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My first love out of college and I seemed to be on the same page, a match made in heaven.

We were both politically aligned, kinky bisexuals, voracious readers, and gym rats who shared the same values. Out of nowhere, four months into dating, she casually dropped, “I would literally rather die than have children.”

I was speechless, fidgeting as I looked away from her. She sensed my unease. “What, do you want them?”

“Yeah…I mean, yeah,” I mumbled.

“Really?” She was just as shocked by my assumption we’d have kids as I was by her not wanting them. “Why?” she asked.

I waxed poetically about the importance of family, of wanting to pass down my genes, of someone to take care of me when I’m old, but it was all rather unconvincing. Even as I was saying it, I felt something was off, but at the time, I wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

I thought long and hard after this conversation about whether I would be okay with not having children. The thing was, I honestly did not think that was an option. I had grown up in a family with two brothers, surrounded by large nuclear families, so I thought having rugrats was mandatory—compulsory. (We often talk about compulsory heterosexuality, aka comphet, but we should also talk about compkids.)

After some deep introspection, I decided that my love for her outweighed my desire to have children, so I remained in the relationship. When we broke up a year later, I had an opportunity to re-evaluate if I wanted kids. To my surprise, I really didn’t. What started as a compromise to stay with the love of my life became something I genuinely wanted for myself.

I realized I had a great life and had no desire to change it. I could travel whenever I wanted, go drinking until four a.m. if my heart desired, and consistently see my friends who nourished my soul—all things that would become quite challenging if I had a child.

Over the past decade, my stance on not having kids only intensified, but in truth, it was relatively moot, as pretty much every woman I dated in my twenties was on birth control. (And when I slept with guys, well, no risk there.) But in my thirties, many of the women I dated were no longer on birth control. Some of them had unwanted side effects, and some said birth control made them “feel nuts.” I couldn’t help but feel like a bit of an asshole. It just seemed unfair how much a woman had to go through just so I could safely nut inside of them.

At 32, I briefly dated a woman, now a dear friend, who was no longer on birth control. I was a fucking idiot, having unprotected sex with her. She made it very clear that if I accidentally got her pregnant, she would not get an abortion. “I’m thirty-five, eventually do want a child, and you have great genes,” she said. “You don’t have to be a part of the child’s life, but I would keep the baby.”

That should have been enough for me to start wearing condoms, but a few drinks in, we’d have sex. Suddenly, there was no condom to be found, and in the famous words of Cardi B, she “make that pullout game weak.”

After a pregnancy scare—and let me tell you, I didn’t believe in God beforehand, but afterward, I sure did—I researched vasectomies, only to learn that over 90% of health insurance providers offer at least some form of coverage. (I was pleasantly shocked that the absolutely atrocious health insurance I get through the NY marketplace would completely cover the cost of the procedure.)

I met with a urologist to discuss and learned that the procedure itself was relatively simple. The operating time was roughly 45 minutes, and he wouldn’t even put me fully under for it. He would supply me with nitrous, so I was in a loopy, twilight state.

A week post-op, I’d be cleared to work out and have sex again. Though of note, the vasectomy doesn’t kick in right away. I was told I’d have to “clear out the pipes,” ejaculating 30 times through masturbation, and then do a semen analysis to ensure I’m no longer ejaculating any sperm. (In all honesty, it took me all of two weeks to reach 30, but I still waited another two weeks before doing a semen analysis, just to be safe.)

The last thing my urologist shared, much to my surprise, was that the recovery was relatively painless. He wouldn’t bother to prescribe me any pain medication, as Advil would suffice.

“But will I shoot smaller loads?”

Not that it would have been a dealbreaker, but it would undoubtedly have been a bummer. My urologist explained that semen is roughly three percent of ejaculate fluid, so no, my load size would remain relatively unchanged.

I scheduled my vasectomy appointment right there on the spot.

The procedure was just as painless and as easy to recover from as my doctor promised. In fact, I only took Advil for two days post-op, and then I was in no real pain, just some mild discomfort for another 48 hours.

While that girlfriend didn’t last too long, the vasectomy sure did. Even though I got it for the sole purpose of avoiding accidental pregnancy, I didn’t realize how big a game-changer it would be for my future sex and dating life.

For one, I could be more present during sex. Inevitably, while having sex with a condom, there was a point where I thought the condom tore (or actually did tear—Lord have mercy). Or, when I was being a moron and had unprotected sex pre-vasectomy, I was so in my head, too focused on timing the pull-out, that I wouldn’t be able to finish. (As a sex columnist, I’m well aware you can have fulfilling sex without an orgasm, but as any sexual human being is aware, when you’re on the cusp of climaxing and can’t, it’s really, really frustrating.) So, sex post-vasectomy was just better; I could be more in my body, enjoying the sex more, as those fears were no longer concerns.

Two, it signaled to anyone I dated that I am 100% set on not having children. Before my procedure, I encountered a few partners who attempted to persuade me to consider parenthood, even though I had been adamant about my decision to remain child-free. They insisted there was a chance I would change my mind. Honestly, I found it incredibly annoying and disrespectful. I was voicing my desires (or lack thereof), and they were dismissing them.

When I now share that I am vasectomized, potential partners take me at my word. It indicates that I am absolutely positive I do not want children. Nothing they say will change my mind, so they don’t bother. (Needless to say, these relationships don’t tend to last all that long.) On the flip side, women who are certain they don’t want children hear about my vasectomy and know we are aligned.

Three, I get to have so much more unprotected sex with casual partners. I simply share my recent negative STI results (I get tested every two months, if not sooner) and the precautions I take to avoid getting STIs, including taking Truvada, a daily prevention pill that decreases the likelihood of acquiring HIV through sex by 99%. I also take Doxy PEP (specifically, 200 mg of Doxycycline) within 72 hours of having unprotected sex, which decreases the likelihood of getting bacterial STIs (syphilis and chlamydia by over 70%, and gonorrhea by roughly 50%).

That’s often enough to have unprotected sex with partners who have a slightly higher risk tolerance when it comes to STIs. (For some, it’s not, at which point, of course, we wear condoms. No questions asked. The point of getting a vasectomy was not to weaponize it to manipulate women into having unprotected sex. It was so I wouldn’t accidentally have a goddamn child.)

But without a doubt, more women want to have unprotected sex with me post-vasectomy. Again, I didn’t get a vasectomy for this purpose; it is just a very welcome bonus.

The reason why—and I don’t think I’m putting words in any woman’s mouth—but many women are absolutely exhausted by the bullshit it takes just for a man to cum inside of them. They’re tired of the onus being on them, especially when, if you don’t want children, there is such a simple procedure with a short recovery time, as opposed to the consistent side effects they experience while on birth control.

Additionally, I got my vasectomy not too long after Roe v. Wade was overturned, and many women I’ve since dated have voiced their appreciation for me taking some responsibility, not putting them in a place where they get accidentally pregnant and are unable to get an abortion (or struggle to get one).

It’s been three years since I got snipped, and I can share confidently that it was the best decision I could make for my sex and dating life. I simply cannot fathom a world in which I don’t continue to see more benefits: more embodied sex without fear, an easier time finding and connecting with romantic partners who also don’t want children, and fuck it— more unprotected sex. Because let’s be real, what’s hotter than a good ol’ fashioned creampie?