stayed in touch ever since, the final safety net in the city. As he walked down Kilburn High Road, he slipped a hand into his pocket and felt the coins there, counting them by touch. Enough for one pint, he thought. He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh and muttered to himself Luxury. If Dave was there, he might get lucky. Dave always ordered chips, big portions too, and never finished them. His stomach tightened at the thought. Cornflakes that morning felt like a lifetime ago. The pub door creaked as he pushed it open, and the familiar smell hit him. Beer, wood polish, something fried. It was comforting in its own way, really. He scanned the room. No, Dave, of course not. His shoulders sank just slightly before he spotted Mike, already in their usual corner. Terry was sat next to him. Shame really, it might have been a good night. Terry worked in Covent Garden, an upstart in advertising and basked in the glory. He made his way over to them both, head lowered as if trying to take up less space. Mike looked up first and gave him a small smile, gentle knowing. Terry barely glanced at him. All right, Mike said. Yeah, he replied, sliding into the seat. The word hung there unconvincingly. Mike didn't press it, not straightaway. Instead he leaned back slightly. Had a lecture this morning, Mike said. Gastroenteritis, riveting stuff. Being from a long line of family doctors, this probably did interest Mike, but the response was a slightly glazed over look from his old friend. Dehydration mostly, Mike went on. It's amazing how quickly the body his voice blurred. Words turned into sound. All the man could think about was his own stomach, tight, empty, quietly protesting. He nodded again anyway to be polite. He knew his friend was just filling a silence. Sounds rough, he said, cutting in without really meaning to. Mike smiled faintly, recognising the drift. Terry stood up abruptly. Christ, he said, looking down. The state of those shoes. Glancing down instinctively himself he also spotted the scuffed leather pair, worn thin at the edges. Another drink, announced Terry, slapping his unkept friend on the back a little too hard. He loudly said, I guess I'll be getting this round again. Um yeah. Thanks, the man replied, head still looking down at his shoes. With Terry gone, there was a gentle silence between the two old friends. Mike rested his elbows on the table. Look, he said quietly, I'm sorry I can't help. The man shook his head quickly. You're doing enough, honestly. Please don't worry, it's all good. I've got a roof over my head, and I'm so grateful, honestly, thank you. His hand shifted, and he tugged at his sleeve, pulling it down over his wrist like it might anchor him somehow. Vulnerability didn't sit well with him. Mike nodded, accepting it without making a fuss. There was another pause before saying I haven't done this myself, but a uni friend of mine, he was short on rent a few months back. His tired friend glanced up. Mike continued. He said he donated his sperm. What? Mike gave a small shrug. Yeah. His friend goes. But why? People buy your the man trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence. Yeah, Mike said, a faint smile creeping in. They do. Honestly, he said it's a piece of piss. You go to one of these clinics, there's one on Saint Bart's, I think. Harley Street too. Loads around there. The man let out a short, disbelieving breath. Oh, he scratched the back of his neck. Don't think they'd be used to seeing my sort around there. He forced a laugh, but it didn't quite land. Before Mike could respond, Terry reappeared, sliding the pint onto the table in front of the man. See you where? he asked, dropping back into his seat. Picking up the glass and staring at it for a second with a weak smile, the man goes, I'm going to have a wank, Terry. You'll be pleased to know. Terry blinked once. Right, well, might put a smile back on your face. It would help, the out of luck man said, a small laugh breaking through finally. He turned back to Mike. How much cash are we talking? About four quid, Mike replied. They're all thereabouts. You can go back a couple of times a week apparently, so that's the man looked up, sipping his pint. That's twelve pounds a week. For the first time that day, maybe the first time in weeks, something shifted. A small, flickering kind of hope. You'd be an idiot not to, Terry said, turning round to collect the bowl of chips being sent to the table. He nudged them forward towards the soon to be donor. For you, tuck in. The donor didn't hesitate this time. He reached forward, grabbing a chip, then another. For a moment everything else faded, the letters, the interviews, the quiet weight of expectation. There was just this a table, three friends and a strange idea that might just change his luck. He could treat himself to a new pair of shoes. It could get him an interview. Not long after heading to Harley Street to make his anonymous donation, the man got a job and faded back into the busy, bustling world of London life.