Scientists discover unexpected side effect of regular masturbation
Scientists discover unexpected side effect of regular masturbation
Researchers are beginning to shed new light on a topic that has long been surrounded by myths and speculation: how ejaculation frequency may influence sperm health.
For years, advice around male fertility has ranged from diet adjustments to carefully timed intercourse. One recurring question remains: how often is “too often” when it comes to masturbation—or is there even such a limit?
In recent years, trends like “No Nut November” have fueled the idea that abstaining from ejaculation might boost testosterone levels or improve sperm quality. However, medical experts have largely dismissed these claims. In fact, some sources, including Medical News Today, suggest that prolonged abstinence may even contribute to increased stress, anxiety, or low mood.
More importantly, emerging research appears to point in the opposite direction when it comes to sperm health.
A large review conducted by researchers at the University of Oxford analyzed 115 studies involving nearly 55,000 men. The findings indicated that longer periods without ejaculation were associated with declines in key markers of sperm quality. These included reduced motility—how effectively sperm move—and lower viability, meaning fewer sperm remained alive. At the same time, levels of DNA damage were found to increase.
In simpler terms, sperm that remain in storage for extended periods may begin to deteriorate.
By contrast, more frequent ejaculation—whether through sexual activity or masturbation—may help maintain healthier sperm by regularly clearing out older cells and allowing newer ones to take their place. This process is sometimes described as a “refreshing” of the sperm supply.
Additional research has explored broader health implications. A long-term study from Harvard found that men who ejaculated 21 times or more per month had a notably lower risk of developing prostate cancer—approximately 31 percent lower compared to those with less frequent ejaculation.
“The results held up to rigorous statistical evaluation even after other lifestyle factors and the frequency of PSA testing were taken into account.”
While the exact biological mechanisms are still being studied, researchers have proposed a few possible explanations. One involves oxidative stress, which can build up over time and damage cells, including sperm. Regular ejaculation may help reduce this buildup. Another theory relates to energy depletion—since sperm are highly active cells, those stored for too long may lose the energy required for proper function.
Taken together, these findings suggest that moderation and regularity may be more beneficial than extended periods of abstinence, particularly for those concerned with fertility.
As with many aspects of health, individual factors still matter, and there is no universal “perfect” frequency. However, current evidence leans toward the idea that the body functions best with balance—rather than extremes—when it comes to reproductive health.
A Family Rejected the Baby I Carried for Them Because She Had Down Syndrome, so I Raised Her Myself – 12 Years Later, They Took Me to Court, but What My Daughter Did There Made Everyone Gasp
When I agreed to carry a baby for another family, I thought I was helping them build the future they'd always wanted. I never imagined that one decision would lead to a battle that would return into our lives more than a decade later.
The fluorescent lights of the grocery store had a way of bleaching the hours together until a double shift felt like one long, humming day. I was 32 then, still living in a studio apartment where the radiator clanged like it had opinions, still tucking tip money into an envelope marked "COLLEGE" in a shoebox under my bed.
I had aged out of foster care at 18 with a garbage bag of clothes and a bus pass. Fourteen years later, I was still trying to figure out what real life was supposed to look like.
I had aged out of foster care.
My coworker, Marcy, noticed first. She always did.
"Emma, honey, you've been on your feet for 12 hours. You're swaying."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're saving for school at $12 an hour. That's not a plan, that's a slow drowning."
I laughed because if I didn't, I'd cry into the produce bins.
***
It was a regular customer, a quiet woman who bought the same yogurt every Tuesday, who told me about the surrogacy agency. She said the compensation could change a life and slid a card across the conveyor belt as if she were passing a key.
My coworker, Marcy, noticed first.
I sat on it for two weeks. Then I called.
The Hollisters met me in a glass office overlooking the river. Richard was tall with silver hair, and his wife, Vanessa, wore pearls that looked older than I was.
They held my hands as if I were already family.
"We've waited so long for this," Vanessa said. "You're an answered prayer, Emma."
"I just want to help, and honestly, I want to go to school. This would mean everything."
"Then we'll help each other," Richard said, smiling, though his eyes flicked once to his watch.
I told myself I had imagined it.
"We've waited so long for this."
We signed the paperwork in a conference room. Mr. Pierce, the Hollisters' attorney, slid pages toward me with a pen that probably cost more than my rent. He didn't smile, but lawyers never did, so I let that go too.
The first trimester passed in a blur of saltines and overtime.
Vanessa came to the early appointments wearing soft sweaters and perfume. She'd rest a hand on my belly and whisper:
"A healthy little one. That's all we want. Just a healthy one."
