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Effortlessly Average

Sort of half-heartedly leading the charge into mediocrity since, oh, let's say around 1987 or so.

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Location: Roaming (additional charges may apply), Argentina

Proof that with internet access and a powerful laxative, even insipid people will blog; the place where your excellence and my mediocrity collide; where my Karma whips ass on your dogma.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

That's Not A Frog in My Throat

I've always believed that there's no such thing as a "bad" word, only inappropriate times in which to use it. Even the most crass words carry a cetain relevance to certain situations. The key is to gauge the situation and the appropriateness. For example, when you and your spouse are in the throws of passion, reciting your grocery list or moaning the name of an ex-lover is arguably not an appropriate situation for those particular words.

Let me give you an example from my own past. I have two kids and I truly love them. That's a given: they provide an immense feeling of fulfillment and I haven't had to take out the trash since they grew old enough to carry without falling over. Having kids, though, has its sacrifices. For example, sex on the living room floor now requires advance planning. Now that the naughty spawn are in the house, intimate moments occur at the end of the day -in the sanctuary of the bedroom- and less often on the staircase or on the kitchen counter (don't worry; I wiped it off afterwards). Not to mention those videos Mrs. EA and I recorded following the purchase of our first camcorder now have to be hidden in the back of the closet in that box marked "tax returns."

But I digress. I do that a lot.

One night I was lying in bed at the end of the day, reading. The Puffinator and FlyBoy were tucked snugly into bed. Mrs. EA was in the bathroom doing whatever it is you women do that mandate a 1/2 hour bathroom reservation each night. When she finally emerged I was shocked to see that she had diverged from her typical sleep uniform and was instead coming to bed entirely naked.

I only mention this to underscore when I realized that some words should not be used when a husband is gazing upon the amazing figure of his wife's naked body. As Mrs. EA peeled back the covers, she said, "hey, let me ask you a question. How against the idea of a vasectomy would you be?"

That's when I also learned that just because your wife comes to bed naked does not mean you're about to have wild monkey sex, but that's neither here nor there.

"Well I don't know, hon. Isn't there a nail I could drive through my skull instead?"

Now don't get me wrong. I completely understoon her motives to have me fixed. Since FlyBoy was born she had been struggling to find a birth control prescription that didn't make her nausious. She had grown so tired of being sick to her stomach that she was toying with the idea of stopping taking them altogether. However, as we're not part of the Mel Gibson school of thought, having 14 kids didn't seem to be an acceptable trade off. That leaves only a handful of alternatives: diaphram (too unreliable and besides, a recent conversation revealed that neither of us knows how to apply one), rhythm (also too unreliable), abstinence (no. Just, no.), condoms (what, am I in high school again?), or... someone gets fixed.

Or course I'd heard all the arguments for and against surgical birth control methods (expense, recovery, reversal, etc.), so it's not that I was totally against the idea of a vasectomy, but then again I it wasn't the one whoo didn't want more kids. So I wasn't sure why I had to do the snipping. But, I was committed to Mrs. EA for life, so if she didn't want more, I wouldn't be having more; that's just the way it was going to be. My problem was with the unknowns.

For several days I mulled cross-legged over the possibilities, both real and imaginary. Would it affect my ability to perform? Would there be a noticeable change in quantity? Do they remove my balls entirely, like when I had my dog neutered? Would Bob Barker perform the surgery? And if my balls were left behind, what would happen to my "guys"? Did my body stop producing them or would they just sit there forever, like being in a little sperm prison? Could I get myself pregnant? Would my sperm just roam around my body, searching for something to fertilize? Would that make me gay?

I agreed to visit a urologist on a fact-finding mission. I was uneasy, because I couldn't help thinking that it just couldn't be a good idea to tinker with something that not only worked perfectly well thankyouverymuch but occupies such a big part of a guy's life.

The doctor made every effort to be candid and realistic. No, they do not remove the testicles, only permanently block the sperm superhighway. No, there would be no difference in quantity or quality. In fact, he said, the only way to know there was a difference at all was by using a microscope. No, a vasectomy does not inhibit performance. Many men, he said, actually claim sex is better after "the procedure." And yes, my body would continue to produce sperm, they just wouldn't be able to exit my body - and enter hers - during orgasm.

Wait a minute. You mean they will stay inside me?

