One night in September 2022, like a kid sticking my finger into the flame of a candle, I Googled “how to buy sperm”.
I’d been thinking about it since splitting with a partner a year earlier. I was 37, and had started wondering if continuing on the “traditional” path – meeting someone, getting to know them well enough to decide to have children together, attempting to get pregnant – might cost me the chance to have kids.
As much as I’ve always wanted to be a mom, I never felt the desire to be pregnant; I felt wary of the physical toll of it. I’d looked into adopting, but it’s hugely cost-prohibitive (friends had been trying for two years; they’d have 48 hours notice and would pay $40,000 if selected). Fostering was also out of the question because the state of New York requires prospective parents to live in a two-bedroom home, which I don’t have. I’d pursue these options if need be, but hoped for a less complicated path.
Still, I didn’t feel pressure to choose a partner or settle. Rather, I felt lucky to live at this moment in time, when it seemed easier than ever to have a child on my own. I just had to figure out how that actually worked.
My search returned ads for California Cryobank, Seattle Sperm Bank and Fairfax Cryobank. I clicked on the links and found the “donor search” buttons. Pictures of the donors as adorable kids showed up on my screen, along with a few search criteria.
I had no idea what I was looking for, but after an hour of scrolling, I started to think dating was the real gamble. Buying sperm meant I could sort for qualities I’d feel rude asking about on dates – genetics, mental and family health, engineering skills.
Buying sperm seemed so straightforward. Vials cost $1,200 to $2,500 each. Seattle Sperm Bank offered free audio recordings of donors. Fairfax Cryobank offered interviews à la carte for $34. By the end of the week, I was spending more time skimming donor profiles than dating apps, my mind racing with all the things I’d need to consider.
But before looking for a new job or a bigger apartment, I knew I needed to answer one more question: could my body even get pregnant? When a friend mentioned she was getting her fertility markers tested at a place called Kindbody for just $99, I booked an appointment.
Kindbody opened in New York in August 2018 with a roving van that parked in Manhattan some days, and the Hamptons on others. More than 150 women lined up on the first day to test a key marker of fertility: anti-Müllerian hormone (AMH) levels.
The multibillion-dollar fertility industry is expected to double in value in the next four years, with one market research firm putting it at more than $80bn by 2028. When Kindbody debuted on-demand egg-freezing and in-vitro fertilization (IVF) services at a more affordable price, the Verge dubbed it the Soul Cycle of fertility.
When I walked into the lobby of its Flatiron office in December 2022 – one of 34 locations – I could see why. The yellow walls featured neon signs and empowering quotes. The doctor put a wand-like device into my uterus, and shifting blobs appeared on a monitor. These were follicles, she explained. The more, the better. She counted six, then drew blood to measure my hormone levels.
She called a few weeks later. Everything looked good, she said, but just on the edge of good. If I had unlimited access to sperm – that is, a fertile male partner – she thought I could get pregnant fairly quickly. She suggested IVF. I wasn’t quite ready for that and asked about freezing my eggs. It wouldn’t be worth it, she said.
My stomach twisted at the thought of spending about $25,000 on IVF. But I’d read about a procedure called intrauterine insemination (IUI) – basically buying sperm and paying a doctor to insert it on the ideal day. Kindbody charged about $2,000 per IUI attempt. The nurse said if I started now, I had a good shot at success. Neither option would guarantee pregnancy, never mind a successful one. But nor would having a partner.
I decided to try IUI in the fall. I had a career-changing project in the works, which would offer the type of money that would make it feasible to support a child.
I started planning around this new timeline. I booked last-minute flights to Australia to visit a close friend. I wanted to go before my freelance project started, because I wouldn’t have free time afterwards. I’d have a baby.
A National Institutes of Health study released in 2022 found a 10-19% success rate for IUI, though that rate changes when factoring in age, sperm quality and other variables. Published success rates also only account for women who attempt IUI with the help of doctors.
The best time for insemination is immediately preceding ovulation. Doctors monitor follicle growth and hormone levels. When a follicle reaches about 20mm in diameter, it will release an egg.
It’s not an exact science, and the success rates of IUI are significantly lower than those of IVF. They’re also a fraction of the cost. The way I saw it, IUI was worth a shot: I could use the $20,000 difference to pay for daycare.
As I waited for Kindbody to schedule my preliminary appointments, I started narrowing my donors. I paid $250 for “premium access” to California Cryobank, which includes a slew of features, including adult and childhood photos, donor essays, genetic testing results and audio interviews. Hearing a person’s voice is powerful; it became my favorite feature.
