My children are charming bundles of joy (of course: they each have 23 of my chromosomes), but Mrs L and I have decided that two are enough. A vasectomy seemed the obvious course of action, so I went for an initial consultation with the surgeon. I went in all eager. I came out determined never ever to let that man’s scalpel near my orbs.
In order that he doesn’t sue me, let’s call him Doctor Hamish McNobchopper, as he was Scottish. And a specialist in chopping.
His consulting room was windowless, and lit with a harsh flourescent glare. It was all completely institutional and anonymous, with no decoration except a large poster of the male genitals, showing the interior plumbing in a manner that looked as if it were the partially-flayed penis of a giant, mounted on the wall as some kind of trophy.
Dr McNobchopper was a gaunt man in a dark grey suit. He was the dourest of all Scots, with pallid skin that suggested he never left this artificially-lit environment. After a few preliminary questions – age, marital status, number of offspring – he smiled a joyless thin-lipped smile and put me at my ease by asking,
“Have you thought about how you’d feel if you had a vasectomy and then your children died?” (answer: I don’t know, but probably very unlikely to be in the mood to leap on my wife with the intention of inseminating her), before pointing out that
“up to ten percent of men complain of debilitating testicular pain for up to five years after the operation”.
My confidence was failing fast and then came the moment I’d dreaded: examination time.
Now, lady readers might not know this, as they generally see their gentleman’s appendage in its ready-for-action state, but the penis is, under certain circumstances, retractable. Being medically examined is one of those circumstances. Certainly, mine seemed to be attempting to withdraw into my body and masquerade as a pink acorn as Dr Nobchopper glared at it with undisguised contempt.
“I can see from your wriggling we’ll have to put you out with a General”, he said, like a Caledonian Dr Mengele, because I flinched as he rolled each of my testicles between his thumb and forefinger. (Incidentally, the fact that the testes hang outside the body encased in paper-thin skin, rather than guarded by closely interlocking bones forming a special subcutaneous scrotal equivalent to a rib-cage, is, in my opinion, the knock-down argument against the theory of ‘Intelligent Design‘.)
As I got dressed and Dr McNobchopper scrubbed his hands with the diligence of a man repulsed by what he’s just had to do, I weakly sought reassurance that the injections of local anaesthetic merely go under the skin of the scrotum.
“Sometimes the needle pierces the testicle”, replied the Doctor,
“But it doesn’t much matter, as you’ve said you don’t want the sperm, anyway.”.
Reader, I legged it. And that’s why my nads continue resolutely
pumping out millions of sperms even as I type this.
And God bless ’em, each and every one.
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