Personal experiences

John #2's experience - added 1st December 2000
"A message to the ladies" or "It's a guy type thing"

Note to Webmaster - This was originally written as a rant posted at the realmofredheads.com but it will fit in with your site, I think, and I am glad to have read other stories like mine!

"Just a Little Snip" My Ass!!!

Warning: this one is graphic. Kids, if you are reading this, hop to Quake or Tomb Raider the moment you think your parents are looking over your shoulder.

(Foreword: As a member of the Realm I have spent a lot of time on the UBB. I consistently admire the support system created by so many women willing to share their own very personal experiences to assure others that they are not alone. Yet sometimes I feel like I've crept downstairs after bedtime on a Saturday night and found a hiding spot where I could eavesdrop on my sister's sleepover, listening in awe and horror to everything that is said. Since there is so much "girl-talk" that we few guys are tuning in on I thought I would do a rant that gave a perspective on a very personal "guy" issue. If it's a very personal guy issue and you've guessed it deals with "da woiks," you've guessed right. And believe me, this is probably the only way you'll see this kind of thing discussed by a guy in the Realm, because hell will freeze over before any male will post a UBB thread along these lines: "Hey, I"ve noticed that one of my nuts is bigger than the other. What the fuck? I showed it to my wife and she was instantly ROFL. I'm kinda concerned though. Any of you guys have any weird things happen to your balls?")

"The time has come,"
The Walrus said
"To talk of many things.
Of shoes and ships
And sealing-wax,
Of cutting testicular strings."

The Argument

Just what the hell is it about people, non-males, to be exact, that they have such a smug misconceptions and preconceptions about vasectomies and pain? I don't know how many times I've heard women say, "Oh it's just a little snip, hardly anything compared to what I would have to go through for the same result."

All right. I'm not a Neanderthal. I'm not gonna bellow some beer-gut powered guyism telling women to shaddap. I realize that when it comes to surgical solutions to birth control the differences between the male and female procedures are as vast as the difference between a line drawn on the beach with a stick and the engineering challenges faced during the creation of the Panama Canal. All it takes is one look to see that ease of access makes all the difference.

I'm also aware that as far as pain goes, women are physiologically designed to bear more pain with more ease than most men can, because in life they probably WILL have to bear the greater pain.

Yet if I say, geez, last week my wife misunderstood some crack I made and she hoofed me in the nuts, and the pain was excruciating, don't laugh it off with a "Yeah well, TRY GIVING BIRTH SOMEDAY ASSHOLE!!!" It's an unreasonable comparison. I don't have the physical equipment to even begin to understand what pain bearing a child would cause and likewise, women simply have no conception of the stomach-turning things-are-getting-black-around-the-edges oh-sweet-fuck-I-think-I'm-gonna-die! pain that can be caused by a playful wallop to the gonads, a pain which increases exponentially if said whack is delivered via baby shoes.

Yet in writing off the potential discomfort of a vasectomy a lot of women act as if men have no right to say that something really hurt. And believe me-

The Impetus

Suzy and I had talked a long time about the whole kids thing, and we both came to the same conclusion, that we didn't want any. Our reasons are ours, and we don't think that people who want kids are wrong, but the idea just wasn't for us.

For a quite some time I'd been aware, with what limited knowledge I have of female internal geography, that the pill was messing with my wife, and it was scaring me. Aside from more chemicals in different forms (ummm, no) or condoms (to hell with playing the odds, with my luck one of my eager little sperm would be the one in 999,999,999 that somehow makes it past the latex barrier) or abstinence (ha-ha-heh-heh-heh-hoo-boy!) the only alternative was surgery.

Now I must admit that the thought of some guy standing over my exposed ball-sack with a knife in his hand here in Earthquake Country was enough to give me nightmares. Nightmares that I could shrug off. What I couldn't shrug off were the thoughts of all the things that could go wrong if it was my wife flat out on an operating table, unconscious, waiting for some man or woman to cut deep inside her. It was that thought that made me arrange to talk to a doctor about a vasectomy.