More than 2.7 million women have chosen to become single moms in the US. As I started telling friends my plan, they introduced me to other women who had done it, including some who did so in the 1970s and 1980s. One friend revealed he was conceived through donor sperm in the 1990s. I felt like I’d found my people, much more so than when well-meaning people told me to just keep trying to find a man.
Not that I stopped looking. That March, I reached out to a guy I’d met at a party a decade earlier. We’d been ships passing in the night for years, and I’d always wondered about him. I sent a message, and two minutes later, my phone vibrated. He’d love to see me. He lived in another city. I booked a flight.
Days later, over beers at a neighborhood bar, I realized he wasn’t the fantasy I’d held in my head and remembered that as much as I want to be a mom, I have very little interest in being a wife. I messaged Kindbody, saying I wanted to speed up this process.
They finally scheduled an initial appointment for early April, two months after I first requested it. So much for ticking biological clocks.
The next step was a $550 saline sonogram, in which a doctor shoots saline into my fallopian tubes to make sure the path is clear for sperm. When the doctor told me I had “beautiful ovaries and a perfect uterus”, I felt like I’d hit the lottery. Next came a therapist, though not my own; I had to pay $400 to see Kindbody’s approved therapist. I saw her immediately, followed by my gynecologist. I felt like I’d make it through the appointments in time for my next ovulation.
I didn’t. When I messaged to say I’d seen my gynecologist and was ready for whatever was next, Kindbody didn’t respond. I waited a few days and messaged again. No response. As far as I knew, we were waiting for a lab to send back genetic testing results. I’d then review them with a nurse, and after that I’d be able to choose a donor. On my birthday, in late April, I sent a rather strongly worded message.
Finally, in early May, we discussed my genetic testing results. The nurse explained that I had two abnormalities and was CMV-negative, which meant I had no antibodies to a common virus called cytomegalovirus.
I logged into California Cryobank and checked the box for “CMV Negative”. The pool of eligible donors dropped from 258 to about 70. When I added my two known genetic abnormalities, the total dropped to 11. Adding ethnicity whittled it to three.
This didn’t seem right. I tried Fairfax Cryobank. It returned only six profiles.
In the 1970s, about 1,000 to 1,200 babies were conceived with donor sperm each year, primarily using fresh sperm. The Aids epidemic changed everything. Sperm banks started requiring a six-month sample quarantine, after which donors had to be re-tested for HIV before banks could sell their sperm. These requirements remain in place today, among many others.
By 1987, there were at least 30 commercial sperm banks in the US and a reported 30,000 children conceived with donor sperm. Today the number is estimated to be between 30,000 and 60,000 each year. A representative at California Cryobank told me about 15% of purchasers are single women.
The legalization of same-sex marriage, increased economic independence of single women, and decreasing male fertility has increased demand for donor sperm in the last 40 years. Sperm banks have tried to keep up, while maintaining strict donor protocols – a study released in the journal Human Reproduction in January 2023 found that of 11,700 men who attempted to donate sperm to one of the world’s largest sperm banks, only 4% were approved. About one in six were rejected for health reasons, about 12% failed a lifestyle screening, and 11% didn’t meet sperm quality requirements.
The Fairfax Sperm Bank’s website boasts even higher selectivity, approving just one in 200 men.
If men make the cut, they’re in for an arduous process involving blood tests and weekly collections. Some banks pay only when sperm is ready to be sold, with payments varying depending on the number of weekly donations and if a person fits in-demand demographics. California Cryobank pays $75 per accepted donation, according to its website. US banks regulate the number of vials of each donor in order to prevent widespread genetic concerns down the line. Some states do not allow anonymity.
All of this limits supply, but there is no movement to loosen protocols.
The pandemic added unforeseen pressure. With lockdowns and contact-tracing requirements, it became hard to recruit donors. California Cryobank raised prices in 2021 in an effort to slow sales, as they feared running out entirely. Brian Hyde, its director of sales, told me last year that one donor’s 30 vials had sold in 30 seconds. “There was a three-month hiatus, March, April, May of 2020 where we were selling next to nothing and then from June until November it was insane. It was crazy. Being here and being part of it, it was crazy. We were selling more vials than I’ve ever seen before … If sales didn’t slow down we would have run out of donors to sell.” California Cryobank had more than 550 donors available when the pandemic started; by December 2021, the number had dropped to about 200. Hyde said that in January the company had added more vials than it sold for the first time in three years.
There are currently about 400 donors listed on the website, though not all of them have vials available. California Cryobank has opened new collection sites and is actively recruiting new donors, but it will take years to dig out of pandemic shortages.
Supply dwindled as demand soared. In 2021, the compliance supervisor of the Seattle Sperm Bank told the New York Times sperm sales had risen 20% year over year. “We’ve been breaking records for sales since June worldwide,” he said.
