The Vasectomy

After the birth of our third child, my wife and I decided that we had enough children. Since all of them were born through cesarean section, my wife made the decision that it was my turn to get cut.

I’d been told that getting a vasectomy is no big deal. Painless. Snip, snip, done. I could be banging my wife again later that night and would never have to worry about getting her pregnant. Ever. Again. Well, FML, because that’s not exactly what happened.

First things first. I needed to find a doctor. At the time I was a thirty year old, six foot tall, light skinned, African-American male. The doctor I found was probably in his mid-fifties, pretty fit with small black rimmed glasses and skin that was pronouncedly tanned against his shock of white hair and evil genius mustache.

My first surprise. Shaking his hand was like squeezing my wife’s tit. The left one, because that one’s my favorite and it gets more action. Seriously, his hand was that soft. He probably has amazing moments of masturbation with hands that soft. Normally, I don’t trust a man with hands that soft and here I was, literally, going to put my balls in this man’s hands. We spoke. I told him my dilemma and that was that. I was good to go. His only advice was to shave my groin the night before so there’d be nothing in the way. I’d tried that before; no big deal. I had a good razor.

We scheduled the procedure for the following Friday morning. In my book, if you need a scalpel and you cut something open, it’s surgery. He says it’s a general procedure. I said this is the time when a major outranks a general and since it’s my nut sack, it’s a major surgery.

When we arrived at the outpatient facility, because I’d be going home right afterwards, my wife and I were met by the receptionist in the sunny, large windowed waiting area. From our vantage point, the receptionist desk was to our left and our couch faced the long hallway where the operating theaters resided.

That’s when things started to go south.

At the far end of the hallway, which had to be at least eighty feet away, a nurse appeared. Not just any nurse. Probably the nurse that would be in the room for the procedure. She looked African. Very smooth, dark skin and a short perfectly groomed afro. Like Lupita Nyong’o, her features were fairly small, but full on her small frame. Her nurses uniform was spectacularly white, fell to her knees and did nothing to hide the crimson two piece lingerie that she was wearing underneath. She was also drop-dead gorgeous, walking across the hall from one suite to another, and stopped when she saw us. I’m no slouch, if I may say so, and she was obviously intrigued enough to stare at who would be getting cut today. What could we do? We stared back. But for different reasons.

I’m not going to lie, I was entranced, but without taking her eyes off of this woman, my wife calmly said to me, “I'm going in there with you.”

“What?” I said.

“I’m going in there with you,” she repeated.

I was, well, flabbergasted. “You… you can’t go in the operating room.”

Chuckie and Linda Blair would have been proud by how creepily my wife swiveled her head towards me. “Yes. I can.”

“No, you can’t”

She swiveled back to look at the nurse who, surprisingly, was still staring at us. “I can and I will.”

As if I wasn’t nervous enough, now I have to deal with this? I should explain something about my wife. She’s also African-American, but she was born and raised in Spanish Harlem and this was Spanish Harlem that was talking at the moment.

Finally, the nurse saunters off and my wife audaciously approaches the receptionist and insists that she be allowed into the operating room. Thankfully, it was against hospital protocol, but she gave it a good shot.

I was called to the pre-op room to change into the hospital gown that I’d be wearing. Here’s what I don’t understand. When I had an operation on my elbow for a torn tendon, I still had to get naked and wear one of those flappy gowns. Why? Take off my shirt, even pants, but why everything? In this case I understood, but there’s another thing that bothered me. The operating room is freezing. I’ve been told it’s kept this way to prevent bacteria from growing and to help keep the humidity down, but here’s the problem every man has. Cold shrinks. Even for the brothers.

I know I shouldn’t be worrying about that, but I can’t help it, because, well, this nurse is gonna see my junk, I’m black and I feel a need to represent. Know what I’m saying, yo?