I had images of releasing my manly army into a strange land - my body - that was never intended to support them. Like dropping FlyBoy off at a Pottery Barn or leaving Mrs. EA in the hardware section at Sears. I couldn't help but feel badly for my little tadpoles. I mean, they're merely doing what nature designed them to do: swim for all their lives in what would henceforth be a fruitless quest to find something that just isn't going to be there anymore. I could imagine them leaning against an organ somewhere in my body, exhausted and confused. "Dammit, is the egg supposed to be this fucking far?" they'd be wondering. Swallowing their manly pride, they'd be forced to stop a passing cell, "Sorry to disturb you, but can you help? We're REALLY lost."

Of course women told me that having the sperm remain inside me was no different than the egg staying inside the woman, but I counter that the egg is supposed to be inside them. It's not designed to leave her until it's replicated itself about a billion times into something that will wreck your car when it's 16 and/or date the guy that reminds you most of yourself, the horny little fucker. But a guy's guys are different: they're sole purpose is to leave home on a quest for the holy grail. Imagining that they'd instead be roaming around inside me felt somehow... weird.

In the end, economics won the day because in another of those beautiful corporate inconsistencies, a vasectomy would be covered under my medical plan, meaning my total out of pocket expense would be my $5 co-pay. To have Mrs. EA sterilized would cost into the thousands of dollars and wouldn't be covered under my medical plan at all. Plus, I'd been told that my procedure was no more invasive than having a cavity filled whereas for Mrs. EA it would require hospitalization.

In an effort to lay finger to the scales in favor of my immaculization (new word! new word!), Mrs. EA resorted to a little bribery. She said that her not having to take her pills would make her not only more likley to enjoy sex, but want to have sex a lot more frequently. "Well alrighty th- wait. You mean you don't enjoy it now?!"

Before leaving the doctor's office, we scheduled my date with the devil. I spent the next two weeks hoping I wasn't a traitor to the Nation of Manhood by having my ability to reproduce ended. I couldn't help but wonder Will my voice change? Will "it" stop working? Will I suddenly like Clay Aiken and develop a desire to watch E! Entertainment?

I don't recall what I thought about the actual procedure, but speaking from a general opinion on all things medical, I suspect I wanted it to be clinical, professional, and sterile. I presumed I'd go in, they'd give me a local and -BLIP- I'd be home an hour later watching football with a frosty tall Dr. Pepper in hand.

The reality couldn't have been in greater contrast.

I don't know if you other men contemplating The Procedure are like me, but if you are you want your nurse to look like this:

Or, better still, this:

You want her to be matronly, like a grandmother. You want her to call you "dear." You want her to offer you cookies and pat your shoulder in an effort to communicate to you that she empathizes with your situation. From what I'd seen during the consult, I further presumed that I would get a nurse who fit the bill.

After a brief stint in the waiting room, where all the men had looks of near panic and all the women a look of smug victory, the admitting nurse (who reminded me of Barbara Bush) escorted me back to the procedure room. She opened the door, motioned me toward the exam table, told me to disrobe from the waist down and that someone would be in shortly to prep me, then the doctor would come take care of the actual business. No "dear" or cookie, but still, so far, so good. Clinical. Professional. Perfect, just business as usual.

I disrobed and sat there on the exam table for several minutes, exposed to the world. They hadn't even given me one of those sexy paper smocks with which to cover myself. Minutes passed. The only sound was the paper tablecloth crinkling under my ass whenever I shifted my weight. While things to this point had gone very well, I was still anxious. Not in the good way, either; like when you're about to go on vacation or get a blowjob, but in the nervous I-think-my-wife-just-caught-me-searching-for-circus-porn kind of way. There was a part of me that expected to hear the torturous wails of other men being emasculated in the building, like sitting in your cell listening to others on the rack or being boiled in oil.

I listened hard. Nothing. Hmph.

Still, that wasn't proof that the screams weren't happening, only that the walls may be sound proof.

The door opened, the prep nurse enteredm, and my eyes widened in horror. Suddenly I was aware of every single flaw on my body, in my personality, and of my very soul itself. I did a mental check that I'd combed my hair and brushed my teeth before leaving home. I covertly checked that my fingernails and toenails were neatly trimmed and clean. My posture immediately improved, my chest suddenly became larger and my gut smaller. What walked through that door was not the grandmotherly old lady I had seen before. No, this nurse looked closer to this:

Or this:

And here I was, sitting on a vinyl table, my manhood exposed, and my self-esteem beginning to crack and crinkle like the paper under my suddenly sweating ass. I suddenly wished I'd started that workout program that year and why in God's name had I not gotten more sun over the summer?

