My date with a small plastic cup.
Many moons ago, under my wife’s suggestion, I went under the knife. More specifically, my netherbits went under the knife, so as not to bring anymore innocent souls into the veil of tears that is life.
(I got my balls cut into so as to not make babies, in other words.)
The procedure was surprisingly uneventful, other than the jolly male nurse carting in what looked like a lesser droid and cackling “This is the machine they gonna fry your balls with” and the tense business of shaving that morning. Shaving, like, not my face, right? With a razor?
I have only total respect for porn actors now.
Actually, the weirdest thing about it was the banality of the event.
Having a man handle my gear while asking me “So, what line of work are you in, Mr. Mills” is odd, especially since I am straight man.
Local anesthesia, disassociated tugging, a burning smell. Done. (Obviously, the burn smell rang some deep lizard brain bell, but my Model 21st Century Man brain did its job and I did not attempt to choke the doctor.)
Going to the dentist is much worse and I’m proud to say I am carrying two tiny titanium clamps around with me. I feel like Darth Vader!
After a week or so of walking very, very carefully, I took my sample in. By sample, I mean my… sample.
(Note to any gentlemen considering this procedure: materials are not provided by the clinic to aid in the collection of the sample. And don’t bother asking. It might lead to uncomfortable silence and wild, recriminating stares.)
I did the deed, and may it clear across town with a small plastic cup… but forgot my paperwork. The woman at the lab was not impressed, and all that driving and collecting was for naught.
I don’t do well with clerks, bureaucrats and lab people. I get nervous in lines. Especially when I'm carrying a tub of stuff around.
So, months went by.
Finally, I took the matter to hand, as it were, once again and called the Urology department.
The clerk: “Come on down! We’ll take care of this once and for all.”
I like this guy. I can do business with this guy.
So I go. I get my cup AND the proper paperwork and this time, I do it right.
So as not to let the pressures of cross town traffic prevent me from getting this done once and for all, I decided to get it done in situ.
So I went to the mens toilets, eager to get to work. Now, if I were sixteen, this would have been an easier piece of work. I probably would have gotten extra-credit for sheer enthusiasm. (“You want me to what? And as a medical professional, you condone that sort of thing? Thank you. Thank YOU! Give me two cups! I’ll make you proud of me!”)
But now, as a more seasoned man of 37, I require a romantic atmosphere, like not having a man in serious GI distress trumpeting in the stall next to me. Things didn’t go well at first. There were issues with the corpus cavernosa not being team players, using this moment to detumescent when the opposite state was more conducive to the desired outcome.
After much mental fight, the tides turned and I was able to reach fruition. The man next to me still stuggled on, alas. Include him in your prayers.
The clerk this time was a man, and he was even less impressed with me than the woman who sent me away for the want of paperwork so many months before. He peeked in the bag that contained the product of my hard work very tentatively, then scowled at me.
“Call you in two days.” His eyes narrowed. “Pervert.”
So, that was a Friday. My wife had me call on Saturday night, but the nurse couldn’t read the chart. So Monday morning, I call.
From the sound of the woman on the phone, being a Urology nurse is a great job to have. It’s like being the person that calls people who have won the lottery, but this prize isn’t money… it’s SEX!
Here’s what she said: “Mr. Mills, congratulations! There are no sperm present in the sample! And I bet tonight you’re going to have A LOT OF FUN!”
And she really said that.
Labels: Greg's Life As Nincompoop