Anyway, they bring me into the room and sure enough, there she is. Isn’t that just wonderful. The orderly puts me on the table, which is steel and only covered with a thin sheet. The back of the gown is open, the room felt like it was about fifty-five degrees and I’m freezing. Actually shivering on the table. Now, I love my wife. Very much. But right then I was like, “C’mon little buddy, stretch one out for me, why don’t ‘cha.” I got no reply.

Here’s come the doctor, just as congenial as ever. What’s this now? Oh, look, the doctor brought a friend along. Another doctor. The new guy moved to my right side, while Doctor Tit-hands went to the other side.

The new guy seemed tall, but from my current vantage point, who knows?. He also had white hair, but he was a little pasty around the edges, had wire-rimmed glasses and looked a little like the old actor Ronny Cox who was in Deliverance, RoboCop, and Total Recall. If this wasn’t enough to unease me in the moment, he was downright giddy. Perhaps it was part of his bedside manner. So Doctor Giddy gets in my face and says, “So how we doing today, partner?”

Is he serious? “I’m alright,” I say.

Giddy pats me on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, everything’s going to be just fine. Let’s see what we’re working with today.” And without warning, he whips the gown up over my waist.

Literally looking down the length of my body, I caught the nurse immediately checking me out. Actually, I saw her do a double-take and turn before she could snicker out loud. I wanted to scream, “It’s cold in here. What did you expect?" I kept quiet, dropped my head and just looked at the ceiling.

Then this happened.

Dr. Giddy grabbed my joint with his left hand, pulled and took a long swipe from my inner thigh, along the right side of my balls, and up to his other hand. My head shot up. I was flummoxed. All I could do was look at Dr. Giddy with the realization that this man just rub my nuts. He still had that stupid smile on this face too. Nodding his head salaciously in approval he says to me, “Pretty smooth.”

Did I just have a gay moment? What just happened? WHAT. JUST. HAPPENED?

Before I could decipher the moment, it happened again, on the other side. I’m about to freak out. This time Dr. Giddy does that thing people do when they nod their head and spread their lips a bit wide. “This side is pretty good too,” then he flashes a disposable razor, “but you missed a few spots.”

Is he joking? Is this for real? Am I in the freaking Twilight Zone? Next thing I know, he’s rubbing shaving cream all over my package and taking his sweet time with it, while humming! This man is lathering me up by rubbing my balls in circles. Normally, this could be a good feeling, but he’s not my wife. He’s not even pretty.

Then comes the blade. But as most people know, to get a good shave, you have to pull the skin tight, which he did. So now he’s holding my nuts up while he shaves me down. I’m mortified beyond comprehension. No worries about getting stiff now. Finally, he wipes me down with a towel and I’m ready to be cut.

The nurse puts gloves on both doctor’s hands and then it was time to administer the anesthesia.

Remember when I said this was major surgery? Well, this surgery only required a general anesthesia, which means local to the area. Which means I'll be awake. Which means they have to stick a needle in my rocks to numb me down. After about four or five painful shots, I became numb to the touch. Dr. Giddy asked, "You feel that?" I said, "No." For all I knew, he could be jerking me off and I wouldn't know it. He also told me to lay still. He has a scalpel, does he really think I want an accident?

The common name for getting a vasectomy is called “The Snip.” Who thought that was clever? It’s also permanent, well, 99.85%, so I wouldn’t be making any more babies. I like the ones I’ve got, so it’s okay. It was also covered by my HMO, so that’s another plus. What they actually do is cut the vas deferens tubes that connect your testicles, where you make sperm, to the urethra. You know, your piss hole. The rest of the jizz, which you’ll still have, comes from your seminal vesicles and prostrate, so when you ejaculate, it still feels the same. You’re just shooting blanks now.

So Doctors Tit-hands and Giddy begin snipping away. Some tubes are cauterized, some are tied or stitched. They decided to cut mine and put clamps on both cut ends. I had an x-ray later on and they show up quite clearly. Always an interesting topic at the doctor’s office.

And then something else happened.

The anesthesia wore off in the middle of a cut.

