My Vasectomy, pt.2
Spanking the monkey.
Spanking the monkey.
Finally, after three months, the day came for me to have my seed tested for errant swimmers. So, off the doctor’s office to rub one out into a plastic cup in a doctor’s bathroom.
Titillating, innit?
Once in the examination room, the nurse took my blood pressure, commenting: “Hmm, a little high.” I told her I was anxious. “I’ll take it.”
She handed me my plastic cup: “Let’s go to the bathroom.” I dutifully followed.
We took about twenty steps when I realized, she wasn’t going to provide any, err, material. Also, a safe bet she wasn’t going to follow me into the bathroom. This was life, not the latest scene from Brazzers.
I excused myself to run and get my phone.
Arriving at our destination, the bathroom, she pointed to the door and blithely said: “Be sure to lock the door.”
Unfortunately, the cell service was awful, and the internet connection was worse. While I have a healthy libido, an active imagination and a deep well of experiences to call up, for some reason, this solo effort in the doctor’s office bathroom had me rolling snake eyes.
I heard the clock ticking in my head as the minutes went by. After about 15–20 minutes, someone knocked on the door. “FUCK!” I thought. Now I was hyper-aware of the time AND had the added anxiety of knowing someone was waiting to use the bathroom.
Well, that took me right out of where I was …or where I wanted to be.
Tossing in the proverbial towel (or sock), I took my empty cup and went to the nurse and asked: “Do you have any, err, material?”
The nurse was nice enough to give me some adult magazines. While there was no date or cover, something led me to believe these were from the first Clinton administration. To be clear, these weren’t magazines, as such — they were a bunch of glossy pics that were part of a magazine sometime during the dawn of the grunge era.
And back into the bathroom, I went.
The pictures were your standard fare stuff, which is to say, boring. So I started reading the letters. If you’re of a certain age, you may recall these ridiculous letters start something like this:
I go to a small college in Kentucky and I never thought anything like this would happen to me but …
As tired and hackneyed as these letters are, true to the power of the written word, these were working.
Obviously, you can’t use any lubrication. But since this was my second attempt, my mouth was as dry as if I’d just ripped a monster bong hit of some excellent Lemon Kush.
AND it was taking a long time, again. Here I was fretting about the time anew, obsessing over my lack of saliva, and becoming concerned about rubbing my John Thomas raw. Now closing in on a cumulative 30–35 minutes, my cock had changed from its normal flesh color to a dark reddish hue that resembled the effects of the Indian burns my brother gave me as a kid.
I threw in the towel (or sock) again. Taking the “magazines” back to the nurse, I said: “Yea. That’s not gonna happen.”
“Okay,” she said and took me back to the examination room to wait for the doctor.
Incidentally, I should note — I’ve NEVER worked this hard to masturbate …ever.
The doctor — apparently the one who DOES do all the vasectomies — popped in and discussed my options. They weren’t great. And they weren’t options. He would arrange an appointment at some spunk gathering facility. I would have to wait for the results …to be given to the doctor, who, in turn, would call me with the results.
Easily, another three weeks.
Suffice it to say; I wasn’t terribly excited by that prospect. So, I asked: “What if I drop off a sample later today?”
By the look on his face, I presumed no one had ever thought to ask this before. We sat there awkwardly for about a minute, and eventually, he nodded: “Okay, as long as you get it here by 4p.”
“Won’t be a problem,” I replied. Because I knew I would return shortly.
He got up, tossed the plastic cup to me, and quipped: “Fill it up.”
Well, that wasn’t going to happen, but I figured I would generate enough to do a sample splooge to test.
I got home, did what I had to do, loaded up the dog, and returned to the doctor. It just, uh, came a little easier in the privacy of my own home.
So I spent the afternoon juggling conference calls and obsessing to make sure my phone was on so I could receive “the call.”
I had some real anxiety waiting for these results stemming from that first horrible pain from Ol’ Lefty, and the fact he took so long to heal. I was terrified I would have to do the vasectomy again. I’m not even sure you can re-do vasectomy’s, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to reach out to Dr. Internet.
But call they did.
My seed was swimmer-free, and I was given the green light.