Based on the standard email format for The Daily Mail, the email address kathryn.knight@dailymail.co.uk or k.knight@dailymail.co.uk
Her message on public boards was here
http://www.free-sperm-donations.com/message_board_middlesex.htm
and was here
'May 2009
janeyrae@hotmail.co.uk
Message: I am a single 37-year-old woman looking for a willing donor to give me the child
I crave before it's too late. I will require no further involvement, and will just be grateful that
someone is willing to help.
The phone number she then gave to members was 077** 817***
(removed by Emma to protect her privacy)
Did she contact you? What was your experience?
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Free forum- post your comments and thoughts regarding this article
- many have tried posting on the Daily Mail forum with difficulty
ours certainly havent been posted which is why this was set up today!
Update- - Forum removed- people ended up using it as a way to post their 'sperm donation wanted'
messages instead of comments about the article written by Katheine Knight aka Janey Rae, and Emma
only wants responsible practices from the FSW/ DIY Baby sites!
Anyway, this was the 'story' -feel free to send your comments
Fathers for hire: The disturbing world of
men who sell their sperm on
the internet 'no questions asked'
By Kathryn Knight
Last updated at 7:45 AM on 14th May 2009
A doctor who hadn’t told his wife. A college lecturer who’s sired three babies with strangers in a year.
And a string of oddballs just wanting sex. When our reporter posed as a desperate would-be mother on a website advertising ‘no questions asked’ sperm donors, she encountered a deeply
disturbing array of men wanting to be 'fathers'.
To any casual observer, my animated chat over coffee with the handsome thirty-something
man in a London café could look like any two friends catching up.
Only a slight awkwardness might lead others to conclude that this is, perhaps, a first date.
And so it is, of sorts. Certainly there is a host of 'getting to know you' personal information
being swapped - although it's more intimate than the kind you might normally expect at a first meeting.
Ben, a 35-year-old college lecturer, is telling me he has a healthy sperm count and has been
tested for a host of sexually transmitted diseases.
In the past year, he says, he has conceived babies with three other women, although he has
no contact with any of these mums-to-be.
It is the sort of startling revelation that, under normal circumstances, would have the
average woman running for the hills. But then this is far from an average meeting.
As far as Ben is concerned, he is being 'interviewed' to become the
father of my child - in the purest biological sense only. Our meeting today is the result of an
initial contact over the internet. But if all goes according to his
plan, the next time we meet he will donate his
sperm in order for me to realise my dream of becoming a mother.
After that, he will simply disappear from my life, and our child's.
It is a disturbing and morally questionable scenario, yet there are now any number of single and lesbian
women and infertile couples turning to cyberspace to realise their dream of starting a family, exploiting a
gap in the law which has arisen since regulations about donated sperm changed in 2005.
There has, of course, long been a trade in donated sperm - but the new rules meant that children born from frozen sperm had a legal right to trace their biological father once they had turned 18.
The law does not apply to a 'private' arrangement involving 'fresh' sperm rather than frozen
The result was a crisis for fertility clinics nationwide, with the prospect of donors being forced to waive their anonymity leading to a dramatic slump in willing men. Indeed, such was the shortage of donors that some clinics were forced to close. But the law does not apply to a 'private' arrangement involving 'fresh'
sperm rather than frozen.
As a result, several new internet-based businesses have emerged to broker the supply of privately donated sperm.These websites serve as brokers between would-be parents and donors, putting them in touch but leaving the nitty-gritty of the detail to the individuals involved.
In other words, the business of creating life has, in certain corners of the internet, become an
unregulated grey area. This, of course, raises troubling issues about a woman's right to have a
child at any cost and whatever the circumstances, quite aside from the more mundane and
practical issues such as medical safety.
While sperm purchased from a legitimate sperm bank ensures that a third party has screened the donor and set down the financial and legal implications of the arrangements, with a private set-up such vital details
are left to the individuals concerned - as all these sites are eager to emphasise with a host of disclaimers.
Many people will have reservations - or even feel revulsion - at the idea of producing a child in this way.
But what of the men who portray themselves as knights in shining armour, eager to help women have the babies they so long for?
With no financial gain at stake (only their expenses are paid), what sort of man offers his DNA to
total strangers? And what on earth could his motivation be?
