From the waiting room, I heard a man scream. Not an effete scream, but a male shout-scream. Which, for reasons of composure, control and actual manliness, shall be referred to as a scream. Pussy. Was that his girlfriend sitting over there, smirking?
I had prepared for my vasectomy by watching a ‘documentary’ about people into body modification. And because they are not allowed to legally administer anesthetic, men get meat hooks skewered through their nut sacks sans the drugs. I reckon I could face up to this doctor, with his tight, thick grey widow’s peak and his equally triangular frown. Keep at least two chevrons apart, I recalled from the motorway. His darting avian frown, moved purposefully, quick walking between doors while Philipino nurses, bustled, presenting efficiency and responsibility to their employer.
Did I really hear a guy scream? Did my brain make that up? A male of about 35, strutted out of a room, wearing a cocky yet doubtful grin. In his gob he rolled, side to side a lollipop. Ain’t no big thing, the lolly appeared to transmit. Cock, I judged.
The snap of the elastic band, girth hitched around my cock caused my muscles to reflex and stiffen. It was then pinned to my t-shirt, to keep the penis out of the way, said the nurse with a homely nonchalance. The mirror above my toes, angled so I may observe the procedure confused me. Perhaps it was for the body modification freaks. I decided, now with this ceremony of middle age that I would take up golfing. At least for the next ten minutes, because there was a TV in the ceiling above my head showing some paunchy golfer, trying unsuccessfully to whack a ball out of the sand.
The prep nurse improved my sack’s shave job, applied iodine and on her way out, pressed play on the stereo. Of all the music to play to induce the necessary calm and distraction from the scene ahead. Of all the music to play that might appeal to men no longer wanting to impregnate their women- to men about to be denuded of their ability create that most basic of human wonderment: Coldplay. The clinic’s literature does remind you to bring in your own CD, to ensure a more comfortable experience. I was afraid Locust Abortion Technician by the Butthole Surfers may put the good doctor off his game. Coldplay and the golf it was. The doors of middle age swung open and in came the nurse, followed by the doctor, pecking like an impatient driver trying to pass a tractor on a country road.
The two of them were all business and quickly made a sterile nest of green surgical towel. My nuts poked through and were framed by a crisp landscape of theatre green. After a couple of needle pricks and the anesthetic took over, my balls became an autonomous state, a moon to my body.
Look at that fucking golfer, I mused forcefully distracting myself. What a wanker. Being a music lover, my ears had rerouted the coldplay. It had become aural filler that disabled any sounds coming from the doctor’s direction. For this I was thankful. He was sewing now and I was glad I couldn’t hear the lacing friction of the twine. OK, that’s one done, he said. What? You can’t sink two at once, like pool?
After some bread dough style kneading of my goolies the doctor announced he was done. He snapped off his gloves, said he’d see me in a week and gave me a tap tap on the shoulder, which I interpreted as, ‘well done, son. It was a pleasure to work on a real man’. The nurse cleaned up and was confused that I declined the lollipop. What? So I could roll it around in my mouth like the first thing I was gunna do when I got home was rat-fuck the old lady. No way. But I did enjoy the delicious fruity boxed beverage. Complimentary.
And that was that- less than ten minutes of surgery to hobble my mighty life giving organ. Blood geysered into my head, my brain seemed to swell and pressure the integrity of my skull. I think my pants were still around my thighs and my somnambulant cock and balls hung broken, when I stumbled through the door into the waiting room and screamed, ‘I’VE CHANGED MY MIND’.