You've seen the ads. Read the testimonials. Deleted the spam. So what's the deal with SemenRx, Spermamax and other jism-enhancing pills that use natural ingredients (zinc, vitamin C, horny goatweed!) to unleash the ol' river of Jordan?

Unlike Viagra and other drugs prescribed to treat erectile dysfunction, these over-the-counter pillmakers claim the more you pop, the more you, erm, pop.

How it works: Randy West wannabes, would-be baby daddies and Howard Stern fans eat two to four pills a day for two to three months, build up their sperm repository (sorta like a checking account for your nut sack) and—like milky white magic!—blow explosive loads that blow the minds of their respective girlfriends, wives, mistresses, etc.

But here's what baffles me: Since when did nonprocreating women give a shit about the color, viscosity and volume of a guy's ejaculate? Considering most non-movie intercourse ends in a creampie or, more smartly, with a quick-to-be-tossed condom, who's counting the little guys anyway?

Moreover, when did a ceiling-splattering climax come to symbolize the mark of a good time for the female constituent?

My beau's ability to tap the vat has no bearing on my likelihood to orgasm. And until my end goal starts with a "b" and ends with an "aby," I'm not interested in upping the slurp factor by 300 percent. The less cleanup, the better.

Besides, who wants to look at some guy's orgasm face for 45 seconds?

Like vag-plasty docs and cock-pump manufacturers, purveyors of sperm enhancers give rise to insecurities where insecurities shouldn't exist. Not that it's the consumers' fault for feeling cum-shy.

Any red-blooded American raised on apple pie and porno knows it's all about the money (shot)—even Anthony from Kentucky wrote in to say, "I was lucky if my money shot was worth a dollar. I ordered Spermamax and now all of [he and his girlfriend's] home movies end in a gigantic cum shot that would make even veteran porn stars jealous."

I'm still not convinced, so I decide to consult the lady friends.

"I find it degrading when a guy wants to cum on my face, or really anywhere on me," says one sassy Nabokov-reading chick. "So I can't see why he'd want, like, 8,000 pounds of semen sprayed all over his sheets."

A filmmaker friend asks, "What's in it for me?"

OK, maybe it's a gay thing, I think, and start messaging every homo on my AIM list.

"Eew, that's just weird," writes one chap.

"It could be nice if you're giving some guy head," counters another. "If it shoots up like a geyser, you're less likely to taste the spooge. It'll go straight down your throat instead of floating around your mouth like snotty backwash."

I thank him for the visual and sign offline.

Cannonball tricks or not, this trend is hard to swallow. Guys, save your cash for something useful. Like new sheets.

Questions? Comments? Ready for Midori? E-mail ashlea.halpern@citypaper.net. No phone calls.