The Beginning

I went to the office for the preliminary appointment. All the staff in the office were women. Young women. Women younger than me. Christ, they were just girls. Had to be. Volunteers, trying to get an extra high school credit. Now, I know they would say that they spend all day discussing Mr. So-and-So's urinary tract infection and old Mr. X's truss problems and John Doe's sperm samples, but they hadn't discussed mine. I was uncomfortable. Hell, I'm the kind of guy who still has a problem buying condoms at Walgreens if the checkout clerks are all girls. In fact, after my "procedure" -and yes, saying that made me feel like an old man- when I was in the six-week long UNCONFIRMED phase it was Suzy who finally said, "Oh, for fuck sake" and bought the condoms. So here I am, making arrangements to put my balls on the chopping block and I have to do it through children! Jeez!

When I eventually talked to the urologist I felt better. I'm going to go on record here sounding like a complete redneck asswipe but, hey, I've always had the best treatment under the hands of Jewish doctors (just like I've always preferred that Italian guys cut my hair. If that makes me eligible for the KKK, what the fuck ever). Years ago there was Dr. Finestone, who spoke little during a physical and snapped instruments in and out of my field of vision like a magician doing tricks. Now here I was speaking with Dr. Sharlip and feeling much more at ease than I thought I would. He explained the operation, the risks, the benefits, handed me a bunch of brochures (with the kind of big lettering and cheapo illustrations that somehow reminded me of those short little educational cartoons on Sesame Street) and I left the examination room, making an appointment for the awful deed on my way out the door.

((Rant Detour - The Sperm sample))

I had to give a number of samples during the course of this ordeal. The first was the most memorable. It was a control sample I guess (the "before" in the before and after comparison), to be delivered before I went under the knife. At the reception desk they gave me a little jar to take home. They also said, "You can do it right here. The men's room is just down the hall." Now I had all these barely-out-of-puberty-for-chrissake GIRLS staring at me. "No," said, thinking of the monstrous effort of concentration it would require to walk down the hall and ignore the fact that all of those CHILDREN would know EXACTLY what I was doing behind the door with the little man on it. "I'll be back."

At home I read the brochure. No, I didn't need a brochure to coax the sample into existence, smartass, I mean the brochure telling me how to handle to sample. It said, in plain English, "The sample can be delivered to your doctor for analysis up to twelve-hours afterward." Okay, I thought. Fine. After all, I reasoned, they're only counting heads, aren't they? Dead or alive, who cares? The next morning I got the sample. Hell, it was the only requirement so far that had been any fun. I screwed the lid onto the jar, tossed it into my backpack, and went to work. At the end of the day I stopped off at the doctor's office. Faced the girls again. The waiting room was full of people. All sexes, all ages. I leaned over the counter and discreetly eased the sample from my backpack.

"I have the sample" I whispered like a spy a LeCarre novel.

"Name?" I told my name.

"Doctor?" I named my doctor.

"Procedure?" "Vah-sec-toh-mee," I hissed.

"How many hours ago was the sample obtained?" "About ten."

"WHAT? DID YOU JUST SAY THE SPERM SAMPLE YOU ARE HOLDING WAS OBTAINED TEN HOURS AGO?"

"Well, I-"

"TEN HOURS IS TOO LONG! WE CAN"T ACCEPT THAT!"

"But the brochure said-"

"NO! NO! THE SAMPLE HAS TO BE FRESH! IT CANNOT BE MORE THAN TWO HOURS OLD! NOW GO AND PROVIDE US WITH A FRESH ONE!"

"-okay." My face was so red. I now looked like some kind of emergency landing beacon for aircraft. "Can I have another jar, this one-"

"HERE IS YOUR FRESH RECEPTACLE!"

"And, uh, I don't need this old one, either-"

"WE CAN DISPOSE OF THE OLD SAMPLE. THANK YOU."