For a brief moment I had an image that I was being punked, that somewhere in the office Ashton Kutcher and the office workers were crowded around a small screen watching my reaction to being prepped for a vasectomy by a woman who looked for all the world like she could give a dead man an erection.

"How are you doing today?" she chirped in a voice that said she sees naked men every day, all day.

"Fine" I replied, trying to act like my sitting naked in front of smoking hot strangers was something I did every day.

"Good. My name is Nurse Hottie [not her real name]. I'm going to prep you for your vasectomy. Go ahead and lie back on the table and relax. I'll be with you in a moment."

She walked past me on her way to the the counter across the room and started pulling torture implements from the various drawers. I could swear I heard her humming "These boots are made for walkin'" to herself.

I lay back and stared at the ceiling. Hey, are those sound-proof tiles? After a moment of bustling around at the counter, Nurse Hottie approached the table on which I was lying, opened a drawer underneath, and pulled out a pair of long, stainless steel arms that looked strangely like something you could place your feet... WAIT ONE FUCKING SECOND! ARE THOSE...?!

"Heh heh, you know those look like stirrups." I joked.

"They are. And you're not going to get one ounce of sympathy from me on having to stick your legs in them. Not until you're someone who has to do it every year of your life."

Oh crap, an indefensible position. Best to just go along with it. Yeah, I hear all you women out there cheering for Nurse Hottie. But I also see all you men out there, shaking your head and muttering "duuude... that sucks." But let's stay focussed here; this is MY private hell I'm exposing after all.

Nurse Hottie slid the stirrups into their slots with a metallic click. A maniacal laugh escaped her throat as she patted the stirrups and purred "Ok, just put your legs riiight up here."

I felt like the spider's prey suddenly. Nevertheless I complied, spreading my legs so Nurse Hottie could get the most complete, unobstructed view of what only 162 other women have ever seen before; 36 if you only count those who wanted to. I never wished more that I had some African American in my lineage somewhere. I mean, no man will deny that he'd love to have the kind of package that makes a woman gasp when she sees it, even if he knows it's really not of much use otherwise.

But sadly, that's not me. Apparently that gene escaped my pool, making me average in yet another way. And why the hell did it have to be so cold in that room? Still, if Nurse Hottie had an opinion one way or the other, she didn't let on.

Hmm, is that bad? I thought. Is her non-reaction a statement in itself? Not that I expected her to gasp but it would have been nice for her to pause a moment, or sneak a second glance. Even raise her eyebrows in silent appreciation. Something. I may be no Peter North, but still, I've been told the shape is good. I felt not unlike that heterosexual guy who gets a little offended that a gay guy doesn't find him attractive.

Nurse Hottie strapped my ankles down and returned to the counter, where she pulled out a razor and a tube of what looked like toothpaste. I eyed her warily.

"Ok, I'm just going to shave you."

Really? Hey, that sounds pretty hot actually.

"How will my having a smooth face help?"

"I mean locally" she replied.

"As opposed to shaving me from Dallas?"

She giggled. A dusky, throaty sound. Good, I thought, she has a sense of humor.

"No, I mean around the area where the doctor will be working," she giggled.

Yeah? And will you massage it with moisturizer afterwards?

She applied some of whatever was in the tube and used the razor to shave a small patch on each of my boys.

My thoughts immediately wandered. Damn, that feels pretty damned nice. I wonder if I could get Mrs. EA to do this.

Nurse Hottie finished my ritual shave, then pulled a roll of duct tape from the drawer. She tore several strips free, then she began, you know, fondling me, all the time explaining that she was getting me in the "right position" for the procedure.

As I lay there staring up at the sound-proofed ceiling I had to admit that so far this wasn't so bad. My mind created fantasies like China pumps out cheap goods, most involving Nurse Hottie (who clearly dressed in skin-tight lycra and fought crime at night) and a group of scantily-clad Playboy Bunnies.

I suddenly became aware that my whimical fantasies involving Nurse Hottie and her Playboy lesbian friends was having a, shall we say, noticable physical effect. And it didn't help that at that very moment Nurse Hottie had her long, soft fingers all over my unit, "positioning" me.

