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My Vasectomy


In 1988, 2 years after the birth of our third and final child, Wendy decided that it was my turn to "feel the pain", so we booked up for a vasectomy for me. In those days the NHS queue was 9 months long, so I got it done privately. The same surgeon just different premises. HOW different became apparent when we got there, but I'll come back to that.

The huge cost of the op was a real concern in those days - 99 was a lot of money for us at that point. As I was basically squeamish anyway, I phoned up and announced to Wendy that we couldn't afford it and she should cancel the appointment.

When I got home that evening, I asked if she'd cancelled ok.

"What? Why not?".
"I have the money".
"Where from?", said I, with visions of blushes the next time I went into the Bank.
"I sold your car"
"I sold your car. We now have enough money for the vasectomy".

So that was that. Never argue with a woman with money in one hand and a knife in the other.

The next morning, Wendy drove me to the premises, which turned out to be a Dental Surgery in Camberley. My mind boggled. Wendy joked that I'd have to lie upside-down in the dentists chair whilst he wielded a fizzing drill.

As she dragged me in, I was white with terror and apprehension. We went and sat in the waiting room, which was shared with Dental patients. I occupied myself trying to guess which of the blokes there were there for the same reason as me.

My name was called and, with Wendy, I went in and met the Surgeon and his Nurse. My extensive counselling followed:
"Have you got the money?"
"Well give it here and off we'll jolly well go."

Wendy left the room and I climbed aboard a Dentists chair, with my trousers and pants at half mast with a large paper towel with a large hole in the middle draped appropriately on me. Whilst this was going on the Nurse had left the room to get something and the Surgeon confided he had chosen the ugliest Nurse available to avoid "embarrasing incidents".

When the deed was done (and I didn't eat spaghetti for a few days, I can tell you) I was still comfotably numb and I left with Wendy, saying "Well that didn't hurt much". I was so relaxed that we stopped off at a friends house for a cuppa and a chat. 45 minutes later I became aware that my genitals had caught fire. Obviously the anaesthetic had worn off, I thought. Then the pain became worse and I started to get out of the armchair I was in and fell over as the acid burnt into my pelvic area.

"Can we go home, please?"
"Because I don't want to cry in front of Elaine"
"Oh, ok".

So we went home and I took copious amounts of asprin and, that evening, a single malt.

The next day I was much better of course and I have to say that normal service was resumed within a couple of days.

Wendy has always said that the funniest thing was to watch the muticoloured bruising that resulted, which took two weeks to disappear, going through all the colours of the rainbow (or so it seemed).

Still, it worked, that's what's important. I recommend it to any man. Just don't think it won't hurt.

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