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I'm stressing out about different things right now, so I found it difficult to come up with something to write here. So I cheated a little (okay, a lot) and decided to post something I blogged on MySpace about three years ago. It was on MySpace, so it's almost as if it were completely new for the world. A little warning, if you're squeamish about some sexual discussion (even solitary) you might want to skip:
***
On Friday it was finally time for me to check whether or not my vasectomy had taken. I certainly hoped so, because I didn't want to go through the process again, especially after I recently also had to suffer through a kidney stone. It's not been a good time for stuff going through my penis.
I had my own vision of what it would be like when I went to the lab to take care of business. The lab would be staffed with buxom young redheads who would hand my specimen container in a discrete carrying device, then lead me to a luxurious room containing a king-sized bed covered in satin. There would also be a plasma TV and plenty of adult DVDs to assist me in what I needed to do.
Here is what happened. I come to the lab, which looks like pretty much every other part of the hospital. The are no buxom young women. No women at all, actually. I tell the guy at the counter I need to give a specimen. He makes me clarify just what kind of specimen. Thanks, man. He asks me loudly if I've had intercourse in the last three days. Considering they tell you not to have intercourse three days before you give a sample, I thought this was a superfluous question, or at least one I could have checked yes or no on a piece of paper.
After filling out my paperwork, he places a specimen jar down on the counter. I wait for a paper bag or something to put it in, but, nope, just the little jar. He points behind a glass door and tells me I can use one of the bathrooms.
One of the bathrooms?
For some reason I thank him and take my specimen jar, palming it close to my thigh so nobody sees it. I walk toward the bathrooms and try to visually pick one. I decide on the one farthest away from the waiting room, although it is right next to another bathroom. I step in and close and lock the door.
Once I entered the room, I surveyed my surroundings. To my left was a sink with a mirror above it. A trash can was next to it. To my right was the toilet. Next to it was the cord to call help if it was needed. Not going to use that. I turned around. Hmm. Nothing else there. No satin sheets. No DVDs. Not even a tattered copy of a Playboy magazine. This was going to be interesting.
The first thing I did was stare into the mirror. Then I checked out the ceiling tiles. As far as I could tell, there were no recording devices there, but you can make really small cameras nowadays.
The next thing I did was take out my iPod. I wasn't smart enough to download some viewing material onto it, but it did have a stopwatch. This was a very delicate operation. If I was too fast, they would think I was some type of premature freak. If I took too long, somebody might come in check on me, startling me so much I dropped the specimen on the floor. I started the timer.
Not to get too much into the graphics of it, but I assume for most men there are certain ways that work better than others (in much the same way that a sexual position might be da bomb for one couple, while the same position for another couple might be one of those "well, we're never trying that again"s. There was really nothing in this bathroom that was necessarily helpful for me. I couldn't do it standing it up, because my legs might lock, and the last thing I wanted was for somebody to have to break into the bathroom to find me lying on the floor with a bruise on my head and my junk in my hand and my little shot of evidence creeping sadly down the side of the trash can.
I could sit on the toilet, but that presented additional problems. First, I would have the cold metal backing of the flusher to contend with. Second, and more problematic, is that sitting on the toilet with the specimen bottle did not present an easy-catch system. I obviously couldn't go up into the bottle, as everything would fall back out. And anatomy prevented me from making any changes to meet the bottle halfway.
What I ended up doing was leaning diagonally across the toilet, so that I was resting my head against the wall and suspending my back above the empty spot between the toilet and wall. This way I could lean both myself and the bottle together to make everything work out. This still didn't work out very well, as at the moment of culmination I decided to position everything to prevent any spillage. Doing so made me lose my mojo, though--actually I thought I lost everything and would have to come back in three days. Finally, I made a sad little deposit (nerves, I tell ya!), positive that when I brought it up I would be laughed at and told I need to do better than that.
I checked my stopwatch and waited a few moments more just to make sure. Then, cupping the bottle again and walking sideways, I went up to the counter. Now, there were women. Three sitting in the waiting area. And one buxom blonde standing at the counter. I did everything I could do to prevent her from thinking I needed assistance, so I wouldn't have to explain what was in my hand. The guy came back and had me sit the bottle on the counter for what was approximately 10 hours, but may have been for 20 seconds. Finally, he let me go and I booked out of there.
Later, after they called me and let me know my gun had been fully unloaded, Missa told me her breasts were sore and she was...concerned. Me, too. So I went to Walgreens and grabbed a pregnancy test. Negative. Thank God.