I tried to calm myself. Just breath deeply big guy. Think of something else. Baseball, work, something, anything.

But all my brain could do was think of Nurse Hottie suddenly saying "ooh, apparently you like me... let me see if I can make this the best doctor's visit you've ever had." At which point in my fantasy her hands were replaced by her lips. But instead of using my perfectly good erection as it was intended, Nurse Hottie began strapping it to my stomach with about six yards of duct tape.

Maybe she heard my deep breathing or saw the look of concentration on my face as I tried -and failed- to keep from looking like a 13 year-old boy who just saw the underwear section of the JC Penney catelog, because her hands stopped taping.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

"What? Yeah; although normally I have to buy dinner and a movie before I qualify for this kind of treatment."

She laughed again, genuinely amused. Ok, change the subject, I thought.

"So," I said, "someone told me men having this done are given valium or something to calm them down. Is that true?"

"Are you feeling panicked?" she asked, looking at me with those smoldering eyes.

"No. I was just curious." I couldn't tell her I was only talking to keep from getting an erection right there in her hands, even though I can't imagine I'd have been the first.

"Oh, well let me know if you do. Still, we don't generally do that anymore. The truth is that it doesn't really help. Either you're going to pass out or you're not. But we keep you lying down for safety."

"Lucky me. So how often do guys pass out?"

"Oh, about half the time" she said casually as she returned to the counter. "Maybe a bit less."

What the fuck!!?? HALF?! I started to wonder if the "quick and painless" impression of this procedure was in error. I mean, what could be so bad that half the guys would pass out?

Nurse Hottie returned to her position between my legs. In her hand was a spray bottle containing a rust colored - and very cold - liquid, which she began spraying liberally all over my general man region, including the trunk, like she was spritzing a plant or preparing to wash a particularly filthy window.

"This is disinfectant. Make sure you don't touch where I'm spraying until after the doctor's done, ok?"

Oh sure, that's like telling someone not to think about their feet. As soon as you say it, that's all you can think about. And of course now that she had told me not to touch the sprayed area, even to scratch, all I could do was make myself itch anywhere the liquid had been sprayed. The cold liquid formed drops that ran slowly down my skin, amplifying the itching. And lucky me, my erection deflated, causing the shrinking skin to pull against the tape holding it in place.

Another round trip to the counter, this time to retrieve what looked like a long, metal spatula with an electrical cord attached to the end of the handle. Are we having burgers?

"Now I'm going to ground you."

My lips let escape a word that started with "F" and ended in "K" and was usually followed by an exlamation point, then added:

"GROUND ME?! You mean as in ELECTRICITY? That kind of ground?! You are aware I'm not here for behavior modification right?" I may have been a little excited at this point.

What kind of quack torture chamber is this?! I conjured images of Nurse Hottie and the doc sterilizing me by touching live jumper cables to my nuts.

"Hahaha, look at his squirm! Shock him again, Doc!"

"Anything you want Nurse Hottie!" -DDZZZZAAAAP!!- "Muahahahaha, I just love doing this! When we're done his testicles will never work again!" -DDZZZAP!-

"Yes, Master" would be Nurse Hottie's reply.

Nurse Hottie pulled me from my daydream with another sultry, intoxicating laugh.

"You're really funny. Most men in your position don't find a lot of humor in the situation."

"It's a gift and a curse. Still, it helped me pick up women in college."

"I'll just bet it did," she said as she slid the ice cold spatula under my bare butt. "Anyway, we're going to use electricity to cauterize the vessel endings. It speeds recovery and is less messy. So you have to be grounded. Don't worry, it's a very low charge."

I imagined Nurse Hottie and the Doc in their pre-procedure meeting.

"Go, Nurse Hottie, I need brains! Go get me braaaaiins!"

And Nurse Hottie would shuffle off toward my exam room door, grasping her crippled leg, saying in a voice reminiscent of Renfield "yeesss, master."

"Low charge huh? Why do I have the sudden urge to call you 'Mistress?' "

"That's 'Nurse Mistress' to you."

This time it was my turn to laugh. "So. Any chance of reverse current?"

"No. Like I said, it's a very low charge."

Then why the fuck do I need grounding? Huh? Answer me that! "Good thing, I... heh. I was going to say that's good because I wouldn't want to end up sterile, but I guess that's the point, isn't it?"