I had no idea sperm was such a hot commodity, until I was the one trying to buy it.
Despite the shrinking of my California Cryobank donor pool, two of my three favorites made the cut. Kindbody required I meet with a genetic counselor from a company called GeneScreen before purchasing, who would compare my genetic tests with those of the donors. GeneScreen said the next available appointment was in 10 days. It would be $200.
Now four months into this process, I met the genetic counselor on Zoom. She ultimately recommended one donor and not the other. When I went back to California Cryobank, I learned that the bank had sold the final vials from my approved donor. Unless a new donor magically appeared in the next week, I’d miss another cycle.
When everyone says fertility “drops off a cliff” around 38, and you’ve just turned 38, it’s hard to not wonder if this month’s follicles might be the final ones. At a party that night, I couldn’t think about anything but sold-out sperm, so I started talking about it. Suddenly I was the center of attention. Strangers asked what I planned to do, and I said I’d have to wait for more of my chosen donor’s sperm to become available. I told them I’d heard about a woman scheduling a trip around her ovulation date, having a one night stand, and having a baby. Jaws dropped. People fidgeted. A flight certainly cost less than donor sperm, but was it ethical?
Someone asked if I’d looked at sperm donor Facebook groups, or even Craigslist. Another suggested an app called Modamily – like a dating app, except it matches potential co-parents.
One friend listened quietly. Eventually he asked, “Have you considered asking someone you know?” I had, but I didn’t want to share a child with any of my male friends.
“But would you, if one of them wanted to?” he asked. The conversation went on like this for a while. A few days later I texted him. “It felt like we were talking about something without actually talking about it. Were we? If so, let’s talk about it.”
We spoke in late May. My favorite donor was still sold out, and I had another week before I’d get my period again, kicking off the next potential IUI cycle. I started looking into the legal side of having a known donor, and I emailed Kindbody to ask about the process. Factoring in the costs of lawyers and genetic testing, it would be twice as much as using an anonymous donor. Maybe we could cut the middleman out of the equation?
I Googled “at-home insemination kits” and found a website called “Make a Mom” selling medical-grade turkey basters for $120. I sent a screenshot to my neighbors, a same-sex couple, and wrote, “thank you, lesbians!” They told me they were pretty sure you could buy a kit at Target for $40. I walked to Target. The at-home kits were there, right next to the condoms.
My friend and I had several more discussions, but ultimately I decided it wasn’t right for me. While I thought it might be better for a child to know the source of half their genetics, I also thought it might be hard for a child to know their biological parent lived a few blocks away but was not involved in their life as a parent. I also decided that if I was going to parent solo, I didn’t want another adult partially involved. It all felt too complicated.
Next, I made a profile on Modamily, the co-parenting app. A customer concierge contacted me and said she had a Princeton-educated man who wanted to have a second child. “The child will be taken care of,” the note said.
I deleted my profile.
I got my period. The clock was ticking – I had about 14 days until I’d ovulate.
I went back to Fairfax Cryobank. Four donors met my search criteria. One, with a big toothy grin in his childhood photo, caught my eye. I listened to his audio clip, and as he described building a cabin on his friend’s land, I knew this was the donor for me. The screen said “add to cart”, which meant there were more than 25 vials available.
I contacted GeneScreen for a new appointment. They could see me on Monday; I’d be ovulating on Wednesday. Even an overnight sperm shipment might not get to the clinic in time – and this was assuming Kindbody could even schedule me on such short notice. I thought of the Target at-home insemination kit. Maybe I could just have the sperm shipped to my apartment?
New York is one of only two states requiring a doctor’s signature before sperm can be shipped directly to a purchaser. Kindbody said they wouldn’t approve it.
I took a breath. Was this just the adrenaline? Did I even like this donor, or was he just the only option?
First thing the next morning, I looked at the donor profile again. It no longer said “add to cart”. Instead, I saw “please call”. I called. The sales rep told me they had five vials of this donor’s sperm. I said I’d like to purchase four. She said: “That’ll be $6,300.” I hung up.
I walked around the block. Got coffee. Called back. “Let me check. OK, I see two vials available.” Three vials had sold in the half-hour I spent contemplating. “I’ll take them,” I said.
On Monday morning, the counselor approved the donor. But Fairfax couldn’t ship in time. I missed that cycle. I let the Kindbody team know I’d made the purchase, and asked if there were any remaining steps. Nope, they said. Just let us know when you get your next period.
I did, and they got right back to me: “Great! … Just send us your hematologist’s sign off and we can get started!”
Hematologist? What? The next two days were a blur of anger and frustration. I got a last-minute appointment with a hematologist, and I also found a new clinic. Stress is not conducive to conception, and Kindbody was stressing me out.