To find out, I join one of the numerous sites that have sprung up online in recent years
offering themselves as a 'connections' service.
It costs just £30 to become a member of one of the more professional sites, whose banner headline
tells us it is 'creating choices in the modern world', 'fulfilling dreams!' and 'empowering women!'. ‘Be bold,' it exhorts. 'Be brave! Be a mum!' A host of postings from anonymous users of the site testify to its success rates.
I learn that there are approximately 610 sperm donors who have registered on its UK database alone.
It certainly doesn't take me long to be able to join the ranks of hopeful mothers-in-waiting: within just two minutes of logging on, I have a membership number and a password which enables me to access the members' area.
Here, I can browse potential donors who have posted their own profile - some more detailed than others - and place my own advertisement.
I decide to post a simple two-line appeal for donors to come forward and help me in my quest to become a mother.
I keep it simple, offering little in the way of personal information.
I also order an online kit for £70, containing the equipment necessary for artificial insemination
'I am a single, 37-year-old woman looking for a willing donor to give me the child I
crave before it's too late,' the advert reads. 'I will require no further involvement, and will just
be grateful that someone is willing to help.'
I also order an online kit for £70, containing the equipment necessary for artificial insemination and a 'free' document that can be used to help formalise any arrangement that takes place - although as it isn't legally binding in any way, it seems to have little value other than as a statement of intent.
It doesn't take long for the responses to roll in.
Within the hour, I have ten emails all offering to help, and by the end of the day, 25. Some of the men attach photographs of babies they claim to have fathered in the past year, as if to underline just how fertile they are.
One of the first is Steve, who describes himself as a grammar school-educated teacher in his 30s.
He declines to give any details about his own domestic circumstances, but is happy to
share a detailed physical description and says he has had two babies via donation, with a third due in September. Via email, I ask him why on earth he has got involved in the site.
'My ex was a nurse at a local IVF clinic and she saw many disappointed ladies and couples trying unsuccessfully to conceive,' he replies. 'I was tested and found to have a high sperm count,
so she suggested that I
help out. She really got me into donating.'
Steve claims to have had only positive experiences from his interactions on the site.
'The best part for me is getting the news that it's worked - which is still lovely, even though I'm not the girl's partner. ‘The worst is being let down at the last minute when you make arrangements to meet
someone for a donation, and they cancel.'
Steve says he has no further contact with any of the women he meets.
'I do get the odd email or picture of the baby, but I leave the decision on that totally to the mother. I think it's only fair to respect whatever she feels is best for her and the child.'
'I know time is not on your side, and I feel for you'
Noble sentiments, but has he really thought through the consequences if, for example, the mothers
of his children fall on hard times and ask him for money to support his offspring - or if those children
decide in the future that they want to meet their father?
His protestations of philanthropy are a recurring mantra among many of the men I speak to, most of
whom seem happy to feel they are helping childless women and couples achieve their dream
of starting a family.
Dan, a 50-year-old doctor from the south of England, starts his correspondence by offering
his sympathies for my plight - 'I know time is not on your side, and I feel for you' - and, when
pressed, says his own happy family life, and his sister's fertility troubles, prompted him to register.
Later, when we speak on the phone, he says he feels strongly that everyone should be able to
experience the joy of family life, even if they cannot do so in the most conventional manner.
Shockingly, though, he admits he has not shared his altruism with his wife and teenage children,
who, in the case of the latter, have no idea that they have six half-brothers and sisters.
I leave the conversation wondering what on earth they would make of Dan's apparent
'generosity' if they knew what he was doing.
But if I feel serious unease over a married father - and a doctor to boot - who is siring
children in secret via the internet, it soon becomes apparent that many of the men using these
sites have rather baser intentions than what we might call 'fertility philanthropy'.
One who contacts me, Sayed, who describes himself as mixed race, in his 20s and a student,
sends a to-the-point message telling me has got 'many' women pregnant and could do the
same for me - but first, could I send him a picture?
When I decline but ask for further information from him, he disappears.
Another man emails me to suggest I take a Eurostar train to Paris, where he is currently
based, and spend the weekend in a hotel with him. 'I can give you four donations over the
course of two days - although, of course, we can always see what happens,' he says, suggestively.
It is a recurring theme: two other men also invite me abroad, while another suggests
we meet at my house the very next day.
