The Results May Vary

Observations from my Mixed Up World

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Remembering that Day… you know… that one. (sigh) The day I got neutered.

It was 2 years ago yesterday and I remember it so clearly.  Finally, a life altering decision was catching up to me and I had to put my body on the line to cash the cheque.  At the time, it seemed that the transaction fee was awfully steep.

Three years prior (five years ago), I’d finally broken down and agreed to discuss with my family doctor the idea of having a vasectomy.  After the formality of asking me if I understood the consequences (as if I’d consider letting someone close to my nuts with a sharp object without considering a lot of consequences!) and asking the who, what, where and why questions regarding my sex life current and future (good hoping to improve, thanks very much) she referred me to the local surgeon.  Glancing down at the paper in my hand, stifling my schoolboy giggles, I looked my doctor in the eye and asked “Is this really his name?”  “Yes, ” she replied deadpan, “It’s doctor Fallis.”  Sure this was all a big cosmic joke, I headed off to have Dr. Fallis examine the area below my phallus.

I should let you know that when I get nervous I giggle like a schoolboy as opposed to when I get neurotic and I shake like a vibrator.  So, I ended up sitting in the waiting room giggling like an idiot at an old copy of Cosmo waiting to see the Phallus doctor… I mean, Dr. Fallis.  Turned out he was a very pleasant young doctor who chatted me up as if it were a first date and then invited me to sit in his special chair to see if I was a good candidate for his in-office special.  Hmmm.  Third base right away.  Wow.  I should have been a doctor.  I’d never had another man fondle my testicles before and while is was not painful it was rather uncomfortable which of course made me giggle more.  He bounced my manhood in his gloved hand one last time and announced that my balls were perfect. (I’d always hoped but never dared to ask)  I half expected him to light up a cigarette and I assure you I was ready for a stiff drink.  “Call me…” he said as I departed feeling a lot dirtier than when I’d arrived, “to set up an appointment.”  And I did, about 2 years later.  I guess the testicle trade in Niagara had shriveled up or he’d juiced it dry because when I called I learned that Dr. Fallis was no longer working in the phallus department.  Damn.

Back to my family doctor, who scoffed in disbelief that I had taken so long with this trifling thing, and a new referral to what she considered the industry leader, So Simple Vasectomy in Oakville.  The process this time was a bit different and the referral with the doctor was done 15 minutes before the operation.  With a smaller window to weasel out, he’d done thousands of successful procedures.  I also figure since the wives are in the waiting room there is a much lower chance of backing out of the operation.

I drove with my wife up to Oakville on the appointed morning feeling pretty nervous and tense.  I need to be clear that I wanted this operation and I was certain I didn’t want more kids but the idea of willingly letting someone cut open my body and make changes to plumbing that was working fine seems very invasive and unnatural.  I can’t watch nurses give needles on TV so I was very tense.  “Just keep thinking about all the sex we’re gonna be having.”  my wife encouraged.  Sure, I thought as long as there are no infections, complications, last minute cancer discoveries or God forbid sneezes while the doctor has the scalpel in his hand. “Yeah,” I replied weakly, “More sex… yay.”

After a very quick discussion with the nice Dutch doctor where I once again restated my understanding that this was permanent, not reversible and that the only thing scarier than the operation was having more kids, I found my self in a short hospital gown, stark naked underneath.  Into my examining room came the receptionist.  To say she was old and conservative looking was like saying the Grand Canyon was a hole with some water in it.  This little old granny smile at me and showed me a round sticker.  “Now dear” she began “this is some freezing for before the procedure.”  She started pantomiming as if she had a 10 inch penis.  “I want you to lift up your penis as high as you can and stick the sticker right at the base.  Don’t miss now, or the freezing won’t be in the right place.  You’re going to feel a little numb in that area after that.”  Mortified, embarrassed and humiliated that a centagenarian needed to explain how to freeze my balls to me, I indicated that I had no questions and began to line up the sticker.  I wanted to get the placement right because I figured without the freezing it would be like having a hot poker rammed down my Johnson and I was pretty sure I wanted to avoid that.

Shortly thereafter, I was laying on the table while the doctor began pulling my numb business up through the centre of a square donut shaped draping cloth.  I was amazed at how calm I felt.  “Wow” I pondered, “the anti-depressants I’m taking must be working really well today.  I’m cool, calm and collected.”  The doctor chatted while working away.  Turns out he did something like 10 to 15 procedures a day.  That’s like 7800 testicles chopped off every year.  No wonder he was so good.  “Ok, I’ve made the puncture.  Now I need to freeze the tube.  This is the part that hurts.”  What followed was the same feeling that Milo had given me for years each time he playfully whacks me in the balls.  The difference this time was that 5 seconds after the hurt the ache disappeared.  Hmmm.  Not so bad.  Thank you freezing.  The second testicle was worse because you knew what to expect and tensed up for it.  All in all, that was it.  I spent 30 minutes with ice on my package and then squeezed my self into a pair of medium underwear (2 sizes too small) and strapped an athletic support over that.  My wife drove me home and I spent the next 2 days icing myself every hour and putting ointment on my tiny little incision.  No muss, no fuss.

Two years later, I am happy, healthy and enjoy the freedom of not needing to stop and find a condom.  Since my wife’s co-workers read this, I am not able to describe of the the gymnastics and acts of depravity that we can now engage in.  If you haven’t gotten clipped yet, go do it.  I’m a believer.

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Anatomy Lesson

I was just about to get in the shower yesterday, when my ever present morning companion Maya pointed at me and said, “I know why you have balls in there.  Milo told me.”

“Really,” I asked, “Do tell.”  I looked over at my wife to make sure she heard that this didn’t come from anything I’d said.

“I know that when there is an alien invasion, they will come and put things in your balls.  Then they get big like a balloon and burst.  Then lots of baby aliens come out.  Like hundreds and hundreds.  Then you hafta go to the hospital and the doctor cuts them off.  That’s why some men have balls and some don’t.”  She answered proudly.

My wife left to blow dry her hair shaking her head.  She seemed pretty unconcerned.

I got into the shower, mentally noting to check the NASA website for an alien invasion alarm.  Somebody with balls better be watching out for this.

Note:  No element of the truth was embellished in this post.  Also, in case the aliens are monitoring this blog, I will not be posting a photo.  That would be like putting out a for rent sign.  Sorry aliens, no vacancy.