"Yeah, that is why you're here."

She finished fondling, taping, disinfecting, grounding, and giving me my very large dose of humility, then Nurse Hottie said "Ok, you're all ready. Just hang out here for a moment and Dr. Frankenstein [not his real name] will be in shortly."

"Well, unless I suddenly develop the ability to lift myself up using only my ankles, I don't think I'm going anywhere. Just promise me that if there's a sudden need to evacuate, someone will be sure to come release me. I don't want firefighters to find my charred body still taped and strapped naked on this table."

Her smile hit me like shock of lightning. Not a big shock, mind you; more like one of those little shocks you get from touching the doorknob after walking through the house in your socks. "No problem," she said. " Good luck."

My casual, cool veneer was beginning to show signs of stress fractures. What? 'Good luck?' Is 'luck' something I'm going to need? I've heard it said that the worst part of any unpleasant experience is knowing it's coming and waiting for it to arrive. After that day I can say without pause that whoever said that is totally fucking wrong. The actual experience is WAY worse than the anticipation.

I lay there looking like some kinky sex experiment gone horribly wrong. My legs high and wide, my testicles shaved bald, my penis strapped to my stomach like the wing of a two-bit post WWII era airliner, and the whole area coated with a sickly brownish-yellow liquid that looked not unlike someone with diarrhea and no bowel control. Perfect. Now all I need is a class of grade-schoolers on tour to accidentally open the wrong door.

Speaking of the door...

I looked down between my legs to the door on the other side of the room and noticed that Nurse Hottie hadn't fully closed it when she left. Just. Perfect. Anyone who bothered to look at the door as they walked by would see me in all my glory. If this were a dream it would be worse than that one where you look down during algebra class to realize that you forgot to wear pants when you left the house that morning.

A lifetime passed. Or maybe ten minutes. Time was relative in my condition.

Finally Dr. Frankenstein made an appearance. I can only guess that this delay was due to the time it took him to regain his composure following Nurse Hottie's report to him about the condition in which she'd left me. I guess you have to get your laughs somehow when you're a guy who plays with men's balls all day long.

"So, how are we doing today?" he asked as Nurse Hottie entered behind him and wheeled a tray of surgical tools over to my 'hot area.'

"Well Doc, feeling a little vulnerable, honestly" I replied.

"Heh heh, yeah well, just relax and we'll get you out of here stat." He actually said that: stat.

He reviewed some chart clipped to one of those metal clipboards while he talked to me. Then he scribbled something on the form and said, "ok, this is your last chance to back out."

You mean that was an option? My mind worked out how I could do this and not let Mrs. EA know I'd not gone through with it. In the end, though, I gathered that her getting pregnant would be proof enough that I was still "armed" and I'd just end up here again.

"No. Damn the torpedoes, Doc; full speed ahead."

"Ok, it'll be over soon." Then he proceeded to tell me what he was going to be doing, I guess thinking that my knowing would put my mind at ease. But kept saying it like it was a group effort. "What we're going to be doing is severing the vas..." blah blah blah I half expected him to whip out some kind of PowerPoint presentation.

"In order to do this," he continued "we're going to give you a local and make a small incision in the skin of each testicle, then we'll reach up and pinch the vas to pull it down so we can sever it. Finally, we'll cauterize the ends. A couple stitches and we'll be done. Ready?"

"I'm ready. I just hope we have steady hands."

"Don't worry, 'we' do. Nurse Hottie said you were a funny guy."

Nurse Hottie was talking about me? Apparently even in my current state, an ego stroke from a smoking hot nurse is enough to swell your head. If it hadn't been strapped down with enough tape to re-attach a fender to a 74 Ford pickup, I might have mustered enough excitement to come to attention and salute her.

"Ok, here we go. You'll feel a small prick" said Doctor Frankenstein.

"Small prick?" Just what are you insinuating, Doc? Don't make me come down there and smack that beak of yours right off your face.

He grabbed a syringe filled with some kind of silvery liquid that looked like the stuff that takes over Neo's body when he first exits the Matrix after he swallowed the blue pill. Or was it the red pill? Whatever. The needle, however, was a "needle" only in the same sense as a knitting needle is called a needle. It was blunt and about a 1/4 inch in diameter.