***
On Friday it was finally time for me to check whether or not my vasectomy had taken. I certainly hoped so, because I didn't want to go through the process again, especially after I recently also had to suffer through a kidney stone. It's not been a good time for stuff going through my penis.
I had my own vision of what it would be like when I went to the lab to take care of business. The lab would be staffed with buxom young redheads who would hand my specimen container in a discrete carrying device, then lead me to a luxurious room containing a king-sized bed covered in satin. There would also be a plasma TV and plenty of adult DVDs to assist me in what I needed to do.
Here is what happened. I come to the lab, which looks like pretty much every other part of the hospital. The are no buxom young women. No women at all, actually. I tell the guy at the counter I need to give a specimen. He makes me clarify just what kind of specimen. Thanks, man. He asks me loudly if I've had intercourse in the last three days. Considering they tell you not to have intercourse three days before you give a sample, I thought this was a superfluous question, or at least one I could have checked yes or no on a piece of paper.
After filling out my paperwork, he places a specimen jar down on the counter. I wait for a paper bag or something to put it in, but, nope, just the little jar. He points behind a glass door and tells me I can use one of the bathrooms.
One of the bathrooms?
For some reason I thank him and take my specimen jar, palming it close to my thigh so nobody sees it. I walk toward the bathrooms and try to visually pick one. I decide on the one farthest away from the waiting room, although it is right next to another bathroom. I step in and close and lock the door.
Once I entered the room, I surveyed my surroundings. To my left was a sink with a mirror above it. A trash can was next to it. To my right was the toilet. Next to it was the cord to call help if it was needed. Not going to use that. I turned around. Hmm. Nothing else there. No satin sheets. No DVDs. Not even a tattered copy of a Playboy magazine. This was going to be interesting.
The first thing I did was stare into the mirror. Then I checked out the ceiling tiles. As far as I could tell, there were no recording devices there, but you can make really small cameras nowadays.
The next thing I did was take out my iPod. I wasn't smart enough to download some viewing material onto it, but it did have a stopwatch. This was a very delicate operation. If I was too fast, they would think I was some type of premature freak. If I took too long, somebody might come in check on me, startling me so much I dropped the specimen on the floor. I started the timer.
Not to get too much into the graphics of it, but I assume for most men there are certain ways that work better than others (in much the same way that a sexual position might be da bomb for one couple, while the same position for another couple might be one of those "well, we're never trying that again"s. There was really nothing in this bathroom that was necessarily helpful for me. I couldn't do it standing it up, because my legs might lock, and the last thing I wanted was for somebody to have to break into the bathroom to find me lying on the floor with a bruise on my head and my junk in my hand and my little shot of evidence creeping sadly down the side of the trash can.
I could sit on the toilet, but that presented additional problems. First, I would have the cold metal backing of the flusher to contend with. Second, and more problematic, is that sitting on the toilet with the specimen bottle did not present an easy-catch system. I obviously couldn't go up into the bottle, as everything would fall back out. And anatomy prevented me from making any changes to meet the bottle halfway.
What I ended up doing was leaning diagonally across the toilet, so that I was resting my head against the wall and suspending my back above the empty spot between the toilet and wall. This way I could lean both myself and the bottle together to make everything work out. This still didn't work out very well, as at the moment of culmination I decided to position everything to prevent any spillage. Doing so made me lose my mojo, though--actually I thought I lost everything and would have to come back in three days. Finally, I made a sad little deposit (nerves, I tell ya!), positive that when I brought it up I would be laughed at and told I need to do better than that.
I checked my stopwatch and waited a few moments more just to make sure. Then, cupping the bottle again and walking sideways, I went up to the counter. Now, there were women. Three sitting in the waiting area. And one buxom blonde standing at the counter. I did everything I could do to prevent her from thinking I needed assistance, so I wouldn't have to explain what was in my hand. The guy came back and had me sit the bottle on the counter for what was approximately 10 hours, but may have been for 20 seconds. Finally, he let me go and I booked out of there.
Later, after they called me and let me know my gun had been fully unloaded, Missa told me her breasts were sore and she was...concerned. Me, too. So I went to Walgreens and grabbed a pregnancy test. Negative. Thank God.
Oh Babe, I laughed as much this time as I did the last time I read this. I had to stop a few times because I was laughing so hard I was crying. You are hilarious! Thank you for sharing this again. I needed that laugh.