I am left with the uncomfortable feeling that, grotesque as it may seem given the plethora
of conventional dating sites, some of these men are clearly playing on the vulnerability of women
desperate to be mothers in the hope that they will sleep with them.
'I've got many women pregnant. Some of them fly in from all over the country to meet with me'
It's a feeling that's exacerbated when I receive a message from a man who calls himself
Manny and who describes himself as a holistic doctor.
Manny sends me a series of messages asking me to get in touch, and, when I call him on
the mobile number he has provided, he immediately sets about trying to make arrangements
for how the donation will take place.
'I've got many women pregnant. Some of them fly in from all over the country to meet with me,' he says.
'The best arrangement is to spend two days in a hotel and I can provide four donations.
We can use artificial insemination if you want - but the natural way is often better.'
In other words, he wants us to have sex.
I suggest that perhaps I would at least like to meet to discuss things first, but Manny is more
interested in pinning down the details of a more intimate encounter, asking me when I am
ovulating and whether I would prefer him to come to my house rather than a hotel.
When I ask him about his medical history, he appears offended, protesting again that
he is a 'holistic doctor' who is healthy 'from head to toe'. I feel distinctly queasy.
Are other women really desperate enough to contemplate a sexual encounter with men like this,
even though there are no checks on them socially, criminally or medically?
One man who makes contact - Ben, the college lecturer - immediately directs me to his profile
on the site which, unlike some of the others, provides not only a full family and educational
background, but also a detailed insight into the thought process which led to him becoming a donor.
He has also provided a mobile number.
Intrigued, I call him, and after a brief chat we arrange to meet for a coffee and a talk - the first time,
I learn to my astonishment, that he has ever been expected to do this.
'The first time we meet is when I arrive to donate'
'Most of the women I have donated to just make their decision after reading my profile
and talking to me on the phone,' he tells me. 'The first time we meet is when I arrive to donate.'
As I wait at my café table, I ponder how strange this would feel if I were actually
looking to conceive - a kind of DNA date dressed up as a relaxed afternoon chat.
And when Ben arrives, it feels even stranger. For the first half hour, he talks at length about his educational background. Only when pressed does he actually talk about the reason for our meeting. Ben, I discover, has donated no less than 13 times - resulting in three current pregnancies, two from a single
donation, but the last from three visits over three consecutive months. On each occasion,
he expects nothing more than his travel expenses to be paid.
What on earth, I ask, is in it for him?
Ben has a ready answer: 'I have always liked to do unusual things,' he tells me, 'and
I like to help people - and there's no better way to do that than give someone the gift of life. 'It may
be against the conventions of our society in some ways, but as far as I'm concerned, it's a wonderful thing to do.
‘For relatively little effort on my part, I can create huge happiness - and I think that's
something to be proud of.'
Like most of the men I talk to, he has no interest at all in keeping contact with the child, and claim
s no emotional attachment to the pregnancies other than pleasure that his efforts have worked.
'If you want to send me a photo, that's fine - it's nice to know that you've given birth to a healthy baby,' he says. 'But what you must understand is that I already have a family. I don't need another one.'
Indeed, Ben is married with two small children of his own, both under four.
He tells me that his wife knows that he donates sperm, although she is not particularly
happy about it. As a result, he keeps the details to himself.
If we were to go ahead all we would need to do is arrange a time and meeting place - usually a hotel
- where he could donate, then leave me to use my newly-bought artificial insemination kit.
'The rest is up to you,' he says. 'You must take care of yourself for the sake of your unborn baby.'
At least Ben seems to take his biological responsibilities seriously: he arrives at our meeting clutching a passport, showing proof of identity, and a full professional CV, including links to
internet sites which rubber-stamp his professional claims.
At my request, he also emails me documentation showing that he has a clean bill of
health and is free from infection and the HIV virus. What he will not do, under any circumstances,
is put me in contact with the other women he has impregnated, arguing that he cannot
compromise their anonymity.
'If there were any problems with me or my behaviour, they would have complained to the site,' he says.
That may be true - although it provides scant assurance in this Russian
roulette game of putative parenthood.
But then this is world in which women are willing to have a child with a man they have never met,
and about whom they know virtually nothing. For them, it means fulfilling their dreams of motherhood.
As for the men, well, their intentions are rather less clear-cut.