Doctor Frankenstein curled his lips into an evil, sadistic grin as he slowly lowered the so-called needle toward my now cowering testicles, which, having seen the needle's approach, were trying to retreat into my body like a turtle into its shell.

I couldn't see what he was actually doing, but I knew something was going on because suddenly my nuts started burning as if they were being injected with battery acid.

"AAAAAAHHHHH, HOLYGODINHEAVENTHATBURNS!"

"Hang on, almost done. Just wiggle your toes; that'll help with the burning sensation."

"WIGGLE MY TOES? WHAT KIND OF FUCKED UP ADVICE IS THAT?!" I seem to recall yelling. Although in retrospect I think I actually squeaked "mmkay" through gritted teeth even though, to me, that was like trying to cure a horse that's been hit by a car by giving it a flu shot.

I distinctly remember the acid ssllooowwwlllyyyy flowing through the veins of the region, like molasses in winter. My sperm were probably running from the invading liquid like those hapless victims in The Blob or the poor bastards not lucky enough to die immediately in Hiroshima. I shouted a silet apology to them: "I'm sorry boys! I didn't know! I'm soooorrryyyy!!!" Then I went thankfully numb, whether because the nerves were asleep or my nuts had just died, I couldn't be sure.

"You feel this?" Doctor Frankenstein asked.

Feel what? "No." But I couldn't help wondering what he did to test it. Did he flick my nuts with his finger? Poke me with the needle? Touch electrodes to my skin? Yank out a short, curly hair? Maybe I only didn't feel it because whatever he did paled in comparison to having lemon juice injected into my man berries. Either way, what if it hadn't been numb? Would I then get free hitsies?

"Ok, here we go with the incision." He grabbed what looked like a pair of really shiny needle-nosed pliers, except the ends opened when you squeezed the handle instead of closing. I caught a momentary glint of metal, the kind you see when two swordsmen square off for battle, then the sound of something puncturing my skin.

What does that sound like, you ask? Imagine punching a pencil through a cardboard box. Yeah, that's it.

"Now I'll position the vas." The doctor reached two fingers inside me and pinched the vas-whatever-it-is and pulled it down. A wave of pain shot through my body. Oh sure, the injection of super-heated mercury deadened the pain of the actual incision, but it did nothing to dull the sensation of this little treat.

Dr. Frankenstein lifted his feet, one at a time, up to the edge of the table to brace his legs and get as much leverage as possible. With a forceful tug backwards, he pulled on whatever he was pinching inside my nuts, leaning back and pressing with his legs like he was rowing crew. He let loose a low moan as he pulled, struggling against the effort and I felt my tongue being pulled backwards down my throat. I also distinctly heard someone let out a blood-curdling scream. Only when I had to breathe again did I realize it was me.

Huh; turns out I'm a screamer after all. Go figure.

"Hang on, EA! I've just got to get it into position!"

"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" [breath] "AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!"

Doctor Frankenstein grunted against the strain as he continued to lean back, locking his legs and digging in his heels like a tug-of-war anchor. "Just. A. Little. More!!"

"AAAHHHFUCKINGHOLYSHITMOTHERFUCKERAAAHHH!!!"

"Quick Nurse Hottie, hit him with the electrodes! Muahahahahaha!"

"Yeesss, Master."

"AAAAAHHH I'M LOSING MY WILL TO LIIIVE!!"

"Throw the third switch Nurse Igor!"

"Should I stop his screaming?"

"No one can hear him; the room's sound-proofed! hahaha" -deep breath- "a-HAHAHA!!"

"PLEASE HAVE MERCY KILL ME NOOOOWWWW!"

...

Eventually my soul returned from its out of body experience and I became aware that the doc had pulled several yards of my innards out through my testicles, which I guess is the desired amount, because he finally stopped tugging and tied whatever it was to a bar attached to the opposite wall. Then he returned to the table and reached for what looked like one of those hot irons children use in wood burning kits.

Nurse Hottie was standing just behind his left shoulder, cheering him on. "Be agressive, Doc; B-E-agressive!"

I lay there staring in horror at the carnage between my legs. Sometime during the previous five minutes I had jettisoned my ego, which now lay twitching and weeping in the far corner, wimpering "oh, the terror" reapeatedly to itself in a barely audible voice. Then I distinctly smelled smoke.

