More Reflections on Seedlessness
Mo asked me this morning: What are you going to post about today?
I replied: ...
Mo: How about potty training?
Mo: How about the vasectomy?
So here I am typing about my nuts again. Whee! I haven't much to say at the moment, but a few vaguely connected thoughts have recurred of late.
It appears one, okay, I, am able to have more forthright discussions of this subject with females. With the men, it's all "Ahem... ah, hahaha" and "get the fuck away from me". This phenomenon is apparent even with my GP. "You'll still be able to cough up the goods!" he assured me, smiling wanly at my faux-stoic expression. I like my GP, he's a good doctor, but there's no getting around the nervousness involved with matters residing below the belt. I don't think I am breaching any patient-doctor privilege in pointing out that the examination of my dangly bits at the annual general is prefaced invariably by the phrase: It's time to check out Big Jim and the Boys.
Firstly, if I ever rejoin the band I was in, I will lobby for that name change.
Secondly, his name is not Jim. It's Spartacus.
Thirdly, what the fuck is my rectal exam going to involve, by way of throat-clearing?
Obtaining a Vasectomy
I will obtain a no-scalpel vasectomy. I imagine the physician in question uses, in lieu of a scalpel, elastic bands, or pinking shears, or his teeth. I had to read the warning. Then a couple of friends (two of the three men I know who have discussed their chop jobs) described vividly the complications which followed their surgeries. Oh man! What was I thinking? (Hmmm, a free ride?)
Back to the topic of discussion: even the chop shop operator is a little squeamish. His instructive site is littered with cheesy jokes (You'll be just like a Sunkist. All juice and no seeds! No shaving required in this practice.) and I can only imagine the witty bon mots he will offer while he handles my nuts and I stand there... sweating...
Mo and I will hedge our bets. In the event we wish to procreate again (we won't) or in the event one of our little humans dies (we are morbid thinkers) we will need to store some of my, um, material in a freezer. Not our freezer! I am told.
So, off to the lab to jerk off into a cup. I fear this more than the operation. I can't get a handle on it.