I’m not a cryer, per se, but this brought tears to my eyes and I simultaneously gained the ability to sing soprano. Then Tit-hands had the audacity to ask me, “You felt that?”

I wanted to rip his balls off. I really did. They gave me more of the local and soon my pain subsided into oblivion. I think they overdid it just to make sure. Worst pain ever. Until I got bursitis some years later. That pain will make you want to find Jesus.

Finally, I get stitched up and they put this ultra soft jock strap on me. It’s obviously made of cotton and feels like the inside of a diaper. They told me the stitches would fall out by themselves as I healed and I could use ice on my stuff when the anesthesia wears off. Standing up, I felt like I had no genitals. They really over did it with the pain killer. I was taken back to get my street clothes and was summarily discharged.

When you’ve gotten a vasectomy and you’re walking down the street, I think everybody knows. That’s how I felt. It took forever to get to the car and I stiffly plopped into the passenger seat. Halfway home the anesthesia started to wear off and every bump was a jolt of expletives not fit for this forum.

When I got home, I laid down with an icepack and took a nap. I was awoken by the scream of the middle child, my two year old son, saying, “Daddy!” By the time I opened my eyes, he was already in the air and about to land on my now super sensitive groin.

I was too late to catch him.

Again, I hit a note that even Marion Anderson would approve of.

Lord, just get me through the weekend.

Here’s another thing they don’t tell you about getting a vasectomy. After a bit, the stitches begin to get stiff and begin to catch on that jock strap diaper you’re wearing. Newsflash. It’s not pleasant. At all. Not one bit. In fact, moving becomes a chore. The only relief is when you’re nude and can get some “fresh air” down there. But I have kids. Little kids. Watching daddy walk around with no pants on is not really an option. We’re not in Europe and Child Protection Services would whisk me away for being a perv. Cold compresses feel great, but you have to peel them on and off, so you don’t pull on the stitches. If you do pull on them, let the water works begin.

So Saturday was fine. I stayed in bed all day long. Sunday, as usual, we went to church. I thought, “I’m just going to sit there and enjoy the service,” right? Yeah, right.

I was still fairly new to the church which was a converted movie theater and still had the original seats, which were padded and way more comfortable than sitting on a wooden pew. This church was not your boring, run of the mill church. This was a hand clapping, foot stomping, sangin’ church.

Sitting is not easy with stitches in your groin. Your body is bent and if the stitches are not grabbing and being pulled by your diaper, they’re scratching your thighs like needles, which is no picnic either. Fortunately, this is also one of those churches that talks back to the preacher.

I had my daughter, who was about five months old at the time, on my lap. No biggie, right. She’d sleep through most of the service in my arms and I had an excuse to not stand up and sit down, over and over again.

Guess what? Five month olds can kick pretty hard sometimes. I yelled, “Jesus!”. No one really noticed because they were calling on the name of the Lord too. I couldn’t wait for the service to be over. The other problem with babies is that everybody wants to hold your kid. Not today. Once, I shifted the wrong way and I got a bad pull that brought water to my eyes. I overheard the two old ladies on the side me, “Look Sister, he’s being touched by the Spirit of the Lord.” I gave a polite smile and a wave. The next time they thought I was speaking in tongues. The third time they looked at me strangely. I asked, “What’s the matter?” The gossipy looking one said, “It’s just offering time.” “Well,” I said, “Offering is a part of worship, right?”

Eventually, the stitches do start to fall off about a week later. Which meant a week of sneaking off to the bathroom at work to let my nuts hang out in the bathroom stall. I also thought a week was long enough to go without some booty, so it was time to put Dr. Tit-hands work to the test. Afterwards, I decided we were going to wait at least another week, because, Oh My God, when the moment of release comes, you will feel every stitch they gave you. Inside and out. I did learn that primal screaming can be kind of fun at that moment and enhance the experience….for me, yes, just for me apparently. She always tries to suffocate me with a pillow.

But, hey, don’t knock it until you try it.

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