I turned around, wanting to get the hell out of there. The entire waiting room was full of sniggering strangers. I could understand the guys who were getting all chucklacious, but the women? What the fuck? Here I was going through a really embarrassing time just so my wife wouldn't have to take any chances with her health, hell, with her life, and these women, who should be so lucky that their guy might care as much, are laughing at me? FUCK! I went from mortified to fucking enraged in .5 seconds. How fucking dare they laugh at me! I read the brochure, got the wrong info, spent all goddamn day carrying a son-of-a-bitching cumshot around in a little plastic jar, was humiliated in front of everyone and yet still pushing on toward the dreaded Day of the Knife, and now I was a source of their dry little chortles? I didn't say anything. I just glared. The Redhead on the Verge of Carnage Glare. We've all used it once or twice.

A few people lurched under my glare, and those seated near the door leaned away from me as I left the room. The next day, I brought a fresh sample.

((End of Detour - Back to Rant))

The Ordeal

I planned to get the surgery done on a Friday morning. The coming Monday was a national holiday, so I would have four days to get over the surgery. All of the literature I had read, and everything I had heard from sources like a friend of a friend, implied that if a guy got a vasectomy done on a Friday, sometimes as early as Sunday afternoon he could be out "walking the dog or even bicycling!" Being something of a sucker, I believed these untruths.

When the day arrived I was almost immobilized with horror. I took the bus to Dr. Sharlip's office, my mind filled with questions-

What if he develops epilepsy and has a seizure?

What if halfway through he mutters "Okay, what"s next"?

What if he has an assistant - and she one of those girls - christ it's a local - I couldn't just sit there exposed like that - they have to shave certain bits, so what's he gonna use - some high - tech device or an old razor?

What if I get an erection when he's shifting things into position down there, christ, sometimes those things come up from the depths at the worst times - they say, bring extra underwear to wear home because there will be a little bleeding - bleeding! - and they say make the underwear extra-large in case there is swelling - swelling, jesus!

How can I look at Sharlip's file and make sure it only says "vasectomy" and not "castration" without offending him?

Outside the building I paced and smoked about five cigarettes. Entering the office I tried to act cool. Sat down. Browsed the magazines. Tried not to jump out of my chair when they called my name. Time flew. Soon I was lying on the little operating table wearing nothing but shirt and socks and staring at the ceiling as the doctor held my dick out of the way like an annoying lock of hair and smeared what seemed to be a limitless supply of ice-cold iodine or whatever on a fear-clenched scrotum now approximately the size and firmness of a walnut. Then a quick shave. I don't know if he used a two-year old Bic razor from the shower floor of his health club, or a rock, or his goddamned teeth, but it was a pretty intense exercise. Through all of this I stared at the door to this little room. The door had no lock. I marveled over the fact. That fucking door has no fucking lock. What if one of the children from the reception area suddenly breezed in and said, "Hey Doc, you forgot blah-blah-blah." I'd fucking die, that's what.

Sharlip spread one of those sanitary coverings over me, the one with the cutout over the target area. I looked down and saw him holding a hypodermic. Suddenly my mind convulsed. Needle!!! Testicles!!! NEEDLE!!! TESTICLES!!!

"Now try to hold still" Sharlip said, lowering the syringe. "This may sting a bit and create a slight sensation of pressure."

A moment later I would think, YOU LYING MOTHERFUCKER!!!

The needle went in.

Pinch.

Pressure.

"Uh-hum." I cleared my throat.

More pressure, like sitting the wrong way in tight jeans and giving one of the guys an uncomfortable squeeze.

More pressure. Now it was at the "cute girl sitting in your lap and gently crushing your left nut but how can you possibly complain when she"s so gosh-darned cute?" stage.

More pressure. My testicle was now in a padded, custom made vice and getting seriously squeezed. I started gripping the sides of the table.

"Nearly done," Sharlip said calmly. The pressure skyrocketed. I bit back about a thousand obscenities, but something sounding like "fuggingunt" slipped out.