I'd nod.
I told myself every mother says that.
I told myself a lot of things back then.
We signed the paperwork.
Richard came once, checked his watch twice, and left before the ultrasound was printed. Vanessa apologized for him with a tight smile.
***
The week of the anatomy scan, halfway through the pregnancy, I went alone. The technician was kind at first, chatting about names and nurseries while she rolled the wand across my stomach. Then she went quiet, and her smile slid off her face like water.
She excused herself, and a moment later, the doctor stepped in, his voice careful as he mentioned soft markers for Down syndrome and asked if I could come back for additional testing.
Then she went quiet.
I gripped the edge of the exam table, a feeling rising in my chest that I couldn't yet name.
***
The phone rang twice before Vanessa picked up. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, still in my work apron, the ultrasound photo curled in my hand.
"Vanessa, it's Emma. The doctor called. They want us to come in together. It's about the baby."
There was a pause on the other end.
"We've already spoken with Dr. Nguyen," she said. "Richard and I will meet you at our attorney's office tomorrow. Mr. Pierce will explain everything."
The line went dead before I could ask what there was to explain.
"They want us to come in together."
The office was all glass and gray carpet.
Mr. Pierce sat behind a desk wider than my whole kitchen. Richard and Vanessa sat to one side, not looking at me.
"Emma, thank you for coming," the lawyer said. He slid a folder across the desk. "My clients have made a difficult decision. Given the diagnosis, they won't be accepting the child after delivery."
I stared at him. I waited for someone to laugh or take it back.
"What do you mean, not accepting her?"
"Section nine of the surrogacy agreement you signed last spring," Mr. Pierce said, tapping the folder.
"My clients have made a difficult decision."
"In the event of a confirmed fetal abnormality, my clients retain the right to decline placement. The infant will be transferred to the state foster care system following birth. My clients are released from all parental obligations," the lawyer read.
It felt as if someone had emptied a bucket of ice water over my head! My ears rang.
"You can't be serious!" I turned to Vanessa. "She's a baby, your baby!"
Vanessa folded her hands in her lap.
"We wanted a family, Emma. Not a project."
"You can't be serious!"
Richard finally looked up. His eyes were tired, not sorry.
"It's better this way. For everyone."
I walked out without signing anything. I didn't need to.
The clause had been waiting in that folder since the day I'd put my name on the original contract, back when none of us imagined we'd ever read it again. I made it to the parking garage before my knees gave out.
"It's better this way."
The rest of my pregnancy passed in a blur of double shifts and quiet panic.
One day, Marcy found me crying in the break room and didn't ask questions, just sat next to me with a paper cup of bad coffee.
"Whatever it is, kid," she said, "you don't have to figure it out tonight."
I worked until my ankles swelled past my shoes. I read everything I could find about foster care, even though I already knew it, having lived it.
Dr. Nguyen squeezed my hand at one of my last appointments.
"She'll be loved, Emma."
I didn't answer, but something inside me had already started saying the word "mine."
"You don't have to figure it out tonight."
The delivery room was bright, loud, then suddenly very quiet.
They placed the baby girl on my chest, and her tiny hand curled around my finger as if she'd been waiting for me.
I looked down at her face and knew.
A social worker came in later with a clipboard. Behind her, Mr. Pierce stood in the doorway like a shadow.
"Emma, if you're prepared to sign the release —"
"I'm not releasing her," I said, cutting the social worker off.
The room went still.
I looked down at her face and knew.
Mr. Pierce stepped forward.
"You'll regret this. You have nothing. No family, degree, or support. Do you understand what you're taking on?"
I looked down at my daughter and touched the soft, dark hair at her temple.
"Her name is Lily," I whispered. "And I already know I won't."
The lawyer left without another word.
The nurse handed me a different stack of papers, and my hand shook so hard I could barely hold the pen. But I signed every line. And I carried Lily home alone, with no idea how heavy the years ahead would feel.
"You'll regret this."
Twelve years went by faster than I ever thought possible.
Lily and I were at the kitchen table eating pancakes, the syrup bottle between us as it always was on Saturdays. She was 12, almost as tall as me, with a laugh that filled every corner of our little house.
I had finished my associate's degree at night three years ago, with help from colleagues and Marcy.
Lily was thriving at school, surrounded by teachers who adored her and friends who actually fought to sit next to her at lunch.
Then came the knock.
Twelve years went by faster than I ever thought possible.
I wiped my hands on a dish towel and pulled the door open without thinking. Then I froze.
Richard and Vanessa stood on my porch!
They were smiling as if they'd just dropped by for coffee.