I called Spring Fertility and explained the immediacy. The receptionist booked me for the next morning. The doctor looked through my chart and said she thought she could do this in time for next week’s ovulation, as long as we could overnight the sperm. She left to talk to the nurse.
I felt an incredible sense of relief, until she walked back into the room.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “The woman who facilitates sperm shipments will be on vacation next week.”
I’d thought this would be hard. I’d worried about infertility, miscarriages, complications, about doing this alone. The only things I hadn’t worried about? The sperm and the clinic.
When my period started in mid-July, the doctor counted 14 follicles at my baseline ultrasound. Everything looked good. I could finally try.
The doctor monitored the size of those follicles over the next week, and when one reached 20mm, she told me it was time. She said to take a shot of the drug Ovidrel at 10pm that Sunday to trigger ovulation, and scheduled my IUI for 11.55am on Monday. The nurse reminded me these times were precise; I could not be late. I cancelled my Monday meetings. I gave myself the shot. On Sunday night, my friends made an “insemination cake” and we fantasized about how this might go.
As I left my apartment Monday morning, my phone rang. When I answered, I heard my doctor’s voice. She sounded worried. They’d thawed the first vial, she said, and it had about 5m total motile sperm. They wanted around 10 million for IUI. Did she have my permission to thaw the second vial?
That was an extra $1,650 she’d be shooting into my uterus, and it would mean I’d have to find and purchase more sperm if I needed a second round. I said yes and made my way to their office. As I walked through the revolving door, the Burna Boy song My Money, My Baby started playing. It felt like a sign.
I thought the doctor was still loading the sperm into the catheter when she said: “That’s it. Everything went perfectly.” I sat up. “Hang out for five to 10 minutes,” she said. “The sperm’s already swimming into your fallopian tubes.”
But they never found their egg. When I went back two weeks later for a pregnancy test, the bloodwork showed I’d developed three estrogen-bearing cysts, which were probably a side-effect of the fertility drugs. I wasn’t pregnant.
The doctor called to tell me; she said to go straight to a specialty pharmacy and get a medication that would force the cysts out of my body. The pharmacy was nearly an hour away. The drug was pre-loaded into a syringe, and the pharmacist said it must remain cold. Rather than risk it warming on the train home, I walked around the corner. Standing next to a brownstone stoop, I lifted my shirt and stuck the needle into my skin.
I felt overwhelmed in a way I haven’t in years, if ever. I knew the statistics, yet I’d let myself hope. Over the next few weeks, I also felt unexpectedly relieved. I love my life. It took a long time to create it. So many things could go wrong with a pregnancy and parenting. Maybe I shouldn’t force this.
When I Googled “how to buy sperm” in September 2022, I felt empowered. A year later, I felt defeated. It was hard to convince myself to keep searching for donors, but it felt like my only option. So I paid another $750 in sperm bank memberships. My first two choices sold out before I could purchase them. In November, I bought three vials of sperm. It felt rushed, like I wasn’t necessarily choosing the best donor so much as an available one. Was I settling? I put this out of my mind.
I missed that cycle, because I ovulated over Thanksgiving. Same for Christmas. In January, I paid $700 to keep the sperm in storage. The next ovulation dates overlapped with work trips. I considered switching to IVF. I’d need IVF sperm vials; the IUI vials wouldn’t suffice. Did it make sense to throw away nearly $4,000 worth of sperm, or was it more logical to spend an additional $2,260 to try one more round of IUI?
In March, I tried again. The receptionist charged my credit card. The doctor counted nine follicles, and another cyst. Another trip to the pharmacy, another $99 shot, another missed cycle.
I’m now 39. So far, I’ve spent $16,723 trying to get pregnant.
At times, it feels like I can only have children if it’s my single focus. I wouldn’t change anything I did in my 20s and 30s. I wish my career had come together more quickly, but it didn’t. Now, I’d love to crawl into a hole and focus entirely on conceiving until I have a baby.
Unfortunately, that’s not an option. That big work project finally kicked off in late April, more than a year after originally scheduled. If I had a newborn right now, as I’d hoped, I’d have to back out of the project. I have a life to live.
I go in waves. I still have a few years in which to try IVF. I assume I’ve run out of time to have multiple children. Knowing this, do I stop IUI and try dating again, on the off chance that I’ll meet someone? Would it be better to spend a year getting to know them and then try IVF together, rather than dealing with slow-to-respond fertility clinics and sold-out sperm banks on my own?
I’m not sure. All I can say with certainty is that it proved naive to think purchasing donor sperm might simplify things. So far, it hasn’t brought me any closer to being a mom.
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You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to buy sperm - The Guardian
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