A closer look confirmed it- yes, there was actually smoke rising from between my legs. Dr. Frankenstein and Nurse Hottie stood there like this was totally normal. Having recalled more than one particularly vigorous sexual encounter from my past, I may have, under different circumstances, found a lot of humor in seeing smoke rising from my unit, but as it was all I could think about was the lawsuit I intended to file about 30 seconds after I had my spinal cord stuffed back inside the hole in my testicles.

I tried to control my breathing. My earlier anxiety over Nurse Hottie's free access to something only 42 previous women have ever seen (or was that 62?) had vanished. Now I fixated on not passing out or coughing and tearing my nuts loose from their anchor on the far wall. They were stretched so tightly that the sudden recoil could cut a man in half. Now I understood why they strapped my legs into the stirrups.

Hours passed. Maybe days. Doctor Frankenstein continued his terrible work. Nurse Hottie continued to watch from his shoulder, cheering him on. "Pull it out, cut it out, waaaay out!" I continued to permanently imprint my fingerprints on the metal bars of the exam table.

Finally, the doc shut off the chainsaw and returned the vice grips and bloody butter knife to the metal tray. Raising his welder's mask, he replied with satisfaction "Ok, that's one."

Using only my ankles, I stood up in the stirrups. "ONE?! That's just ONE you Satanic quack?! You mean 'one' as in, 'one more to go?'"

Doctor Frankenstein untied half of my innards from the bar. The recoil of them snapping back into my chest cavity via the crater in my scrotum pushed me back onto the table. "Yeah, one. We have to do the other side now."

"Oh for the love of... "

"Well, you can always leave and come back for the second one, but that means going through all this prep and process again."

Ok, granted, the idea of being prepped by Nurse Hottie again was strangely appealing, but I have a hard time believing I'd enjoy it as much the second time, knowing what was to follow. No, no amount of non-sexual pleasure is worth having my teeth flossed through my balls. And the sexual variety would depend on what kind we're talking.

"No, just go ahead and finish" I said. "I'm already half sterile and totally emasculated, so you might as well."

"Are you doing ok?" Nurse Hottie asked.

"Compared to what?!" Perhaps I was more than a little hysterical by that point.

Doctor Frankenstein began his tortures anew. I sweated, gritting my teeth. Nurse Hottie patted my leg. More tugging, more leverage, more shortening of the tongue, more smoke, cheering, and electrocution. In response to every agonizing wail that escaped my lungs, my ego let out a mournful wail from his fetal position in the corner. I could tell it was going to take much alcohol and a lot of time to heal his wounds.

Finally, after I'd renounced my faith, revealed every secret I knew, and confessed to every sin I'd ever committed, Doctor Frankenstat finished. It was over. I exhaled an exhaused sigh. The doctor shuffled out of the room, no doubt on his way to make another man regret enjoying sex with a woman who didn't want to take birth control pills.

Nurse Hottie removed the tape and swabbed some of the yellow dye off my skin. Then she gave me some instructions for post-care and suggested I spend the rest of the day with a bag of frozen peas in my lap. Yeah, nice metaphor. I get to spend the day staring down at a bag of tiny, cold, shriveled orbs that would now represent how my nuts felt.

"Oh, and no sex until you're cleared by the doctor at your follow up."

Yeah, like that was on my mind. I'd be interested to meet the guy who would have this done and then run home to bone his spouse. No, sex is not something they had to worry about me doing.

When I'd signed on for this so-called "painless" procedure, the only thing I recall as being exciting about was that after a certain period of time I would have to submit a sample to the doctor's office to test the permanence of the procedure. It was hinted to me by Mrs. EA that she she would assit in the collection of said sample after the nurse told her, with a sly wink, that saliva would not affect the viability of the sample provided. Having lived for years with the knowledge that the placement of a ring on the third finger of a woman's left hand somehow blocks her desire to perform that particular act, I was looking forward to having a clinical reason to compel Mrs. EA to do it again. My only task at that point was in convincing her that I had to provide a sample every couple days for the next two years.

But as I gingerly shuffled out of the room, gathering my pride from the bloodied floor and gently coaxing my gibbering ego to follow, I swore no one, EVER, was going to touch my balls again. I was going to erect an obelisk in their honor: a lasting symbolic tribute to what they had to endure so that my wife would never again have to swallow another birth control pill. I just hoped someday, somehow, they - and my ego - would forgive me and remember with fondness a happier time with them, Mrs. EA, and a new video camera. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some old tax returns to review.

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