"Hello, Emma," Vanessa said. "May we come in?"
They didn't wait for an answer. They stepped right past me into my living room as if they owned the house.
"Sweetheart," Vanessa called toward the house, her voice syrupy. "We can finally be together!"
Lily appeared, pancake fork still in her hand.
She didn't say a word, just looked at them.
"May we come in?"
"Get out of my house," I said. "How did you even find me?!"
"We hired someone," Richard said, unapologetic. "A good investigator. It only took a few weeks."
He held up both palms as if he were calming a stray dog.
"Emma, please. We've had a lot of years to think about what happened."
"What happened," Vanessa continued softly, "is that we were grieving. We'd been through three failed rounds. We weren't ourselves. And you, well, you took advantage of that."
I actually laughed! It came out sharp and ugly.
"We hired someone."
"I took advantage of you?" I questioned them.
"You were pushy," Richard said. "You pressured us into a decision we never would've made if we'd been clearheaded."
"You signed papers," I said. "Your attorney sent papers. You told a doctor you didn't want her!"
Vanessa's smile didn't move.
"We've spoken with new counsel. Richard's family attorneys believe a court would be very sympathetic to parents who were manipulated during a vulnerable medical crisis."
"You were pushy."
"We have resources, Emma," the man who almost became Lily's adoptive father added quietly. "We have connections. We'd rather not use them. But Lily belongs with her real family."
My hands started shaking. I felt years of working doubles, of school plays and fevers and homework, of being her mother, all swirling around as if they didn't count for anything!
"You gave her up," I said. "You have no right! None!"
"Biology says otherwise," Vanessa said.
"Biology didn't sit up with her at three in the morning when she had pneumonia!" I shouted.
"We'd rather not use them."
"Emma," Richard's voice had an edge now. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
I opened my mouth to scream at them, but Lily stepped past me into the middle of the room. She was calm and steady, as if she'd been waiting for this exact moment her whole life.
"Excuse me," she said.
Both of them turned to her, their faces melting into that performed sweetness adults use on kids.
"I've been saving something for you all this time," my daughter said.
Vanessa actually clasped her hands together, and Richard's eyes lit up!
I opened my mouth to scream at them.
"Oh, sweetheart," Vanessa cooed. "Is it a gift for us?"
Lily nodded once.
Then she turned and ran down the hallway toward her bedroom.
I stood there frozen, my heart somewhere up near my throat. I had no idea what my daughter was about to bring back. And the Hollisters, smug and beaming on my couch, had even less of an idea than I did.
A few minutes later, Lily came back down the stairs, holding a dusty shoebox. She walked straight to Vanessa and placed it in her hands.
"Open it," she said.
"Is it a gift for us?"
Richard leaned in, grinning like a man expecting a child's drawing. Vanessa lifted the lid. The smile slid off her face.
Inside were neatly stacked papers, each in a clear sleeve.
The surrogacy contract.
Mr. Pierce's letter terminating their claim.
A notarized statement in which Vanessa refused custody.
Printed emails in which Vanessa had called the pregnancy "a defective investment," the same thread she'd carelessly copied to my clinic address back when I was still "the carrier."
The smile slid off her face.
Richard gasped.
"No! This can't be! How dare you?!" Vanessa screamed.
Lily didn't flinch.
"I found this box when I was 10," she said quietly. "You know I've been asking about my dad since I was seven. And you know I do debate, and that podcast unit at school. I read every page. I organized it as my civics project last summer. I've been saving the truth for the day you tried to come back."
I stared at my daughter.
A preteen, steadier than I'd ever been at any age.
"How dare you?!"
And then it hit me. The questions about Mr. Pierce last fall. The way my daughter had asked, so casually, what a notary was.
The library trips. I had answered each one and moved on, never once stitching them together!
Richard's jaw moved, but nothing came out. Vanessa's hands shook against the box she couldn't quite drop.
"You can call your attorneys," Lily added. "I made copies."
Having no comeback, they promptly left the box without another word.
The door clicked shut behind them, and the house went still.
"You can call your attorneys."
I sank into the couch. My hands wouldn't stop trembling.
Lily wrapped her arms around me from behind and pressed her cheek to my hair.
"Don't cry, Mom."
"I didn't know you knew," I whispered. "All those questions - I should've seen the truth."
"I was guarding us, Mom."
I reached back and pulled her into my lap as if she were still small, and she let me.
"Don't cry, Mom."
"You chose me," my daughter said. "That's the only family that ever mattered."
The girl no one wanted had grown up to protect the mother no one had given a chance. And somewhere inside me, the scared 18-year-old who aged out of the system finally exhaled.