Just as I was convinced that fifty percent of my masculinity was about to explode into a depressingly insignificant splatter on the doctor's white smock, the pressure eased. I sucked air, and felt sweat on my forehead. That, I thought, was the most intensely painful thing I've ever experienced intentionally.

"Okay," Sharlip said, smiling and still holding the needle. "Let's just do the other one, shall we?" The other one? OH, FUCK!

About halfway through this second ball-crushing wave of pain I distinctly remember grunting, "Symmetry sucks!" It made the doctor grin. After that, the actual operation was pretty painless, although there was this horrible- tugging- sensation as he gathered and severed tiny tubes. It was as if he were gently pulling tiny strings anchored deep in my guts. Instead of actually stitching anything at this point, the severed ends of the vas deferens were cauterized and that, in a word, was disgusting. I say you haven't really lived until you have literally smelled a part of your body cooking.

After the stir-fry everything was tucked back in place and the doc made a few stitches in the old scrote. Then he bandaged me up, using about a thousand feet of gauze, and let me get dressed. I was still full of pain killers, so aside from walking like an orangutan because of the bulky bandages, I made it to the cab okay, promising that I would provide another sperm sample in six weeks or so to make sure the whole thing took.

When I got home, I urinated. No pain, no blood. Although, there was a moment of sheer panic when, having to REALLY go, I didn't think I was going to be able to free my joint from Dr. Sharlip's intricate gauze dressings in time.

I was glad the doctor had sent me home with a large supply of painkillers, because by late Friday afternoon I was beginning to feel remarkably uncomfortable. Soon enough, even when halfway to stoned on those football-shaped pills, I still felt absolute agony whenever I moved. Serious drama played on the TV. No comedy, please. A belly laugh would have done me in.

The Unveiling

I was told that by Sunday I could have a shower. No bath, just a quick shower. I locked myself in the bathroom and just happened to be in front of the mirror as I unwrapped the incredibly bulky bandages. Apparently the thousand feet of gauze now comprised only part of the bulk between my legs.

Suzy must have been passing by as I whispered, "Holy FUCK!" She tapped on the door and asked me if I was okay. "Wanna see something scary?" I asked. "No," she said, but being Suzy her curiosity made her come into the bathroom anyway. She looked and looked. Then she said, in a really small voice, "Oh my God!"

I'd been told many times to expect SOME pain, SOME swelling, and SOME bruising. I had not been told that my scrotum would swell up and blacken and look remarkably like A FUCKING EGGPLANT! I HAD A FUCKING EGGPLANT FOR A SCROTUM! IT WAS BIGGER THAN BOTH FISTS HELD TOGETHER! IT WAS DARKER THAN THE DARKEST BRUISE ANY REDHEAD EVER GOT! IT WAS LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF A HORROR MOVIE!

The Aftermath

After seeing that, all that followed was incidental. The pain lasted into the following week, even after the painkillers were gone. I was told, "Oh, that's normal too." In fact, for over a month afterward I had to be very careful not to move too quickly because little twinges were still zapping me. I also had to be cautious whenever our cats went bonkers and started to dart around the room and bounce off the walls. Cats aren't very big, but even the smallest of them using my tormented scrotum as a launching pad for the next magnificent leap would have put me through the roof. The swelling subsided, but the ugly bruising lasted a couple of weeks too.

The entire ordeal was hideous. Hideous.

The Appeal

So, Ladies of the Realm, please, the next time you hear a woman try to dismiss a vasectomy as a minor inconvenience, please try to remember that pain, like all things, is relative. I'll never give birth. But I have gone to the limits of intentionally inflicted pain, and I have not enjoyed the ride. And Gentlemen of the Realm, if you ever decide to get a vasectomy, do it for love, cause that's the only way you'll get through it. When the pain comes, keep saying, "I did it for her- I did it for her-" until it goes away again. Try saying "I did it for me- I did it for me-" and you'll be surprised how fast you find yourself saying, "Oh you asshole, you moron, you fuckup-"

John