I count myself as incredibly lucky to have a healthy, beautiful daughter. And I don’t just mean beautiful through the lens of my doting fatherly eyes. She’s easily hotter than 97% of your little fuglings. I’m not usually this open with my feelings, but understanding my unconditional love for her is important when I further proclaim that I absolutely never ever want to curse my family with another one of her.
My wife and I have decided to let the idiots outbreed us and cap it at one kid. Though it was a decision intended to help our little clan prosper, it simultaneously crystallized for me just how little unprotected sex I’ve had in this life. I’ve always had to be very diligent about birth control because my superhuman virility does not share my fear of supporting unplanned children. That’s not bravado, by the way. My spermatozoa were the subject of a fertility study a few years back when a scanning electron microscope revealed their unique method of contending with condoms:
Saying farewell to theoretical offspring was easy enough, but imagining a world without unfettered intercourse was just too dreary to consider. Indulging in that oft-forbidden fruit meant something had to change.
I started dropping hints that my wife should just have her baby factory plucked out of her, but it’s difficult to work “hysterectomy” into casual conversation. It became clear that if I wanted infertility I was going to have to make it happen myself.
I made an appointment with my friendly neighborhood Emasculationologist for a consultation. While waiting to be called in, I picked up a comic book to do some light reading:
This Cliffs Notes on male sterilization (masquerading as a MILF porn comic for some reason) spelled out everything I needed to know about vasectomies. Each subtopic was structured the same: clinical data about the procedure somehow softened by intimate, nannycam views into total stranger’s homes:
For brevity’s sake, I’ll paraphrase the “FACTS” section the above picture was plucked from.
FACT: A vasectomy does not reduce your sex drive. However if you’re particularly bashful about scars on your testes, you may wish to keep them behind a veil during intercourse.
FACT: A vasectomy will not solve relationship problems. You’ll need to dump the bitch for that.
It went on to demystify the post-op mechanics of your junk. Unfortunately the fine print was lost in the scanning process, so I’ve summarized the bullet points:
About halfway through my reading I was lead to an examination room to be greeted by the doctor. He quietly assured “It’s like a dental procedure. You’ll even be able to drive home afterward. There’s really nothing to worry about.”
His tone should have soothed me, but in my semi-petrified state this is all I heard:
“It’s like a dental procedure, with the notable exception that I won’t be able to see the unbridled terror in your eyes from my vantage point. You’ll even be able to drive home afterward, provided you can do so without actually sitting on anything. There’s really nothing to worry about, except for the laser-sharp surgical blade I’ll be using to whittle down the seat of your manhood.”
I considered seeking the council of a new physician that would better comprehend how crap-your-pants-worthy this surgery was to me, but something extraordinary kept me there: his hands were freakishly tiny. Hands that diminutive would almost certainly perform detail work with ease. That was precisely the kind of advantage my balls deserved. It didn’t hurt that they made my package look massive when he began his examination as well.
He was mostly silent during the inspection, probably thinking something like “Sturdy build…graceful slope into the taint…I’d give them a B+” (or maybe “What am I doing with my life?”). After nearly a minute of silence, he finally remarked “Oh, you don’t shave? That’s not a problem. I’ll take care of that before the procedure.”
The hint of surprise in his observation intrigued me. Perhaps I give off a “This guy totally shaves his balls” vibe? More likely, everyone shaves them these days so my crotch looks like I’ve got Einstein in a triangle leg choke. In either case, he didn’t judge. It was then I knew I was going to ask him to do the honor of robbing this world of further iterations of me.
I made the appointment for my vasectomy and headed home contemplating how exactly one makes quality time with their balls. They deserved that much before we said adieu.
Yes, my testes speak French. Yours don’t?